The Shepherds' Journey

So they came, dressed as shepherds. The children, held back by the weather last week, finally made it to the farm with their parents for The Shepherds’ Journey.

We began in the barn. One group of children made cranberry hearts; the other studded oranges with cloves. Then, gifts in hand, we stood in the softly lit space, surrounded by sheep and goats and rabbits and ferrets and guinea pigs, and heard welly-clad angels tell the beginning of the Christmas story.

Then it was out into the bitterly cold, clear, still night. Lanterns in hand, we crunched down the hillside in the snow, the path ahead marked out by a chain of glowing tea lights nestled in the ever-useful jam jars. Every so often we paused to hear poems about the Biblical shepherds or the next instalment of the story itself.

After trekking past a couple of fields and through a small copse, we finally came upon the stable, lit by a shining star. And there inside, very nearly frozen to death, Mary and Joseph and, in the manger, the baby.

The angel who writes this blog had planned on playing the harp in true angelic fashion, but that plan hadn’t worked out. So it was to the mellow strains of a flute that we all sang Away in a Manger; then hung our hearts and oranges on the tree outside the stable for the baby to see.

A quick peep through the window or, for the braver, a visit inside; then we were scrambling back up the snowy slope, through the sheep field and towards the barn, where hot soup and mince pies, hot chocolate and jam tarts awaited. Then presents, of course, for this was Christmas - hung on the tree in hessian bags adorned with hearts for the girls or stars for the boys.

Finally we tumbled back out into the wintry night, the lure of hot baths and warm fires calling us home. The Shepherds’ Journey complete.