Flickr Update

I've spent today uploading dozens of new images to the Flickr site (and I apologise to those of you who have me as a Flickr contact for the bombardment of pictures!).

When you have a few spare minutes, click here or on the link at the top left of this page.  Then spend a little time pottering around Dixon Hill.  There's lots to see.

P.S.  If you're unfamiliar with Flickr, one of the nicest ways to view the pictures is this:

1. Click on the link above to be taken to the Flickr page.


2. Click on one of the sets of photos listed down the right hand side of that page (Snowy Dixon Hill, Dixon Hill Girl etc.).


3. Once on the page that shows that set of images, look for Slideshow towards the top right of the page.  Click that, then sit back and let the world of Dixon Hill unfold before you.  :)

Happy Christmas!

Blogs are great. Not only do I have a platform here from which to say a big thank you to everyone who has sent me cards or e-mails or gifts (they add immensely to the joy of Christmas and I‘m very grateful). But I also have an opportunity to offer a little something in return.

I love carols. Always have. So I thought I’d play one for you. Snag is, I haven’t yet sorted out recording at Dixon Hill. So I’m offering you an old and rather rusty recording from the days when I was first learning to play piano by ear. It's my simple arrangement of Infant Holy, Infant Lowly (click to play).

It's unsophisticated.  In fact, if you listen carefully towards the end, you'll hear Joss padding through the room!  But it comes with sincere thanks for your support of Dixon Hill, and with wishes for a happy, holy and peaceful Christmastide - whether you celebrate the season or not.

Christmas Stories

Over the years I’ve collected many Christmas books. Anthologies of festive tales and poetry. I pile the books somewhere obvious at the beginning of each December - as a reminder to myself to steal an hour or two at some point during the seasonal mayhem, and snuggle down and disappear into the worlds the words conjure up.

This year I decided to share the pleasure. So I sent out invitations and planned to fill my sitting-room with friends of all ages, from small children to ladies in their 80s. And I planned that, by the light of many candles and to the soft background of tranquil carols, we would weave Christmas spells and scatter Christmas stardust. Everyone would bring an offering to read. We would hear festive stories, funny stories, fairy stories. We would read poems. We would tell Christmas jokes. And finally, we would retell the Christmas story itself.

I imagined a gentle evening, not a raucous one. An evening to settle deep into the magic of Christmas. An evening to be present. An evening to wonder. An evening, finally, to tumble out into the frosty night, full of mince pies and laughter and good cheer. To go home and dream Christmas dreams, while the stories still danced in our heads.

But then the snow came.

Our cottage became inaccessible, except to hardy souls prepared to trudge down a steep, snowy field in the dark. And to even reach the snowy field, they would have to negotiate the icy roads into the village.

And so the storytelling gathering was postponed till another year. Which means I’ll be curling up alone, as usual, to dip into the tomes full of memories and riches and quiet contemplation. But that’s no bad thing.

Then again, you could join me. Just take a book, a spare hour and pour yourself a glass of something seasonal. What’s your favourite Christmas story?

The First Snow of Winter

The Pig Pen Ceilidh

It’s been dark for hours and it’s bitter outside. There’ll be snow tonight. But in here, we’re toast-warm and cosy. The fire’s blazing and we’re snuggled close on bales of straw, mugs of hot tea cradled in our hands. Lit by rude candles, we see each other only in silhouette. But the laughter’s clear enough, carrying above the Irish folk music coming from the temperamental CD player.

The coals are glowing now and the frying pan’s spitting. The whiskey’s flowing, the cigar smoke curling. The poetry speaks of men and pigs.  The song lyrics declare impassioned love: ‘I would rather be lying with you tonight than have a thousand black cattle.‘ Behind us in the darkness, the sow grunts and snuffles and sleeps by turn.

We’ll stay here for an hour or two yet, roasting chestnuts, telling tales, listening to the rain drum on the thin roof. Then we’ll damp down the fire, brave the cold and wend our separate ways home.

For now, though, we’ll linger. Enjoy the fiddles and the friendship and the food. Enjoy the pig pen ceilidh.