Country Life 386 (Full Edition)

The Christmas Double Issue

VOL

Megan, who previously worked at C OUNTRY L IFE , is a continuity and birth-centre midwife in a London NHS hospital and delivered her 100th baby on Christmas Day last year. She has a degree in Natural Sciences from Durham University and is now studying for a masters degree in Midwifery. Megan has also volunteered with Health & Hope, training midwives in remote Chin State, Myanmar, and is the daughter of Tim and Charlotte Jenkins of Esher, Surrey.

Photographed on West Wittering Beach, West Sussex, by Mike Garrard

Miss Megan Jenkins

The Christmas Double Issue

This week

86 A time to give with love

The Revd Lucy Winkett offers her message of hope this Christmas

106 Paul O’Grady’s favourite painting

The actor, presenter and dog lover chooses a convivial Swedish scene

108 The ghost of a Christmas past

How do the preoccupations of 2022 compare with 1897?

110 Invincible to enemies

On the 950th anniversary of its royal transfer, John Goodall explores splendid and influential Lincoln Cathedral

120 All’s white with the world

Ice and snow consumed the painting world in the 16th century to create a pantheon of snowy masterpieces, says Michael Prodger

128 Hey, Mister Snowman

Katy Birchall selects her carrots and coals

132 The magic of Midnight Mass

The Revd Colin Heber-Percy sets his mind to the enchanted service on Christmas Eve

136 ’Tis the season to eat merrily

From the goose to the pudding, it’s worth getting the best for Christmas. Tom Parker Bowles presents his pick of the producers

144 Pigs for Christmas—and for life

Could you eat your garden resident? Julie Harding talks to those who can and can’t

150 Of spice and men

The scent of the season is unmistakeable, but why are some spices so firmly associated with Christmas, asks Emma Hughes

156 Carve! The herald angels sing

Ben Lerwill meets woodcarver William Barsley, whose work echoes Westminster Hall

162 The master of disguise

If you manage to spot the well-camouflaged ptarmigan, you’re lucky, avers Simon Lester

166 A winter’s tale

Alexandra Wood remembers the frozen wonderland of a childhood power cut

168 The Editor’s Christmas Quiz

172 Plenty of room at the inn

As the snow falls, the villagers gather in the warm fug of the pub to welcome an early arrival, relates Kate Green

176 Put a ring on it

Once necessary, now ecofriendly, napkin rings are enjoying a revival, says Matthew Dennison

182 The golden goose

Succulent and tasty, it’s impossible to resist a juicy goose, finds Tom Parker Bowles

186 Interiors

Arabella Youens, Matthew Dennison and Amelia Thorpe wax lyrical about candles

194 Luxury

Last-minute treats, watches and diamonds to savour and Kit Kemp’s favourite things

206 One pine day

John Lewis-Stempel marvels at the pine cone, an edible example of Nature’s artistry

212 In the still of winter

Tiffany Daneff explores Fullers Mill, Suffolk, where plantsman Bernard Tickner created a remarkable garden from rough land

222 Bursting with life

Plant your bulbs and let the beauty unfurl, urges Stephen Desmond

228 Kitchen garden cook

Melanie Johnson tucks into Brussels sprouts

230 Gone rabbiting

Fiona Reynolds climbs

Watership Down in the pawprints of Hazel and Fiver

232 The verdict on 2022

Jamie Blackett looks back over a turbulent year from the sanity of his farm

Friend for life or supper? ( page 144 )

Gold Hill, Shaftesbury, Dorset (Alan Morgan Photography/ Alamy)

Alamy; Getty; Look and Learn/Bridgeman

Images; William Barsley; Millie Pilkington/Country Life Pcture Library; John Holder

Left: Light up the night ( page 186). Above: All aboard with Mr Toad ( page 252)

234 The flying ghosts of Christmases past Jack Watkins salutes the magnificent equine heroes of the King George VI Chase

236 They wrote the words the whole world sings

First poems, now familiar carols, the likes of Hark! the herald angels sing often have unexpected origins, discovers Andrew Green

242 A coalition of interest

John Goodall talks to Sir Philip Rutnam, the erudite new chairman of the National Churches Trust, about the difficulties ahead

Above: The elusive ptarmigan, striking in its monochrome winter garb ( page 162). Below: Angels from the realms of wood ( page 156)

A time to give with love

CHRISTMAS is one way that we measure the passage of time. It’s a punctuation moment in the year and we find ourselves remembering that it’s the first Christmas in this house or that it was the last Christmas with her or him. Nostalgia plays a large part in our celebrations as adults: it is a set of rituals to return to, which anchor us somehow, especially if the memories are happy ones.

In my role as Rector of St James’s Church, Piccadilly, in central London, I watch the run-up to Christmas take a particular turn each year. At the heart of the West End, our parish is full of bars, restaurants and shops, all advertising Christmas parties from October onwards. It was very odd being in central London during lockdown or restricted Christmases, when the lights were on and the decorations were up, but the streets were deserted. There was a special bleakness about the city during that time. If I’m honest, there hasn’t been a return to a pre-pandemic Christmas atmosphere, although the same lights and decorations are on this year. There are particularly spectacular angels that fly down Jermyn

Street and Piccadilly, but the crowds hurrying by underneath feel different: a bit more thoughtful somehow, less hedonistic and a little more, well, fragile.

As this year’s John Lewis television advertisement—with its focus on children in care—suggests, society is thinking about deeper themes, beyond the determination to have a good time.

I see much of this at St James’s. One of the striking moments of this winter was an

exchange we had in the run-up to the festive season. Every week, we host a hot meal in the church for people going through homelessness or on low incomes. It’s often a lively and chatty evening: the conversations I’ve had with our guests range from politics to history, music, family. One of the most animated was an argument about the 17th-century English Civil War and the merits (or otherwise) of the actions of Oliver Cromwell. As our Christopher Wren church

As many of us prepare to celebrate a simpler Christmas, the Revd Lucy Winkett is moved by the generosity of those often dealing with their own difficult circumstances and stresses that giving someone your time can be a great gift, too

Andrew Sydenham/Country Life Picture Library

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This is expressed in the birth of Christ, who showed us what God is like, but also what it could be like to be human

was consecrated in 1684, we were in the right place to be discussing the aftermath of the only 11 years of Republican rule that England has had and the debate went long into the evening.

Another time, we were collecting donations for our local food bank, when one of our homeless guests turned up with an offering. I am ashamed to say that I was rather too surprised that this had happened. Really, I shouldn’t have been: people are generous and kind, despite strikingly difficult circumstances. Yet this was such a remarkable gesture, I felt humbled by it. It was a moving example of gift-giving that put all my prospective shopping to shame. Of course, I want to live in a city that has neither food banks, nor people sleeping on the streets. But at a time of great hardship for many and great anxiety for most, this impulse to give a gift to someone else moved me beyond words.

This is one of the ways in which I think that the message of Christmas makes sense in a secularised society. For Christians, the celebration focuses on the astonishing gift that God gives: of life itself, of wonder and miracle, light and hope. This is expressed in the birth of Christ: a unique and irreplaceable human life who showed us what God is like, but also, perhaps more challengingly, showed us what it could be like to be human. I think that within all human

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beings, practising Christian or not, there is the deep impulse to give. Not only to buy presents, but to give, sometimes, ourselves, our time, our love or our commitment. It’s implanted deep within us as part of what human beings do.

these concerns are also shaping the way we shop and give at Christmas. The younger generations can see that a throwaway culture harms the planet—single-use plastic or fast-fashion goods may raise eyebrows if unwrapped on Christmas Day.

It’s also affecting our approach to work, particularly among younger people who appear to seek demonstrable purpose— especially social purpose—in their jobs, as I recently found out at a meeting with business leaders. Attention to environmental and modern-day-slavery issues among today’s corporations is notably strong and

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But raising these concerns doesn’t have to reduce the fun or dampen the celebrations. Staple gifts of soap, tea, candles, clothes, jewellery, books and electronic gadgets can all be kind to people and the planet, if chosen carefully. Perhaps, therefore, this Christmas might be a simpler, more thoughtful one, expressing the sort of empathy and imagination that was shown by our homeless guest, not only for other people, but for the Earth, and making every gift, however simple, more beautiful, because it’s given with love.

The Revd Lucy Winkett is the Rector of St James’s Church, Piccadilly, London W1. Formerly a professional soprano, she is a long-standing contributor to ‘Thought for the Day’ on BBC Radio 4’s ‘Today’ . The church is raising funds to repair and re-use its buildings in an environmentally sensitive way, honouring its post-war history, as well as adapting, re-landscaping, celebrating and cherishing the historic green space and architectural heritage. To donate to the St James’s Wren Project, visit www. sjp.org.uk/donate/the-wren-project

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beings, Christian or not, there is the deep impulse to give

Town & Country

Edited by James Fisher

One foot forward, one back

ADECISION to open a new coal mine in Cumbria has been described as an ‘incomprehensible act of self harm’. The comments, made by Sir David King, head of the Climate Crisis Advisory Group, have been echoed by scientists, campaigners and institutions both at home and abroad as fury mounts over the decision taken last week. Green MP Caroline Lucas called the decision a ‘climate crime against humanity’, as Cumbrian Liberal Democrat MP Tim Farron simply described it as ‘daft’. Frank Bainimarama, the prime minister of Fiji, added: ‘Is this the future we fought for under the Glasgow pact?’

