GHOSTS OF CHRISTMAS PAST ~ 2. Himbleton.

 

My memories of Christmases in Himbleton – the bucolic village east of Worcester where I spent my early boyhood years – are a jumble of images of decorating the hallways and living room of the great vicarage, Christmas carols sung in school and village halls, intoxicating smells of rich food flowing out of the kitchen door, and of course, Christmas mornings. And people. People from far and near, of all shapes, sizes, and stations.

Decorations were mostly hand-made. Pinecones sprayed with gold and silver lacquer; branches the same. [1] Cut holly and mistletoe from the orchard; chains of coloured paper loops gummed together and strung around the ceilings. Red candles in brightly polished stands, and balloons. I never liked balloons for some irrational reason, but helped to blow them up - and often pop them, denying everything.

There was an immeasurable amount of food, centred on a large turkey. There were pheasant for later, some years a goose, and a home-cured ham that didn’t make an appearance until Boxing Day. Vegetables galore, and a silver tureen of thick, thick gravy that hopefully was enough for seconds. The pudding was always hailed a triumph, to my mother’s relief, and burned the sprig of holly to a crisp. People came stayed or went; families from South Wales; visitors; the lady of the manor [2] would drop by – and would stay for a little something. And it was all a world of timeless joy and thankfulness.

An enduring memory of Himbleton was the moment before another Christmas when, possibly due to a comment made by someone at school, my belief in Father Christmas was shaken. (I think I was seven years old.) I questioned my father – persistently. It was through a locked door. I demanded an answer. If there was no Father Christmas, I asked, then who? Eventually he admitted that yes, it was he. My life was changed at that point. (I should point out that the locked door in question was that of the upstairs toilet!)

Those pastoral days came to a close in 1965 when we left the village. My father had been offered a living in the parish of St Stephen, Barbourne – the north of Worcester. Everything, but everything changed. Rural simplicity had ended, but future Christmases brought even more happy memories.

[1.] This year I have done the same. Watch out for a post on my Facebook page!

[2] Lady Cynthia Sandys (1898-1990.)