Christmas Helen

Photograph courtesy of Times Past North Wales Photo Archive



You can keep Father Christmas. I have an Uncle Christmas. For real!

It gets better. He’s actually called Christmas Helen. Or was.

Last year, I did some digging around in my family history. I didn’t unearth any great surprises. My family was as my family is. No connections to royalty or to famous folk emerged. I uncovered no heroes, though doubtless there were a few. But I did make one delightful discovery. One that put a huge smile on my face and tickled me to my toes. I have a great-great-uncle called Christmas Helen.

Well, to be truthful, his surname was more usually spelled Hellen or Hellin or Hellyn. No-one fussed too much in those days when lots of people couldn’t write. And I presume he was blessed with his unusual first name because he entered the world on December 25^th. Or thereabouts.

I know little else of him. The name of the Welsh village in which he was born; the name of the village in which he died. The name of the girl he married and the year in which they tied the knot. The names of his three sons. And I’m guessing he spoke with a Welsh accent!

But the lack of details doesn’t matter. I’m inordinately fond of Great-Great-Uncle Christmas Helen. His name is enough.

The Soundscape of a Moor on a Sunday Morning

I can hear church bells ringing down in the village. A steam train hoots, hoarse and shrill, on the valley's historic railway line. Joss pants heavily beside me, having just chased a rabbit. Then comes the clop of horses’ hooves as two riders appear over the brow of the hill.

The wind’s stroking my ears. I catch the faintest snatch of traffic noise. The bells grow louder as I stride further across the moor. The train whistles once more. The soft tramp of my wellies on the turf duets with the quicker pad of Joss’ paws. There’s a squelching and a sucking as I slither through lingering mud. Then the squeaking of my heels as I cross wet grass. Bird cries add to the morning tone poem. As does the metallic jingle of Joss’ name tag, swinging from his collar.

I splash through a puddle and crunch onto gravel. A dog barks. The bells grow louder still, clear and lovely. At the highest point of the moor now, the wind assaults my ears. But carries, unbeckoned, faint snatches of conversation between other walkers. Then a cheery ‘Hello!’ or ‘Morning!’ as we pass.

Someone’s calling their dog. My feet trudge steadily along the track. The unseen train is getting up steam now. Beside me, a feather-light tinkle as I brush, like hanging chimes, tall grasses with my hand. The fleeting hiss of bicycle tyres crescendos then dies away as a pair of cyclists pedal by us on the broad homeward path.

Suddenly, there erupts the loud, unmistakeable call of a grouse, hidden nearby in the heather. From high in the sky comes the comforting drone of an aeroplane.

My soles are scuffing a brief stretch of tarmac as I near the car. A pebble bounces a staccato dance as my foot glances at it and sends it skittering across the ground. From somewhere in the distance travels the lowing of cattle. Then, close at hand, a contented ‘Harumph!’ as my dog lies down, not wanting to climb in the car just yet.

I hear a distant tractor. Its rumble is lost under laughter as a small group of Japanese tourists hove into sight. A car engine starts noisily. Followed by the infinitely gentler sound of a kiss planted, as I settle one affectionately on Joss’ soft, soft head. Then I say ’Hup!’ and there’s a dull thud as he clambers into the vehicle.

Sounds. Layers of sound. Yet by far the most insistent, the loudest, the most overwhelming, is the sound of the stillness; the soft breath of the moors, singing their Sunday song.

Christmas Craft Day

My friend, Joanne, has the kind of comfortable, homely home I love best.  Usually filled with children, today it was filled with friends, gathered together for a day of Christmas crafting.

We stitched and talked, and talked and stitched.  Then sat around the big kitchen table and shared a meal.

And really, days don't come much better than that.

The Scents of Christmas

Whether mulling on the stove…..or wafting from a burner…..or baking in a cake…..

or drifting from a tree.....



or lingering on the fingers……



I love the scents of Christmas.

The Puddles of Life

I’ve just splashed my way through 177 puddles. I counted.

It’s been raining pretty incessantly for weeks here in Dixon Hill land. And for weeks I’ve been skirting those same puddles, trying to avoid the muddy water. I think that’s probably because my old wellies leaked and so puddle avoidance was a necessity. And old habits die hard. But today it occurred to me that in my new, deliciously-dry rubber boots, I no longer need to avoid the water. So I marched straight through, scattering far-reaching arcs of droplets in every direction with every step. And discovered that it’s actually far easier to splosh straight through. Your wellies don’t get so dirty, you don’t get bogged down in squelchy mud and it’s altogether a more pleasant adventure. Actually, it’s fun.

So as I splished and splashed and marched, I mused - upon our tendency to skirt the puddles of life, making things harder and less happy for ourselves in the process. The easiest thing is always to wade straight through. We get there faster, it’s a cleaner experience and the puddles are rarely as bad as we expect them to be.



Must remember that.