The outrage comes after the Levelling Up Secretary Michael Gove signed off on the plans last Wednesday, which will see the first coal mine opened in the UK in 30 years. The plan will see an investment of some £165 million and is projected to create 500 jobs in the area. The mine will produce up to 2.8 million tons of coking coal a year, which is used in steel-making. The project was initially proposed in 2014, and received local and Government backing in 2020 and 2021, respectively, before having consent withdrawn in the run up to COP26 in Glasgow in November last year.

Mr Gove approved the mine on the basis that ‘there is currently a UK and European market for the coal’ and that the carbon emissions produced ‘would be relatively neutral and not significant’. The department for Levelling Up, Housing and Communities said that the decision to approve the mine was in line with the Government’s commitments to reduce carbon emissions. It is expected to be operational until 2049, one year before the UK has pledged to reach carbon ‘net zero’. Sir Jake Berry, Conservative MP for Rossendale and Darwen in Lancashire, agreed that the decision to open the mine was ‘good news for the North and for common sense’.

Not all in the Conservative party agreed, with Tory peer Lord Deben, chairman of the Government’s advisory Climate Change Committee (CCC), calling the proposal ‘absolutely indefensible’. Conservative MP Philip Dunne, chair of the environmental audit committee, said: ‘Coal is the most polluting energy source and is not consistent with the Government’s net-zero ambitions. It is not clear cut to suggest that having a coal mine producing coking coal for steel-making on our doorstep will reduce steelmakers’ demand for imported coal.’ Conservative Alok Sharma, president of COP26, added that ‘over the past three years

the UK has sought to persuade other nations to consign coal to history, because we are fighting to limit global warming to 1.5˚C and coal is the most polluting energy source. A decision to open a new coal mine would send completely the wrong message and be an own goal.’

Critics have said justification for the mine is flawed, pointing out that most of the coal extracted will be exported. The two companies that still produce steel in the UK—British Steel and Tata—have said they plan to move away from using coking coal. Labour has said it would prevent the opening of the mine if elected; it is also expected that the decision (to open the mine) will be challenged in court.

The decision comes in the same week that the Government decided to relax restrictions on building on-shore windfarms in England, after some 30 Conservative MPs threatened to rebel against a planning bill. The decision will see a change to a 2015 law that only allowed for on-shore windfarms to be built in very specific areas, leading to a sharp decline in on-shore wind in recent years, with critics saying it was effectively a ban. The decision also fell under the remit of Mr Gove, who said local authorities would have the ability to identify sites suitable for on-shore wind. New farms would still be subject to local approval.

On-shore windfarms, such as this one in Wales, may become more common, but a new coal mine in Cumbria has also been approved

Alamy; Val Corbett

Tower of trouble

PLANS have been submitted to renovate London’s Liverpool Street station, but have met resistance from campaigners such as the Victorian Society (VS), SAVE Britain’s Heritage and the C20 Society. The plans, designed by architects Herzog & de Meuron, will see the station upgraded to a ‘modern transportation hub’, with two new structures that will house offices and a hotel. The plans are up for public consultation.

The VS says the plans ‘would irreparably damage [the station’s] character and architectural and historical significance’. It is urging the public to engage with the consultation and to object. The society also intends to resurrect the Liverpool Street Station Campaign, which successfully prevented the demolition of the building in the 1970s.

Last week, the listing status of the station was upgraded by Historic England, much to the

jubilation of the campaigners opposing the plans. The new listing, updated from 1975, takes into account the redevelopment of the concourse in the 1990s by architect Nick Derbyshire.

‘This “consultation” gives no opportunity to consider less harmful options and uses images that misleadingly “greys out” the huge tower above the station to make it semi-transparent,’ says Joe O’Connell, director of the VS. ‘Rather than a sensitive response to listed buildings in a conservation area, the proposals appear to be an attempt

Garden goodwill

THENational Garden Scheme (NGS) has donated some £3.11 million to its beneficiary charities this year, as visitor numbers and openings bounced back after the pandemic. The majority (£2.45 million) went to nursing and health beneficiaries, such as Marie Curie, Macmillan and Hospice UK, and the rest was spread among garden charities. For the first time in its history, the NGS is supporting English Heritage’s Historic and Botanic Garden Training Programme, too, with a commitment of £125,000 this year.

‘Despite the worst of the pandemic having passed, our beneficiaries continue to support those in often dire need and who have now been confronted with the challenge of the cost-of-living crisis,’ says NGS chairman Rupert Tyler. ‘This continues to place unbearable pressure on many aspects of their work and we are delighted to continue our support in such a meaningful way.’

Chief executive George Plumptre adds: ‘The enormous contribution by our garden owners and volunteers was added to by other fundraising activities. A special event at the iconic Temperate House at Kew raised more than £48,000 and, in

Good week for Wildcats

The woodlands of Devon and Cornwall have been pitched as suitable loca tions for the reintroduction of the European wildcat in England. The species became extinct in the 16th century and is the UK’s rarest mammal, living only in remote parts of Scotland

Spoonbills

proving divisive

to maximise commercial return by creating a shopping centre dressed up as publicamenity space over the station.’

In response, developers say the £1.5 billion scheme will not harm the station and called the concerns based on ‘misconceptions and misunderstandings’. James Sellar, CEO of developers Sellar said the current experience of Liverpool Street was ‘woeful’. ‘There is no reason I can see why London wouldn’t want to embrace the opportunity’. Those behind the plans added that ‘not a single Victorian bolt will be touched’.

A record 77 young from 43 pairs of spoonbills was recorded by the RSPB and Natural England this year, with breeding pairs and colonies now in eight locations across the UK as landowners improve wetland habitats and tree cover

David Croc-ney

The 85-year-old artist delighted The King with his ‘beautifully chosen yellow galoshes’ at the Order of Merit luncheon. Mr Hockney paired his brightly coloured crocs with blue socks and his signature checked suit for the occasion

Bad week for Hooved thespians

Live horses will no longer feature in the Metropolitan Opera’s produc tion of Aida, ending a 30-year tradition. The board-treading equines will be replaced by a digital background on the New York stage in May

Lights out in Lewis’s John Lewis and Waitrose are turning down thermostats and dimming lights to bring energy bills down. The retailer predicts it will overspend on its energy budget by £18m

Saltaire ‘stain’

July, we hosted our third Great British Garden Party, giving the opportunity for anyone—whether they open their garden or not—to hold an event with friends or family... generating £30,000.’

The NGS is hosting a Christmas raffle, which is open until December 20. There are 15 prizes, including a luxury day visit for two to The Newt in Somerset, an online consultation about your garden with Chelsea Gold-winning partners Hugo Bugg and Charlotte Harris and a signed copy of Arabella Lennox-Boyd’s Gardens in My Life. Tickets cost £5; visit www.ngs.org.uk to enter.

Proposals for a new visitor centre in Saltaire, West Yorkshire, have met a backlash from residents, who claim the £5.39m modern building would be a ‘stain’ on the UNESCO World Heritage Victorian village Solar from the Sahara

An £18bn project to link Britain to a wind and solar farm in the Sahara, hoped to provide 8% of Britain’s electricity supplies by 2030, has been delayed by at least a year due to political turmoil AEW

Low Crag, Cumbria, opened for the NGS in June

Plans to renovate Liverpool Street station are

Town & Country

A pair of CyberMen guard the entrance to the National Museum of Scotland last week, in preparation for the ‘Doctor Who Worlds of Wonder’ exhibition. The touring exhibition opened at the Edinburgh museum on Friday and explores the science behind the hit television series. Visitors can expect everything from contributions by the specialists who bring the show to life to iconic monsters, gadgets and props

We need right trees, right place

AFRESH approach to tree planting is needed to safeguard our woodlands against climate change, says Sir William Worsley, chair of the Forestry Commission, as new figures reveal the full extent of the damage caused by storms across Britain last winter.

Sir William suggests that woodland owners should be encouraged to plant and manage more diverse and resilient forests of varying ages and species of trees to mitigate stronger gales, drought, pests and diseases, as well as more frequent severe weather events.

Forest Research-led mapping has revealed that almost 31,506 acres of trees were lost in storms last winter in Britain, with some 22,980 acres of damage in Scotland and 8,278 acres across England. The main culprit was Storm Arwen, an extra-tropical cyclone that blew across Britain overnight on November 26–27, 2021, accounting for 30,055 acres of tree loss.

Although it is estimated that more than 90% of trees felled as a result of storm damage will be replanted, Sir William is calling for a rethink on how that work is carried out to ensure the long-term prosperity of our woodlands. ‘The figures highlight the challenges we are facing with a changing climate and more frequent and extreme storm events,’ he points out. ‘The woodlands of the future need to be planted and managed differently if they are to not only survive,

Storm Arwen toppled dozens of trees in November 2021, as in John Muir Country Park, East Lothian

but thrive. Now and in the long term, we need a wider range of tree species and age profiles across the country. This targeted approach will ensure the long-term resilience of our precious woodlands.’ He notes: ‘At a national scale, the level of loss is comparatively modest, but the loss of trees can also have a devastating impact on individual woodland owners and we continue to support the forestry sector and partners with their recovery from winter storms.’ SM

Town & Country

Flowers flock together

A‘COOPERATIVE nurseries stand’

is to make its debut at the RHS Chelsea Flower Show, it has been announced. The idea, which is the brainchild of the Plant Fairs Roadshow (PFR), will see eight nurseries share a single stand at the prestigious horticultural show, in a bid to ‘share the load’ and introduce new growers to the world-famous event. The 107sq ft stand will be divided up into eight segments for individual nurseries to design and showcase their speciality plants, with a central information hub manned by specialists.

