This Christmas fourteen of my family; cousins, brothers, sister, aunties, uncles, grandmothers and great-grandmothers all congregated in a little French village on the left side of nowhere, in a land of wine and cheese and pan au chocolats- otherwise known as France. My aunt and uncle have lived here for many years now, my grandmother living in a house in the next street, and through snow blizzards, ferry trips and Ryanair flights, we all made it here to spend christmas together.
My brother in his pre-army training fitness mode went off for a run Christmas eve while the rest of us did what appeared to be the main activity of this holiday; eating and preparing the next meal. It wasn't until we were laying plates and mis-matched cutlery that someone pointed out his absence.
"Didn't he say he'd be thirty minutes? And hasn't it been nearly two hours now?"
"Well we'll have this cup of tea and then start to worry." was my mother's reply.
My brother was indeed lost- being a typical man he had run off into the the distance without a mobile phone or the name of the town we were staying in. Now when I say this place is rural, I mean rural. There are no shops for miles, no public transport, no people apart from the odd nutty French farmer called Jon Jon, nothing but fields and sheep. Now to be fair, I couldn't point you out this place on a map of France either- I know we're roughly in the middle of this large green country, but that's certainly not enough geography to make me feel comfortable enough to run off into the horizon without some sort of Hansel and Grettle style breadcrumb trail in order to find my way back.
He returned eventually, 'puffed out' not quite covering the pale shade of sweaty yellow his skin had turned, and consequently slept most of that afternoon.
Christmas eve is surely the most magical night of the year- the buildup of weeks of preparation to the day that will follow felt in the air, when presents lie ready to be opened, fridges jammed full of food waiting to be eaten. We had a Christmas 'warm-up' meal as it were that night- practicing getting everybody around the table for a start.
Looking around the large table full of people, ranging from the ages of 'nearly two' to eighty two, we had a particularly extraordinary range of beliefs. From Catholic to atheist, Buddhist to spiritualist, psychic to Reiki healers- that's a rather interesting mix between fourteen people- and although supposedly a 'clash' on every level possible; readers of Richard Dawkin's 'The God Delusion' sitting with readers of Diana Cooper's 'Angels', with pretty much everyone having read 'The Secret', despite all of this- it didn't affect the meal, the conversation, the fact that we're the same family. Religion isn't the dynamic that defines the bond between these people, it doesn't even define the reason that we were gathering. I'm not saying that 'if we can sit in religious harmony, then why can't the rest of the world,' but it was interesting that we were all celebrating what is generally recognised as a Christian festival, when the majority of its participants at our particular table would have very different views and feelings on the day's meaning.
I'm sure this is the same for many families- perhaps not so much in reference to the rather impressive multi-coloured range of the theology- but the celebration of Christmas transcending Christian, or arguably pagan roots. When I thought about this a bit more, I didn't think of it as a negative thing- I was brought up as Roman Catholic and my religious roots have always been important to me, but I didn't see it as people forgetting the 'true' meaning of Christmas, because I think Christmas isn't just the history of a religious and historical figure. From Christmas traditions have been born, traditions that mean that my family had driven and flown hundreds of miles from Essex, Kent and Sussex to all get here, to this table, and eat a meal together.
And an even more powerful thought, was that there were millions of people doing this same thing, at the same time. On this date people shared food and gifts (and washing up) with the people that meant most to them in the world. As simple as that, and as important as that.
We went round the table that night and everyone had to answer the question "What does Christmas mean to you?" Family was indeed the main word that came up, along with Christmas lights, tradition, carols, opening presents, giving and Children. We all decided how much more fun Christmas is with little kids, adding magic to the list of answers to that question.
"I reckon we should keep banging out kids for the sake of Christmas." My cousin's husband interjects.