The PFR is made up of a ‘diverse collective’ of some 40 nurseries from across the South of England. ‘We are really delighted to have been allocated a place at Chelsea,’ said Colin Moat of Pineview Plants in Kent, who is also the PFR committee chair. ‘Eight of our nurseries will work

together to showcase a diverse range from house plants, to maples, shadeloving and sun-loving to perennials and bulbs too; all in one area.’

The PFR was set up 10 years ago and its cooperative ethos has allowed the group to grow in size and stature, according to Mr Moat. With the increased cost of energy and raw materials, that collective ambition is more important than ever, he adds. As well as Chelsea, the PFR intends to go on a 13-date ‘tour’ of some of the best castles, museums and gardens in 2023.

‘The RHS seem very keen to get new blood coming through—none of us is getting any younger (I put myself in that category),’ adds Mr Moat. ‘It’s good to have youth and enthusiasm supported in this way so they can showcase their unique and interesting nurseries for the first time on the world stage of the Chelsea Flower Show.’

Country Mouse

Lit up like a large Christmas tree

ALTHOUGH I failed to pick the holly before the birds had eaten all the glistening red berries, I have been busy preparing for the first Christmas in our new house. In fact, the preparations began almost two years ago, when I asked our architect to make the hall double height, mainly so that we could have an enormous Christmas tree. I love Christmas and everything that goes with it. I always tell everyone that Christmas lunch is little more than a Sunday roast and that I don’t understand what the fuss is all about, then I do exactly the opposite.

It is the time for fuss and family, carols and candles, tradition and thanks. Every family has its own ways. This year, the Christmas message will be from the new King, but, for most families, little else will change.

I am already preparing for future Christmases. After the decorations have been brought down on Twelfth Night, I will take the mistletoe into the orchard and, with my trusty penknife, cut small notches into the branches of the apple trees, before squeezing the pearl-like white seeds into them. In time, I will have my own mistletoe and feel even more self-sufficient.

Happy Christmas to you all. MH

Town Mouse Christmas merriment

THE children have been as eager as ever to decorate the house for Christmas, but the character of their enthusiasm has undergone a distinct teenage inflection. In years gone by, excitement made them over eager to help, tangling the lights and attempting to install baubles far beyond their reach. Now, their engagement is more theoretical. Therefore, although there was a keen demand for a Christmas tree, when it was proposed we should go and collect it, they were quick to excuse themselves. One declared themselves exhausted and the other, with more tactical ingenuity, despaired volubly of homework commitments.

In return, I made it clear that the Christmas tree would not appear miraculously and I wasn’t collecting it alone. A short debate later, we set off in slightly quarrelsome mood. Tempers improved, however, during the selection process and, soon afterwards, I hoisted the chosen tree on my shoulder. For some reason, the spectacle struck the children as hilariously funny. On the walk home, they behaved like a couple of paparazzi running around taking photographs on their phones, which they shared with family and friends. Unable to think of a practical way that they could help, I was obliged to suffer their merriment. Next year, I thought grimly, I might get the tree alone after all. JG

The light trail at Windsor Great Park, Berkshire, awes visitors in the run up to Christmas. Part of the Windsor Great Park Illuminated festival, the light trail features 18 installations around the park’s obelisk pond. The festival is open until January 2, 2023; tickets start at £11 for children

Town & Country Notebook

Quiz of the week

1) In ’Twas the Night Before Christmas, what does St Nicholas hold in his teeth?

2) The writer and composer of Silent Night hailed from which European country?

3) Which three British mammals enter true hibernation in winter?

4) What’s the original Latin name of Oh Come, All Ye Faithful?

5) What are the last five words of A Christmas Carol?

Word of the week

100 years ago in December 23, 1922

Paws for thought

Dog trainer Ben Randall offers his advice

Life in the fast lane

Edited by Carla Passino

IT is very pleasant to see the country relatives landing at the terminal stations, coming from distant parts, many of them carrying what we presume to be game or poultry in canvas bags and others with great bunches of redberried holly, which this year has done its best to provide with plenty of colour. If one may judge from their happy faces, they come with a determination to make the most of a brief visit to town… Between the staff of a newspaper and its readers the connection never can be so intimate, yet in the course of a quarter of a century we have come to know one another far more closely than those outside would think possible… It is, therefore, in no merely conventional spirit that in this year of grace we wish to each and every reader a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

QI have an eight-month-old Patterdale terrier who wants to run after traffic all the time. I can’t let him off the lead, unless I am far away from the roads—please can you offer me any advice?

L.P., via email

ASeeing your puppy running after traffic can be terrifying. Here’s how to stop him:

1. Use meal times to build patience. Have him sit in a controlled area with his food— it’s the first building block in teaching him to wait patiently in all environments. 2. Make recall a positive experience. On hearing the

Time to buy

command, he must understand that something good is happening around you. 3. ‘Leave’ means ‘leave’ in any situation. Your dog needs to know that, when the command is given, a form of reward will come his way. 4. Build trust through ‘heel’. If your dog is taught that staying close to your side is a positive experience, he will soon learn to trust you and your commands.

5. Don’t allow your dog too much freedom on walks, as this can encourage the chasing.

6. Beware of inadvertently ingraining bad habits. If you’re throwing a ball five times on every walk, three times a day, that’s roughly 450 times a month that you’ve encouraged your dog to chase after a moving object. To pose your own canine conundrum, email paws-for-thought@futurenet.com. For details about Mr Randall and his training app, visit www.gundog.app/trial

The Mill on the Floss,

Riddle me this

It should belong to a foot, but now hangs off a chimneypiece. What is it?

1) The stump of a pipe 2) Austria

3) Hedgehogs, dormice and bats

4) ‘Adeste Fideles’ 5) God bless us, every one Riddle me this: A Christmas stocking

‘Fine old Christmas, with the snowy hair and ruddy face, had done his duty that year in the noblest fashion, and had set off his rich gifts of warmth and colour with all the heightening contrast of frost and snow’

George Eliot

Lady Jane leather gloves, £49.95, Barbour (www. barbour.com)

Angela Harding Rose Cottage 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle, £15, National Trust (https:// shop.nationaltrust.org.uk)

Grosvenor hamper, £250, Claridge’s (www. shop.claridges.co.uk)

In the spotlight Woodcock (Scolopax rusticola)

Wines of the week

Easy does it

Lidl, Crémant de Loire Brut, Loire, France, NV. £8.49, Lidl, alc 12%

Crémant is a good hunting ground for value fizz and this doesn’t disappoint. This uncomplicated, traditionalmethod sparkler from the Loire is a light, aperitif-style wine, with green apple fruit and toastiness. Chenin Blanc-dominated, with some Chardonnay.

Fit for Dionysus

Santo Wines, Selection

Cuvée Assyrtiko, Santorini, Greece, 2018. £18.95 Aspris & Son, alc 13.2%

Its plumage is a marbled miracle, as complex as Venetian paper in shades of cocoa, hazel, sepia, chestnut, tawny, khaki and buff. A perfect match, then, for the moulding leaves and twiggery of the woodland floor— and all the better for lying low in the light of day. Should you disturb one, up it will shoot, dodging through the trees, but not far, settling again into leafy obscurity.

Largely nocturnal and elusive, heading for marshes under cover of darkness, woodcock, the enigmatic collective noun for which is a ‘fall’, are year-round residents, but increase

Unmissable events

Until January 1, 2023

Christmas at Stourhead, Stourhead, near Mere, Wiltshire

Giant baubles, tunnels of lights and the mesmerising fire garden transform Stourhead into a winter wonderland (01747 841152; www.nationaltrust. org.uk/stourhead)

Until January 8, 2023 Christmas at Chatsworth, Bakewell, Derbyshire. Inspired by Nordic traditions, celebrations combine an installation of giant Finnish decorations with a massive ice wall laced with carvings, a pine forest in the Sculpture Gallery and folklore tales (01246 565300; www.chatsworth.org)

Did you know?

in number each winter, when the home birds are joined by visitors from colder parts of the Continent. Similarly timed arrivals of goldcrests gave the latter the moniker of ‘woodcock pilot’ (Notebook, November 16). The tiny goldcrests were thought to hitch a ride on the backs of the sturdier wader to get across the North Sea. Had somebody, somewhere, seen it happen? Perhaps, or they thought so, as woodcock hens may carry their chicks to safety when danger threatens. Certainly, migrant woodcock are prepared to hitch a ride on passing ships.

Made with 100% Assyrtiko, this has a fragrant nose of lanolin and peach, plus a pinch of citrus and flint. The 2018 vintage now showcases lovely depth on the bone-dry palate, with acacia honey-scented stone fruits, refreshed by lime zest. Ripe melon notes lead to a long and fulfilling finish. A perfect partner for shellfish in a creamy sauce or simply fish and chips.

Wake up and smell the rosé

Domaine Montrose, 1701, Côtes de Thongue, Languedoc, France, 2020.

£19.35 Vinvm, alc 13.5%

Until January 15, 2023 ‘Dutch Flowers’, Compton Verney, Warwickshire. This touring exhibition, in partnership with the National Gallery, explores Dutch flower paintings ( pictured )

from their early-17th-century beginnings to their late-18thcentury heyday (01926 645500; www.comptonverney.org.uk)

Until February 25, 2023 ‘Gordon Rushmer: A World in Watercolour’, Petersfield Museum and Art Gallery, Petersfield, Hampshire. A selection of work by the Petersfield-born artist (01730 262601; www. petersfieldmuseum.co.uk)

December 22–23 Carols by Candlelight, Salisbury Cathedral, Salisbury, Wiltshire. The premiere of a new carol by composer Errollyn Wallen (01722 555148; www.salisbury cathedral.org.uk)

Linear freshness, intense citrus zing and lingering wildstrawberry and pink-grapefruit notes. Delivers more than your average rosé: great definition, a strong mineral backbone and a nuttiness from partial ageing in oak. Elegant and enjoyable.

Drinking pretty

Kumeu River, Village Pinot Noir, North Island, New Zealand, 2021. £11.50, The Wine Society, alc 13%

Like biting into a ripe red cherry, this wild-fermented, unoaked Pinot emphasises youthful sweet prettiness, but is kept from being confected by fresh raspberry acidity, sappy fruit tannins and a savoury, leafy edge.

For more, visit www.decanter.com

Men could get their beards shaved in the middle of the frozen Thames during London’s first recorded frost fair in 1608. Between then and 1814, the capital would go on to have seven more big fairs, as well as many smaller ones. Charles II attended in January 1684—his ticket is now at the Museum of London.

Getty; Alamy; Paulus Theodorus van Brussel, Flowers in a Vase /The National Gallery, London

Letters to the Editor Mark Hedges

Letter of the week

Clever boots

YOUR article on John Lobb (‘If the shoes fit’, November 23) brings to mind my late grandfather, James Stuart Farrer. He was discharged from the army in 1917 with the rank of private, a full disability pension and a badly damaged leg that required a surgical boot. By the mid 1920s, he was sufficiently affluent to have his shoes handmade by Lobbs, which improved his mobility and made his disability less obvious. Some 50 years later, an eagle-eyed government official spotted that, despite his pension being paid, my grandfather had made no claim for any new surgical footwear. Someone was dispatched to check he was still alive and enquire why he had not presented himself for any footwear; after he explained, it was decided it would be more cost effective for him to continue having his shoes made by Lobbs. Sadly, he died before he could claim his first pair of free handmade shoes. Our family has speculated whether this was a unique occurrence or if others had the same experience. It certainly caused amusement for everyone. I did contact Lobbs to ask if we could have his lasts, but, unfortunately, I was too late as they had been destroyed. Jane Anthony, via email

The writer of the letter of the week will win a bottle of Pol Roger Brut Réserve Champagne

I see your true colour

ONreading ‘The 39 Steps’ in the recent issue of GENTLEMAN’S L IFE (November 2), I would like to take exception to point 12, namely that ‘a gentleman would never wear Wellington boots that aren’t black or olive green’. Although I do have a green pair for shooting, I often find myself wearing yellow RNLI Wellington boots as part of our PPE. I question whether that precludes us from being gentlemen, or indeed ladies, when fulfilling our duties.

Graham A. F. Hill, via email

Time to get real IN

tackling the menace of plastic waste, Agromenes (November 30) advocates stopping building wasteto-energy plants and creating a really efficient recycling system instead. Sadly, in the real world, this is a contradiction in terms. Really efficient recycling can only take place when the recycled product has a value greater than the cost of recycling and much of the plastic that is polluting the world’s oceans started life in some well-meaning person’s recycling bin. The solution is to minimise waste production, maximise economic recycling and then incinerate the rest in a waste-to-energy plant. Timothy Palmer, Wiltshire

All fired up

OH , but there are pub log fires to be had in Mumbles (Letters, November 16 )! On a recent weekend, I visited my daughter there and, on Sunday, we went to church together. After the service, a group of us (including the minister and his wife)—goodnaturedly referred to as ‘The God Squad’—walked the few steps to The Woodman, on the seafront. There, we were welcomed by a gloriously flaming and spluttering log fire. It warmed the cockles of this old lady’s heart—as well as her fingers.

Yvonne Bell, Somerset

A right royal delicacy

IENJOYED Tom Parker Bowles’s celebration of that crowning glory of the clubland table, the robust savoury (‘Strong Flavours to Savour, November 23), but I was disappointed by the omission of eggs Drumkilbo. This delicious dish consists of lobster claw and tail meat, chopped up with either hardboiled hen’s eggs or quail’s eggs and skinless tomato, served in a glass with a mayonnaise and Worcestershire sauce, usually topped with a large prawn and

parsley. It is occasionally served at my club (usually as a starter) and was— according to legend—a favourite of the late Queen Mother, who liked to have sherry added to the sauce. Christopher Goulding, Newcastle-upon-Tyne

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John Lobb; Alamy; Getty

Still your guns

THE recent correspondence in C OUNTRY L IFE about not shooting woodcock (Letters, November 30) highlights the precarious state of the species’s population in this country, both migrant and indigenous. Game shooters were encouraged not to shoot the birds until December 1, despite them being in season from September 1. This ambiguity is flawed and does little for the future survival of a threatened species. Perhaps all shoots should be asked to remove woodcock from their quarry lists for a period of two, possibly three years and monitor populations during that time?

Delicious to eat they may be, but, unless some more positive restraint on shooting them is imposed, woodcock may not grace people’s plates for much longer.

Michael Brook, North Yorkshire

Boars become bores

IN Felixstowe, Suffolk, our major container port, there’s a campaign under way that should help to protect farmers all over the country. Two years ago, Agromenes warned that the spread of African Swine Fever threatens the whole of the pig industry, counselling tougher measures on meat imports and a much more effective slaughter policy aimed at our growing wildboar population. The Forestry Commission and Defra upped their game partly as a result.

Every Continental country is battling against the disease, which is passed on by live animals and infected meat. Tourists often innocently import meat that has not been produced to the high EU standards, but, at Felixstowe, Defra’s Animal and Plant Health Agency and the UK Border Force are after the commercial businesses that evade food-standards controls to send uncertified meat into Britain.

DECEMBER 28

We present our Grand Tour of Britain, 52 places to visit and admire. Plus, snipe shooting in Devon, fine topiary and the last in our series examining the English home

Make your week, every week, with a Country Life subscription 0330 333 1120

The cost-of-living crisis means that unscrupulous traders are on the lookout for cheaper products. Safety isn’t their first concern. In two weeks, more than 300kg of illegal meat has been seized in Felixstowe and the Port of Harwich, Essex. It doesn’t sound a lot, but you don’t need much infected material to start an outbreak, which is why Defra has recently tightened the rules for all travellers entering this country.

Brexit hasn’t helped co-operation with the rest of Europe and, in a world where we know that diseases in plants and animals will increase, we must have coordinated policies. We really have to get over our post-referendum obsession with doing things differently. The UK Food Standards Agency (FSA) has been told that, instead of having sensible policies, it must rewrite all the regulations that were patiently worked out when we were members of the EU—whether they need change or not. Hundreds of pages of rules will be replaced

by hundreds of pages of new rules—merely so we can say they’re not EU rules.

For goodness’ sake, change rules that aren’t working, but don’t change them for the sake of change, simply to satisfy the dogmatists. The FSA has a huge job on its hands protecting us without this enormous amount of unnecessary work. It needs to be concentrating on the essentials, including the threat of animal diseases, of which African Swine Fever is only one. That demands its continuing efforts, together with Defra, the Port Health Authorities and the Forestry Commission.

We also need media support, so Agromenes was pleased to see the Daily Telegraph highlighting the battle against wild boar in Spain, Germany and Italy. Sadly, it hardly mentioned the British problem, suggesting that only Scotland was ‘worth keeping an eye on’ —no reference to the many areas of England where wild boar is rampant.

Chronic underfunding and fear of animal-rights protesters mean Britain has had no really effective slaughter policy and the wild-boar population has grown out of control. Two litters a year, with four or more piglets a time, mean that only constant culling works. Otherwise, we will soon have the kind of urban issues that they have in Barcelona, where boar have learned to feed off the easy pickings of food-wasting humans.

That threat ought not to be the driving force, however. It is the urban domination of Government policy and our metropolitan media that forces us to warn of trouble in our cities to get any real attention in the countryside. Yet that’s where the problem is now. The livelihood of pig farmers, already threatened by the import of pork and bacon from countries with lower welfare and safety standards, is at risk from African Swine Fever. This should be a priority for Defra—the Department for Rural Affairs.