No one, interestingly, mentions baby Jesus. But there's no right or wrong answer to the question, just as in my opinion, there's no right or wrong answer when it comes to religion. Without causing offence, I feel that religion, spirituality and belief are a matter of individual experience, one no less true or deserving than another. It is unmistakable coloured by culture, upbringing and experience, but this makes it no less valid, no less real, no less deserving to stand tall without feeling the need to stamp on the toes of another's individual belief. We don't expect to describe an event in perfect symmetry to or neighbour- in a statement of an incident lets say, each person would describe what they saw differently; a reflection of the different places they stood, the different angles they saw, the different language and adjectives they'd use reflecting individuality in terms of vocabulary, taking into account any personal experience of feelings towards this hypothetical incident. But essentially, they're all describe the same event.
Human beings in their complexity and individuality can never hope to agree on something so personal as spirituality, something so complex as religion. So why do we have to?
When it was my turn, I said that to me, Christmas meant tradition. From my mum's homemade mice pies that rock the socks off Mr. Kipling's lame attempts, to me and my bother's sleeping in the same room on Christmas eve, waking up and opening stocking presents at ridiculous o'clock. I was personally outraged at the shattering of that particular tradition- I could get away with it before saying that it was for the benefit of my younger brother, but now even he is nearly 16, and neither of them are having any of it. Over the last few years as i've hit the Christmas-magic-shattering-age-of-adulthood, i've held onto this particular tradition rather hopelessly. Even when me and Alex were old enough to be going out and getting completely pannined and utterly bungalowed on Christmas eve, I would shake him awake Christmas morning in his sleeping bag, hangover and all, and we'd all open our presents- my poor brother unable to speak with the hangover hat that sat upon him at 7am...
I gave in but still woke up early (by my standards) Christmas morning, because by my reckoning, its the one morning of the year apart from my birthday that i don't need a cup of tea or the smell of coffee to lure me from my bed.
"I feel like getting a little bit tipsy." My wonderful grandmother said to me a couple hours later buried in wrapping paper. She passed her empty Champagne glass over, eyes sparkling.
"No problemo Grandmama- it's Christmas."
Ahhh those two wonderful words that excuse all face-stuffing, chocolate-scoffing, alcohol-guzzling activities. I topped up her glass, smiling at the beauty of Christmas etiquette; it being acceptable to be drinking before 11am.
Since we had all realised that looking glamourous and presentable was just not going to happen out here on the farm Christmas day, we thought we'd go the other way- having a cheesy Christmas jumper competition- and the turnout was rather impressive.
My mother was sporting battery-operated Christmas lights that were wrapped around a red jumper teamed with a pair of OTT earrings (that perhaps were more Essex that Xmas...) making her resemble an overexcited tree decoration. My brother had opted for the Rambo-look with a strip of wrapping paper tied around his head and upper forearm, which gave him a slightly more threatening that festive edge considering he's a 6ft 2inch rugby player enlisted in the army. My other brother (the smart one) had selotaped wrapping paper to the back of his hoody like a Batman cape, but grandmother refused point blank to participate in what she called the 'who can look like the biggest idiot' competition. Under my car-crash of a jumper (that to be honest I secretly loved due to its size being adequate enough to hide my protruding tummy full of chocolate) was a shirt that in reality, made me look like I was about to decorate someone's living room, not eat a Christmas dinner.
Feathers, sparkles, shoulder pads and ribbons later, the winner was my cousin's partner- who had meticulously sewn brussel sprouts to the front of his jumper around a hug yellow star. When it comes to Christmas competitions, brussel sprout-related fashion is always going to win ands down.
So to recap on my particularly stunning outfit, I was wearing a pink knitted jumper that had so many colours and patterns on it, I suspect it was knitted by someone who was colourblind, had epilepsy, OCD and ADHD, matched with leggings and my new Reebok 'easy tone' trainers. This is strategic fashion- the jumper hides a greedy stomach, the leggings allow extra room to eat that second round of cheese, and the trainers in theory will burn it aalll off as I walk from the dining room table to the living room and between my grandmothers house and my aunty and uncles. A good plan I reckon.