Chronic underfunding and fear of animalrights protesters mean we have no effective policy

Athena Cultural Crusader

Hoping for a Christmas miracle

MORE of Athena’s readers— believers or not—will visit a church at Christmas than at any other time of year. If they do so, they will surely be aware that the future of these buildings is under renewed threat. Not only do they face intense financial pressures but also the likelihood of a further decline in congregations; a recent survey of the Office of National Statistics revealed that just under half the population now identifies as Christian. There are two groups concerned with the future of historic churches to whom this news of decline will not, perhaps, be entirely unwelcome. One is Christians for whom these buildings and their contents are perceived as a burden. They want the church to be about people not places or things.

They see churches as strictly functional buildings for praying in and, if they can no longer serve that purpose, then they are superfluous and their costs, complexities and lack of modern amenities can justifiably be made someone else’s problem.

quality of churches as places set apart. Historic churches transcend time and offer a welcome vacuum in a world where everything else has a purpose and a timetable. For the same reasons, to those who care for them, they offer a sense of place and belonging. That’s something we need to preserve.

At the same time, there are those who value ancient churches for the beauty and history they enshrine, but are indifferent to their religious use. In their eyes, a church without a congregation can be converted to other, secular functions that respect the fabric, perhaps post offices or libraries. The claim is that such uses will secure the physical survival of these public buildings in a post-religious world.

Athena understands these views, but is out of sympathy with the imperative of function that underpins both of them. At heart, that’s because they fail to recognise the crucial

She also distrusts the confidence of those who advocate solutions conceived in the abstract to a group of buildings that are themselves so varied in form, circumstance and location. After all, the converse of belief is not disbelief, but doubt, a quality both underrated and in short supply. It may also be a luxury. Although, therefore, she admits that there are no easy answers as to how these buildings can survive, it strikes her that one certain route to disaster would be to pursue a coherently planned or centrally imposed reorganisation. Instead, they need to be allowed to muddle on.

Finally, Athena regards our historic churches fundamentally as monuments to the human condition. As such, she sees them less as the preserve of secular or religious interest, than as buildings that naturally amplify both qualities when desired. Indeed, for whatever reason you attend a service this year, you are—miraculously—drawing on their richness in both regards and adding depth to them as well.

The way we were Photographs from the C ountry L ife archive

1898Published

Luddington, Warwickshire, photographed by Charles Latham for the first book published by the COUNTRY LIFE press, The Shakespeare Country. The view is carefully composed around the curve of the road. Washing hangs out to dry, a child sits in his perambulator and elms, now vanished from our landscape, rise in the distance.

Every week for the past 125 years, COUNTRY LIFE has documented and photographed many walks of life in Britain. More than 80,000 of the images are available for syndication or purchase in digital format. To view the archives, visit www. countrylifeimages.co.uk and email enquiries to licensing@ futurenet.com

One certain route to disaster would be to pursue a centrally planned or imposed reorganisation

My favourite painting Paul O’Grady

Breakfast in the Open by Carl Larsson

Paul O’Grady is a comedian, actor and the presenter of ITV’s Paul O’Grady: For the Love of Dogs. His children’s book Eddie Albert and the Amazing Animal Gang: The Curse of the Smugglers’ Treasure is out now

I like paintings that stir the imagination and this one does. The ladies fuss over a table, as a maid unpacks a hamper, puppy in attendance. A young man watches. I get the impression that he’s annoyed. Perhaps he’s hungry and tired of waiting for his breakfast; perhaps the hatless young woman standing next to him is his wife and they’ve had a row. What is the old lady with a stick cooking in that cauldron? Porridge? Boiled eggs? Water for tea? The young girl leaning against the tree seems lost in thought. Is she simply enjoying the musicians or dreaming of true love? Judging by her expression, they’re happy thoughts. I love the light and the perspective and, looking again, I wonder if they’ve eaten and are, in fact, packing up. As I said, it awakens the imagination

Charlotte Mullins comments on Breakfast in the Open

AYOUNG woman in a white dress loops her arms around a slender birch tree and gazes away from a family gathering. She is Lisbeth, aged 19, fourth child of the artists Carl Larsson and Karin Bergöö. Karin can be seen through the trees, tending the fire, as Lisbeth’s sisters Brita and Suzanne chat over a table laid for an alfresco breakfast. Their brother Pontus snoozes under his straw hat in a chair nearby, as a group of travelling musicians serenades the family. The scene is taking place in 1910 on an island opposite the family home—a cottage in Sundborn, 140 miles northwest of Stockholm in Sweden—that can be seen in the distance.

Carl Larsson spent 10 years at art school in the 1860s and 1870s. He supported himself as an illustrator and his limpid style owes

much to his early employment. He went on to paint many murals for Swedish buildings, including the Stockholm Opera House and the National-museum, inspired by the bold lines of Japanese prints and the fluidity of Art Nouveau.

This large oil painting, Breakfast in the Open, now in the Norrköpings Konstmuseum in Sweden, completed in 1913, followed a largescale study he painted during the summer of 1910. The Larsson family originally only spent their summers in the Sundborn cottage, but, from 1901, they relocated there, refurbishing the house with Karin’s textiles. Their relaxed, family-centred life, with its picnics and boating trips, was idealised in Larsson’s paintings.

The house in the background, called Lilla Hyttnäs, is now the Carl Larsson-gården museum.

Breakfast in the Open, 1913, oil on canvas, 78in by 160in, by Carl Larsson (1855–1919), Norrköpings Konstmuseum, Sweden

The ghost of a Christmas past

We compare the Victorian Christmas of 1897, the year of COUNTRY LIFE’s founding, with present-day festivities

1897

Queen Victoria retreats to Osborne

Advent calendar

Homemade Christmas card

Stamp costs 1d

Stir-up Sunday

Goose club

Swags on fireplace

Log fire

Decorations on Christmas Eve

Fir tree

Candles on Christmas trees

Penny toys

Eggnog

Wassail punch

Tate newly opened

Sugar plums

Orange and walnuts in stocking toe

Stilton

Cheddar

Fried smelts

Christmas lunch for the poor

Love came down at Christmas

Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

Snapdragon

Rudyard Kipling

Nine Lessons and Carols at Truro

Cravat

Embroidered lavender bag

Tobacco pouch

Sleeping cap COUNTRY LIFE

2022

Charles III’s first Christmas message

Chocolate Advent calendar

E-card

First-class stamp costs 95p

Waitrose delivery

Avian flu

Free-standing woodburner

Bioethanol fire

Oxford Street on November 2

Non-drop tree

Candles around the bath

Baubles from Liberty

Champagne

Mulled wine

Cézanne at Tate Britain

Hotel Chocolat

Terry’s Chocolate orange

Stilton

Cheddar with cranberries

Smoked salmon

Crisis at Christmas

All I want for Christmas is You

Beauty and the Beast

Ibble dibble

Michael Morpurgo

Carols at King’s

Christmas jumper

Scented candle

Vape

Beanie COUNTRY LIFE

Invincible to enemies

The Cathedral of the Blessed Virgin, Lincoln

On the 950th anniversary of its royal transfer, John Goodall looks at the medieval development of one of Europe’s most brilliantly conceived cathedrals

Photographs by Paul Highnam

IN 1066, a well-born monk of Fécamp called Remigius supplied a ship and 20 knights to William, Duke of Normandy, as he prepared to assert his claim to the English throne by force of arms. Remigius sailed with the Norman fleet that autumn and was present at William’s victory at the Battle of Hastings. Reward for his support came the following year, when he was granted the first diocese to fall vacant in England. This had its cathedral church at Dorchester-on-Thames, Oxfordshire, and enjoyed authority over a vast swathe of territory that extended north to the Humber.

Remigius’s appointment was mired in scandal, but it would prove hugely significant. In 1072, as part of the far-reaching reform and reorganisation of the English church, he was commanded by the King—acting with the advice of the Pope—to transfer his cathedral church to Lincoln at the opposite geographical extreme of his diocese. At the time, Lincoln was one of the largest and most populous settlements in England, strategically positioned where the River Witham cuts through the limestone ridge that extends up the eastern side of the kingdom.

The medieval city of Lincoln occupied the site of a Roman settlement that had begun life as a fort in about AD 60. It stood at the

Fig 1: The cathedral nave. Its far-spaced and slender piers allow expansive views

junction of two major thoroughfares, Ermine Street, which ran along the ridge and connected London to York, and Fosse Way, which began in Exeter. Between AD85 and AD 95, the fort became a self-governing city for veterans, a colonia, known as Lindum. In the process, it expanded and spilled down the steep escarpment of the ridge to form two rectangular, fortified enclosures, now the Upper and Lower City, with suburbs beyond.

The medieval re-occupation and revival of Lincoln was a combined consequence of its position on the Roman road network and command of the Witham, a river gateway to England from the east coast. On both counts, the city was crucial to William the Conqueror’s attempt to subdue the north of England, with its close Scandinavian connections. In 1068, he established a castle here, one in a series that was destructively intruded during his first northern campaign into towns along Ermine Street at York and Huntingdon and—connected to it—at Cambridge.

At Lincoln, the entire Upper City became the bailey or ‘Bail’ of the castle and the Domesday Survey of 1086 records the associated loss of 166 properties. It was evidently as a reinforcement of this castle that

Remigius transferred the seat of his diocese to the city in 1072. The bishop assumed an explicitly military role in the city, where he owed the very considerable service of 45 knights to the castle, and secured a building site for the cathedral within the Bail. The latter was located on the lip of the escarpment in the next-door corner to the artificial mound or motte of the castle.

Work to the new church probably began in about 1075 and was almost complete at Remigius’s death in 1092. It was, in the

words of the chronicler Henry of Huntingdon, writing in about 1130, ‘a strong church in that strong place, a beautiful church in that beautiful place… both agreeable to the servants of God and also, as suited the times, invincible to enemies’. The emphasis on defence is borne out by what survives of the building today: a huge triple arch fossilised in the west front with openings for dropping missiles above the main doors (Fig 3) .

The design is evocative of a Roman triumphal arch and is constructed throughout

Fig 2: The Exchequer Gate to the close. Three spires once rose from the towers

A strong church in that strong place, a beautiful church in that beautiful place

using cut blocks of masonry, a mark of the most ambitious 11th-century architecture. How this structure related to the cruciform plan of Remigius’s cathedral remains a matter of debate. It could be that, as today, it formed a screen façade to the nave. Alternatively, it might have formed part of a tower either attached to the nave or even freestanding from it, like a keep. Whatever the case, it otherwise bears technical comparison to

Byzantine churches, such as the slightly later west front of St Mark’s in Venice, Italy.

Many English cathedrals after the Norman Conquest—including Canterbury, Durham and Worcester—doubled as monastic churches. At Lincoln, by contrast, Remigius’s foundation was organised after Continental example, as a so-called ‘secular’ cathedral. That is to say, it was not served by monks, but by a community of canons or priests

with individual incomes. The canons needed a chapter house to meet and discuss business, but there was no requirement for communal monastic buildings and their houses were spread around a gated close (Fig 2) that expanded piecemeal beyond the line of the Roman wall.

In 1140, during the civil war known as the Anarchy, Lincoln Cathedral was briefly converted into a castle by King Stephen and,

Fig 3: The 11th-century triumphal triple arch and later frieze fossilised in the west front. Note the central gallery of seated kings

following his defeat at the Battle of Lincoln on February 2, 1141, possibly sacked and burnt. Thereafter, it was rebuilt by the Bishop, Alexander, so that—again in the words of Henry of Huntingdon—‘it appeared more beautiful than in its original state, and would not yield to the fabric of any other building in England’. Among other changes, he is credited with vaulting the whole length of the building in stone.

Possibly as part of Bishop Alexander’s aggrandisement of the church, a frieze of sculpture depicting scenes from the Last Judgement and Old Testament was created across the west front. It is the only major figurative cycle of its kind to survive in England and, over the past 40 years, has been partly boxed in for protection. This year,

however—as part of a wider restoration project and the creation of new visitor facilities made possible by the National Heritage Lottery Fund—the whole frieze has been revealed once again, with replica figures pieced in where necessary. Examination of the sculpture shows that it was originally painted.

On April 15, 1185, the cathedral was badly damaged by an earthquake and, the following year, a new bishop was unanimously elected by the chapter, a Carthusian monk and Burgundian nobleman, Hugh of Avalon. The two events marked a turning point in the history of the building. Bishop Hugh was a formidable figure equally admired by kings and the poor (although his English was, apparently, not good). Famously, his saintly presence calmed the temper of a particularly

large and fierce swan at his Lincolnshire manor of Stow and the bird became his emblem. Hugh was involved in efforts to rebuild the damaged cathedral and the choir, where the work began in 1191, is named after him. The designing mason was intimately familiar with the new Gothic east end at Canterbury Cathedral, recently renewed as the setting for the shrine of the murdered Archbishop Thomas Becket. From Canterbury, he took inspiration for the technical detail and planning of the choir at Lincoln, which included two pairs of transepts and a terminating shrine chapel beyond the high altar. The chapel was almost certainly intended for the body of Bishop Remigius, whose unimpressive case for sanctity—in the absence of alternatives—was then being promoted.

The design of St Hugh’s Choir is a distinctively English exploration of the Gothic idiom at fundamental odds with its ultimate sources in France. In place of the soaring height of such 1190s cathedral designs as Chartres or Bourges, the vaults at Lincoln are both relatively low and low sprung; in contrast with the French High Gothic use of windows to screen the structure of the building from the interior, Lincoln proudly displays its massive walls and encrusts them with carved detail; and, instead of a design in which each vertical bay of the building is discretely conceived and uniform, Lincoln delights in visual integration, syncopation and variety.

Nowhere is this playful ingenuity more clearly apparent than in the vaulting of the choir. Canterbury makes use of vaults divided by ribs into six compartments spread over two bays. At Lincoln, however, the mason compressed the same six-part form over each bay in order to enrich the architectural effect. The resulting asymmetric pattern, which also incorporates a longitudinal rib running along the apex of the vault, is so completely out of character with the logic of French design that it has been memorably dubbed the ‘crazy vault’ (Fig 5)

Crazy or not, the vault was refined and regularised when the rebuilding work continued into the nave during the 1220s—after the violent interruption of the The Fair of Lincoln in 1217 (C OUNTRY L IFE , January 11, 2017 ), during which the cathedral was

Fig 4 above: The magnificent east window. The window above lights the roof space.

Fig 5 facing page: St Hugh’s Choir, with its crazy vault and 14th-century choir stalls

The pattern is so out of character with the logic of French design that it has been dubbed the “crazy vault”

plundered. Here, after its example, the number of ribs on the surface of the vault was increased and the visual distinction between the structural bays further blurred. The result is an unprecedented density of ornament and a strong horizontal emphasis that carries the eye through the length of the interior. Further accentuating the effect are the broad nave bays, which create clear views from the central vessel into the aisles (Fig 1)

Architectural ideas from Lincoln were widely copied, a clear mark of medieval admiration. Remarkably, their influence also extended outside England. Particularly intriguing is Lincoln’s influence in the Baltic at Trondheim Cathedral, Norway, and— possibly—on the vaulting of the Cistercian church at Pelplin, Poland.

With the completion of the nave—and the repair of the crossing following the collapse of the central tower in 1237—attention returned to the east end of the church. In 1220, after working miracles from beyond the grave, Bishop Hugh was canonised and Remigius’s claims to sanctity were forgotten. To create a sufficiently splendid setting for

Hugh’s two shrines—one for his body and another for his head—royal licence was sought to extend his choir across the wall of the Bail to the east of the church in 1255. Adjacent to the extension is a magnificent chapter house on a polygonal plan begun in about 1200 (Fig 10) . It opens off the cloister of the 1290s (Fig 9) .

St Hugh’s Choir determined the proportions of the extension, known as the Angel

Choir. The new work, however, borrowed ideas from the extravagant rebuilding of Westminster Abbey by Henry III (C OUNTRY L IFE , December 15/22, 2021). From Westminster, for example, came the eponymous figures of angels, which are carved in the upper registers of the walls (Fig 7 ), and the ornamentation of windows with lattices of stone termed bar tracery. The stupendous eight-part window that today terminates the Angel Choir interior was of unprecedented size (Fig 4)

Covering the whole structure of the cathedral, and easily forgotten, is a magnificent series of steeply pitched roofs. This monumental and dramatic roofscape, inspired by Continental example, was originally further enlivened by three spires, two over the west end and a third, rising over 500ft (that at Salisbury in Wiltshire scrapes 400ft), added to the central tower when it was raised to its present height in the early 14th century. The spires have all since been lost or dismantled, the principal being the first to come down after a storm in January 1548.

The medieval cathedral was richly furnished both inside and out with monuments

Fig 6 above: The Judgement Portal, flanked by chapels. Fig 7 below: Sumptuous carving and polychrome masonry in the Angel Choir

and figurative sculpture of superlative quality. Important survivals include a 14th-century gallery of Kings, the Judgement Portal (Fig 6), a series of chantry chapels attached to the aisles of the Angel Choir, the pulpitum screen and also a sepulchre used in the Easter liturgy with figures of sleeping soldiers. Another important fragmentary survival is the shrine of Little St Hugh (Fig 8), a boy said to have been crucified by Jews in 1255. His story and shrine are sobering testimony to the violent antisemitism in England that preceded the expulsion of the Jews by Edward I. The shrine never subsequently attracted much devotion and was only destroyed in the 17th century, probably in 1644.

The stupendous eight-part window in the Angel Choir was of unprecedented size

Because of its constitution as a secular cathedral, Lincoln was less affected by the Reformation than its monastic peers. It was, nevertheless, transformed liturgically, physically and institutionally by the religious changes that ensued. Neither these, however, nor the major restoration campaigns that have punctuated its more recent history, have compromised the grandeur, interest or integrity of its architecture. Indeed, even in European terms, Lincoln remains an outstanding structure, remarkable for the ambition, interest and ingenuity of every stage in its evolving design. Few buildings have remained so consistently admired for so long.