The littlest of the 'Christmas Crew' (and arguable the cutest) was wearing a beautiful pair of shoes, and even though she was shrieking in pain because they were hurting her little toes, she simple refused to take them off. This little thing was still wearing her PJs over her nappy, but the beautiful shoes were not coming off under any circumstances. Where does that come from? That innate sense of being a girl; knowing that shoes are more important than the pain they cause?
A fabulous Christmas lunch feast was presented- truly spectacular, with guinea fowl, parsnips, stuffing, roast potatoes in duck fat- a feast where infamous brussel sprouts for the first time could have the word 'delicious' used in the same sentence; cooked with chestnuts and pancetta, they were divine.
Usually around a large table of hungry mouths, particularly in reference to Roasts and Christmas dinners, you will find yourself thinking- "Now what is the socially acceptable amount of roast potatoes I may take in front of these other people?" This question doesn't seem to ever relate to veg, stuffing or even meat- somehow its always the roasties that need to be rationed (and often Yorkshire puds in truth.) No such problems were encountered with good old Uncle Coop wearing the 'head chef' hat- roasties sprinkled with rosemary were in abundance, appearing in a huge white bowl that seemed to reproduce them as we helped ourselves.
After lunch, and a never-ending round of present opening- came cheese and desserts- most notably a 'chocolate millionaires shortbread' cake that I had made as a present for my cousin's husband. I proceeded to slice it up, portion it out, and then eat a significant amount of it myself. (To my knowledge, the poor guy is yet to taste it.) After this came the legend that is Articulate. This game proved very popular this holiday, although I wouldn't say that everyone in my family was particularly good at it. The game spiraled into an all-out war when everyone started practicing the cards and reading them before-hand. One member of the group who shall remain un-named, got 'Edam' as in the cheese, confused with 'Eden' as in the garden- leaving everyone bewildered at the description of the cheese being "something to do with all this Christmas stuff." (Sigh.)
I'd written childrens stories for the kids as their presents from me, and tucked them up that night reading them to the tired little things. My favourite thing in the world when I was a kid was bed time stories, and realised this was possibly another reminder this Christmas that maybe I'm the grown-up now, now that it's me doing the reading.
* * *
Boxing day was spent doing a treasure hunt around the fields, past horses, chickens and over-friendly sheep, treasure maps clutched tightly in little mittens, chocolates found hanging from gates and trees as we followed clues, jumping in puddles and feeding the sheep as we went along.
Most children, for reasons unknown, seem to have a distinct lack of 'gravity awareness', meaning that when one of the little tykes jumped on my back 'piggy back' style, he then happily let go ten seconds later and furthermore, lent backwards. I panicked and yelled "Hold onto me you Twat!" Receiving a bollocking myself from the little tyke's mother- apparently you don't call small children, Twats.
Apart from little twats, I mean, little tykes, my other favourite thing here is the animals. There are the sheep in the Reiki Field; Rodney, Gabrielle, the rather amorous DeDe and the little cats Willy and Lilly that border on wild things that pounce in the bath when you think you've found a quiet moment to yourself. Then there's my grandmother's little black sheep; Jack, Eric, Marta and the affectionally named 'Kieff' the the donkey who lives at the bottom of the garden. 'Kieff' (Kieth) has a far more sophisticated name, but as she can never quite remember it, 'Kieff' stuck rather well. It suits him. This soft and slow creature with a fog horn of a voice, peers over the fence watching the three sheep run around, the kids rolling in the mud play-fighting, (or real fighting judging from the tears.) Mitsy the fat cat watching it all from the window- the fattest of fat cats with her stomach that hangs down touching the grass.