Visit www.lincolncathedral.com

Fig 8 above left: The shrine of Little St Hugh, which was damaged in the 17th century. Fig 9 above right: The cloister of the 1290s. Fig 10 below: The polygonal chapter house was begun in about 1200. A view from the vestibule, which was roofed in 1216

All’s white with the world

It was a 16th-century change in climate that prompted painters to experiment with re-creating a snowy-white world, often through judicious use of colour. Michael Prodger reveals how some of the best-loved wintry artworks came into being

Alamy; The Fine Art Society, London, UK/Bridgeman Images; Musée Condé, Chantilly /Bridgeman Images

WHAT does the Grindelwald Fluctuation have to do with Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s muchloved 1565 painting The Hunters in the Snow, the winter scene that, over the years, has graced countless Christmas cards and Advent calendars? Or with the flurry of Dutch 17th-century canvases showing jolly burghers skating—and tumbling—on frozen canals? Or the paintings of the London frost fairs, which saw tented villages pop up on the icy Thames and the river turn into a slippery theme park? Or another seasonal greetingcard staple, Henry Raeburn’s portrait of the 1790s showing the Revd Robert Walker skating gracefully and determinedly across a Scottish loch? The answer is that, without the Grindelwald Fluctuation, they might well have never been painted.

It is the name given to a period during the ‘Little Ice Age’, when the world’s glaciers began to expand. Starting in about 1560, it marked a point at which the thermostat was turned down on much of northern Europe, not to be dialled up again until the mid 19th century. Although there was nothing new about snow and ice, during this period they became regular and prolonged features in

everyone’s lives. No wonder then that painters began to add the chilly white world to their repertoire: climate change affects art, too.

The sub-zero world was not much in evidence in art until the early 16th century, not least because there was no established genre of landscape painting. There were, of course, exceptions, such as a manuscript illustration of about 1525–30 for the Persian epic poem

Shahnama (Book of Kings), which shows the hero Isfandiyar’s troops struggling to put up their tents in a snowstorm, watched by placid dromedaries and horses with their teeth chattering. The 12th-century Chinese painter Li Gongnian depicted a bleak and bare winter landscape and his 14th-century compatriot Yao Yanqing showed snow-covered mountains.

In Western art, snow first fell in the miniatures made for the Très Riches Heures du duc de Berry, a sumptuous book illustrated by the Burgundian Limbourg brothers between 1412 and 1416. In their miniature for the month of February, they combine a series of snowbound scenes: a man cuts down a tree for firewood as another drives a log-laden donkey off to the nearby town; sheep are tucked up in a snow-covered pen in front of a line of beehives with an icy coating; a smallholder, blowing on his hands, approaches a thatched dwelling (obligingly left open-sided by the painter so we can see within), where two women and a man sit in front of a fire, their tunics unashamedly hitched up to defrost their naked nether regions. It is not only the cockles of their hearts that are warming and the image must have made the Duke of Berry chuckle in the midst of his devotions.

It was Bruegel who became the first artist to explore the potential of snow systematically. As well as his picture of hunters returning, he painted the first Western scene with falling snow, The Adoration of the Kings in the

There was nothing new about snow and ice, but they became prolonged features in everyone’s lives

Preceding pages: Winter Landscape with Skaters and Bird Trap, 1565, by Pieter Bruegel the Elder. Facing page: The Reverend Robert Walker Skating on Duddingston Loch, 1790s, by Henry Raeburn. Above: Halstead Road in Snow, 1935, by Eric Ravilious

Bleak and bare indeed: ancient trees in Winter Landscape by Caspar David Friedrich

Room for irreverence: spot the peasants lifting their clothes in the February page from the Très Riches Heures du duc de Berry, 1412–16, by the Limbourg Brothers

Snow (Epiphany) of 1563, which transposes the birth of Christ to a Flemish village, as well as other Biblical scenes, such as the Nativity, the Census and, in multiple versions, the Massacre of the Innocents. It was one of his snow scenes, Winter Landscape With Skaters and Bird Trap (1565), that started the fad for winter pictures across the Low Countries.

Bruegel’s painting of a snowbound rural village with children playing on a frozen river was adapted by subsequent painters to show variations of frolicking citizens of both town and country. The most avid purveyor of this new genre was Hendrick Avercamp, born in Amsterdam in about 1585, who enlivened his pictures with vivid detail: among his promenaders, skaters and ice golfers, he painted a man relieving himself, the bare buttocks of a fallen skater pointing skywards, canoodlers finding the cold no restraint on their ardour. All of human life was there. Avercamp was born a deaf mute—‘de Stomme van Kampen’ (the mute of Kampen)—and his affliction heightened his amused observation of his fellow citizens. As snow changed the physical world, so his condition, too, set him apart.

By the early 19th century and the Romantic period, painters were treating snow less as

The two sides of the season

Pieter Bruegel the Elder’s The Hunters in the Snow is, in many ways, a strange picture to have captured the public’s imagination as the archetypal image of winter. There is, indeed, joyfulness in the skaters, curlers and ice-hockey players who gambol on the frozen water meadows in the distance, but this is, in essence, a grim picture. It is a harbinger of hard times to come, painted when northern Europe was suffering the first of a series of particularly hard winters.

The hunting expedition has bagged only a single fox rather than a larder’s worth of game. A rabbit’s footprints in the snow show what they missed close to home—Nature is cocking a snook at them. An inn sign dangles precariously, having come loose from its fixings, and flames from the bonfire of leaves are blowing dangerously close to the inn: this is neither a prosperous place nor a safe one. What Bruegel showed in this picture, one of a series showing the seasons, is that life for the villagers in the months ahead will be an ordeal, not a respite.

Among his promenaders and ice golfers, he painted the bare buttocks of a fallen skater

a subject for observation than a reflection of a mental state. Turner painted Hannibal’s army being caught in a snowstorm as they crossed the Alps as a means of depicting Nature at its most awesome and Man’s helplessness in the face of unimaginable forces. The German artist Caspar David Friedrich painted snowcovered forests and ruined abbeys, where whiteness and stillness were projections of human melancholy, as well as Nature’s divinity.

As a boy, Friedrich had tried to save his brother, who fell through the ice of a river and drowned before his eyes, so the frozen landscape was for him no place for Avercamp’s jolly bustle. He was drawn instead to empty places that spoke to his soul, although he never explained precisely what was said. In his more explicitly Christian pictures, such as the National Gallery’s Winter Landscape (about 1811), snow is not only an aid to contemplation, but a blanket that will melt away to reveal the promise of spring and rebirth.

For the Impressionist painters some 60 years later, snow was a pictorial issue. With their concern for capturing the transient effects of Nature, they realised that snow is

not only white to the eye, but, in its shadows and modulations, grey and blue, too. It came as a revelation to both painters and the artloving public. When Claude Monet painted The Magpie in 1868–69, a picture of a bird on a gate in an unremarkable snowy landscape, he used a range of pallid shades. The public, said one critic at the time, ‘was flabbergasted by this pale painting’. It took years, but, as Monet and colleagues such as Pissarro and Sisley experimented with winter scenes, finding more and more colours in the reflections of snow under changing weather, the public caught up with these innovators’ leaps of perception.

By 1909, when the Russian artist Wassily Kandinsky painted his Winter Landscape, he could do so using no white at all, but rather

bold dabs of brilliant blues, greens, yellows and pinks and still manage to make his snow unequivocally snowlike. Some 20 years later, in rural Essex, Eric Ravilious made a painting of Halstead in which snow was an excuse to fill the picture with pattern, rather than colour. It was not a comfortable task; he recalled working outside in conditions so cold that the watercolours froze on his brushes.

Perhaps no one has captured the way winter cold transforms the landscape into an alien realm as economically and brilliantly as 18thcentury Japanese painter Maruyama Ōkyo. When decorating a two-panel screen, now in the British Museum, he painted both paper panels a grey-white and then, in the foreground, added a series of quick black lines at zig-zag angles. Up close, the picture is entirely abstract, anticipating the experiments of the 20th century by more than 100 years. Step back, however, and the grey white becomes the frozen surface of a pond merging into a colourless sky and the lines reveal themselves as cracks in the ice. The screen is suddenly no longer a screen, but a view through a window onto a world caught in Nature’s frozen grip.

Turner painted Hannibal’s army in a snowstorm to show Man’s helplessness

Far from being merely white, snow is made up of hues from soft grey to vivid blue, as in Monet’s revelatory The Magpie, 1868–69

Hey, Mister Snowman

If we get lucky and the weather delivers a big fall of snow, Katy Birchall has the best recipe for building a splendid snowman that will be the envy of your village

SHOULD we be fortunate enough this Christmas to wake up one morning to a tranquil landscape covered in a blanket of fresh white snow, let’s not dawdle—it’s time to get to work. The perfect snowman won’t build itself and, if you’re going to beat Jerry-from-next-door’s pedestrian attempt, then you need to get out there sharpish before he encroaches on your snow under the guise of wishing you a ‘Merry Christmas’.

Nice try, Jerry.

Method

Preheat your body temperature with a cup of tea and a bacon roll. Once satisfactorily fuelled, gear up in appropriate waterproof outerwear that will withstand the tough conditions into which you’re about to venture —that beloved pair of wellies with the barelynoticeable hole at the toe has no place here.

Start by choosing the perfect positioning of your snowman—you’re looking for somewhere flat and in view of the street or lane, so that, on completion, your excellent craftsmanship won’t be missed by passers-by. Scoop up some snow and pack it into a snow-ball, rotating your hands and applying pressure to create a sphere—too much

For the embellishments

force too quickly will rupture the snowball; so, easy does it. Gradually add snow to the ball as you go, until it is large and heavy enough to set on the ground.