* * *
Bike- riding is another favourite past time out here, with endless hills and green, and my younger brother (the smart one) and I disappear one afternoon We ride past beautiful cottages, farms, winding lanes and fair amount of smelly cows. With Paolo Nuttini playing on my ipod I reckoned I had the right soundtrack to the landscape, until we hit the problem of the French Dog Brigade.
Going past one of the farms, I spotted a huge Alsatian (actually, IT spotted US) tied to a chain, which came from a tiny wooden kennel outside the barn it was guarding, a kennel that resembled more of a bird house than a viable home for a large, barking, dirty dog.
-A word on the French and their animals- as a generalisation out here in the countryside, they don't treat them very well. At all. Animals are there for a purpose; hunting dogs, guard dogs, animals are livestock rather than pets or companions. You see dogs on cages everywhere out here, cages outside in all weather, horses and donkey's looking dirty in empty muddy fields-they just don't seem to think of animals as worthy of love and affection.
So me and smarty-pants are on bikes in the middle of nowhere and there's a nasty looking creature eyeing us hungrily from its pathetic bird house. I feel pretty safe riding past looking at the heavy chain around its neck, even when the thing starts galloping towards us; its on a chain, i don't even change gear.
Then I realise that the chain is only attached to the dog. Nothing else.
"AAAHHH" I immediately loose my footing, cant change gear or speed up- all can hear is the sound of the chain flying across the mud. I can't even turn around- fear focusing on my eyes on the road and on smarty pants who is disappearing in front. By the time I remember to breathe I see the dog hasn't followed- it wouldn't quite leave it's patch of land; territorial instincts thankfully stronger than the killing instinct I'm presuming it possessed.
"Oh my God, oh my God." (I'm good at articulating myself in a crisis) "I thought that dog really had us there!"
We laugh, until we get round the next bend. There's anther huge barn and a lot of loud panic-inducing barking coming from within. We screech on the brakes and freeze, hiding behind the bushes. This did nothing to protect us, but not being able to see what was making the barking made me feel safer- ignorance is bliss as they say.
"What do we do?" I look fearfully at my sibling, who being the youngest, was looking at me with the same question. "If we go back that way there's a mad dog running loose, but if we go forward we don't know if this lot are tied to anything either." The barking is loud and ferocious and sounds likes they've definitely got rabies. Maybe we could just live here? In this bush, get someone to drop food off, build a shelter, we don't have to make a decision...
Eventually we pluck up the courage and build up some speed on the bikes as we hurtle past the barn's entrance. Three large yellow-eyed Rottweilers snap their teeth and pull against chains that thank God are actually attached to something as I skid past yelling in fright.
I'm starting to feel slightly more safe as we hit to 2o meter mark when smarty pants drops a bombshell;
"We've missed the turn off. It's back there."
"Fucksake Dom! Shit, I fucking hate dogs! I fucking hate France!"
My little little brother takes this outburst on the chin and quietly directs me back towards the savage dogs, the road home being just behind the barn where the creatures lay in wait.
Can I just ask here, what the hell do these bloody French farmers have in their barns out here in the middle of nowhere that requires blood-thirsty animals to protect it? And protect this mysterious 'it' from what? Other crazy French farmers? It can't be from elderly locals or the odd lost Essex girl on a bicycle.
You know what, I don't want to know. I just want to get back with my ankles intact.
We do. Me and smarty pants survive to tell the tale to our other brother who says;
"Yeah, I had the same problem on my run the other day- this little Jack Russel followed me nearly all the way home snapping at my ankles."
Jack Russel/ Alsatian and Rotwieler. Not the same thing mate.
Still muttering about the French and their bloody dogs and weird farming habits, I console myself with some homemade French fudge- which is awesome.
I love France again.
*My cousin has interjected this comment via 'Facebook'
"Hay! I won the jumper competition! Don't you remember me sticking my fingers up at your mum, who had said my jumper was too 'obvious' and rude!! So back off ameretto sprout boy. The tittle is mine."
this, i guess, is a retraction (of sorts.)