1 pair of gloves

Begin rolling the snowball forward, changing direction every now and then to avoid creating an undesirable cylinder shape. Once the base section is your preferred size, bring your ball to a halt in the spot where you would like your snowman to stand. Repeat this process for the middle and top sections of your snowman’s body, making the balls smaller each time. Stacking the balls on top of each other might require an extra pair of hands, so do enlist the help of any teenagers lurking about the house.

It’s not a bad idea to flatten out the top of each sphere before placing another ball on top and packing some extra snow in between the sections if there’s still a bit of

1 Hat (gentleman’s choice of style here—the top hat is a traditional option, but a trilby or bowler is charming, or perhaps try a flat cap if your snowman is more of a loveable rogue. I must draw the line at a Panama—there’s a time and place)

1 carrot (in this instance, size doesn’t matter)

4 pebbles or small lumps of coal for

a wobble—unlike the rest of us this season, we don’t want Frosty losing his head. When your creation is snow-body ready, it’s time to unleash your creative flair and accessorise your snowman. For the face, start with the nose, sticking the carrot in the middle of the top ball, before evenly spacing the two buttons, or their substitutes, above for the eyes. Place the four pebbles in an upturned curve for the mouth, being careful not to edge too close to the middle ball, and insert the pipe to one side of his smile—don’t miss this excellent chance to crack a joke about your snowman looking ‘smoking’. This may prompt eyerolls from the teenagers, but they’ll be laughing on the inside.

Insert the branches either side of the middle ball for the arms, ensuring that they’re firmly nestled in and sturdy enough to support their gloves. Line the four lumps of coal down the centre of your snowman’s body for his buttons and wrap the scarf around his neck, before adding the hat for the finishing touch.

Leaving your snowman to stand (and remain) cool, return to the warmth of the house, from where you can both admire your remarkable handiwork and feel your toes again—an experience best served with a well-earned mince pie and glass of sloe gin.

2 Coat buttons for the eyes (pebbles, lumps of coal or walnuts are satisfactory substitutes)

1 pipe

2 branches for the arms (preferably with twig-like fingers)

Ingredients

For the body

• Enough snow (fairly moist; avoid powdery texture)

• Bottom ball should have a diameter of roughly 31½in

• Middle ball, a diameter of 19½in

• Top ball, a diameter of 12in

1 scarf

4 small lumps of coal or pebbles for the buttons

Don’t miss this chance to crack a joke about your snowman looking “smoking”

A year’s pleasure:

JUST before midnight on Christmas Eve, I will hurry up the path to St Michael’s in Shalbourne. I can walk this route with my eyes closed if needs be, but the path to the porch will be illuminated by candles in the stained-glass east window of the little church: flickering spills of red, blue and gold over the frost in front of me. And I will hear the sound of carols.

In this part of Wiltshire, most of our village churches are built from flint ploughed out of the hills and carted down tracks to be mortared into walls, buttresses and stout towers. I love these repositories of prayer, stone boxes in the bends and doubles of the downland, like tufting buttons threading us to this ancient landscape. Perhaps this year we all feel a bit unstitched, as if we’re coming apart at the seams.

Inside, St Michael’s will be filled with greenery: a Christmas tree, ivy twined around the stone columns and holly on the sills, shadows lingering in corners, along the rows of wellthumbed prayer books and under the rackety fuse board, the air resinous and candley.

After a day of rushing to crib services—all tinsel, tea towels and cardboard crowns— there is something grown-up about Midnight Mass, but it comes with a childlike thrill, too. I still look forward to this service all year.

From the early 4th century, the date of Christ’s birth has generally been set at December 25. And yet the birth story is woven, like a single thread, through the tapestry of the Church’s entire year. In Luke’s gospel, the angel Gabriel announces to Mary that she will conceive a child by the Holy Spirit. By way of corroboration, Gabriel tells Mary that her cousin Elizabeth (mother of John the Baptist) is already six months into her pregnancy. Counting backwards from Christmas, we find the Annunciation is celebrated exactly nine months earlier, on March 25. The birth of John the Baptist is remembered on June 24. Now, six months on from then, we reach the end—or the beginning—of the thread, in a stable far from home. A light coming into the darkness.

All major feasts in the Church calendar are preceded by a vigil, a time of penitence and preparation. The first Mass, or Eucharist, of the Christmas season takes place at midnight on Christmas Eve. To mark this transition from vigil to feast, from contemplation to celebration, I remove, on the stroke of midnight, the purple stole I have been wearing through Advent and replace it with a stole of gold and white.

At Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, St Michael’s is always packed. And there are many unfamiliar or half-familiar faces in the pews. Perhaps, therefore, I should begin my sermon as John Calvin did in 1551: ‘Now, I see

here today more people than I am accustomed to having at the sermon. Why is that? It is Christmas Day. When you elevate one day alone for the purpose of worshipping God, you have just turned it into an idol. True, you insist that you have done so for the honour of God, but it is more for the honour of the Devil.’

A little harsh? Across the Reformed Churches in Europe and the US, the elaborate celebration of Christmas was seen by many as a popish invention, an excuse for licence. Feasting, masques and pageants at Christmas in the Middle Ages were accompanied by drunkenness and debauchery. In England, the Puritans did their best to stamp out these practices. In covenanting Scotland, Christmas was abolished altogether. In New England, pilgrim settlers marked Christmas Day—or rather, chose not to mark it—by labouring in the fields.

Standing in the pulpit this Christmas Eve, I can be sure Calvin will not come to mind. I love the way our churches are crowded at Christmas, whether it is with children and parents at crib services or with those who have piled out of The Plough at closing time for Midnight Mass. Rather than berating the congregation, as Calvin did, for their faithlessness, I will welcome them with open arms.

True, for many, this year’s Midnight Mass will be the first time some people have set foot in church since the same service last year. Have we, as Calvin suggests, turned this one day of churchgoing into an idol, a way of honouring the Devil? I do not believe so for a moment. I believe that many will attend Midnight Mass faithfully (although, perhaps, unconsciously) looking for that thread running through their own lives, all life, the whole of creation. It is my role, by scripture and sacrament, to lead them to the place where they may grasp it.

Perhaps they come for the easy familiarity of a cherished family tradition, a childhood memory. Perhaps it is habit. But habit can be hallowed, too. The reformers (who are still with us) might argue that this sentimental repeating of inherited tradition is not ‘real’ worship at all, that it is merely a psychological safety blanket, an over-rehearsed ritual.

The power of ritual was brought home to me this summer when I was Archbishop of Canterbury—for an hour. The local primary school was re-enacting the coronation service to mark the Platinum Jubilee celebrations.

The birth story is woven, like a thread, through the tapestry of the Church’s year

Contemplation to celebration: Advent worship at Salisbury Cathedral, Wiltshire

The magic of Midnight Mass

For the Revd Colin Heber-Percy, a candlelit Midnight Mass service at his parish church in Wiltshire promises packed pews and a child-like anticipation of Christmas

We had a Prince Philip, Dukes of Kent and Gloucester, an Earl Marshal, ladies in waiting. And one little girl played the Queen. I guided them through the service. The procession, the symbols of power: sword, spurs, sceptre, orb and crown. And the touchstones of our faith: the Bible, bread, wine and oil.

As I lowered the papier-mâché crown onto Her Majesty’s head, I noticed the little girl’s shoulders were shaking with emotion. By the time the whole congregation shouted ‘God save the Queen!’ many of us—staff and pupils —were in tears. Ritual is potent; it works.

At supper with his friends, Jesus urges those gathered around the table with him to share bread and wine ‘in remembrance of me’. In this ritual act of remembering, it is we who are re-membered, re-threaded, put back together, made whole in Him.

With Calvin, I recognise that repeated ritual can be rote, an idol. But much more often it is authentic and heartfelt. Perhaps, when it comes to the ritual of attending Midnight Mass, we should take Ludwig Wittgenstein’s advice and agree that ‘Ritual is permissible only to the extent that it is as genuine as a kiss’. A kiss under the mistletoe, in this case. What I see

The angels’ mass and other stories

• In about the year 385, a Roman woman named Egeria witnessed a torchlight procession from Bethlehem to Jerusalem to celebrate the birth of Jesus

• Egeria’s account of her experience in the Holy Land prompted Pope Sixtus III to introduce a Midnight Mass in Rome in about 430

• The gospel narratives of Jesus’s birth describe the event taking place at night.

in the congregations who gather at Christmas for carol services and Midnight Mass is a genuineness, an eagerness not only for the familiar, but for the unexpected, a readiness to follow where the thread leads.

In his second letter to the Church at Thessalonica, St Paul commands his readers to ‘stand firm and hold to the traditions which you were taught’ (2 Thessalonians 2.15). To decry the tradition of Midnight Mass as emptily atavistic or conventional is to miss a profoundly important theological point. This is not merely something we do, it is an expression of who we are. A religious tradition, such as coming

This has led to an historical emphasis on night-time worship at Christmas

• Midnight Mass may be called ‘the angels’ Mass’, on account of the angelic announcement of Jesus’s birth to the shepherds

• Thomas Hardy’s 1915 poem The Oxen recalls the tale of how, at midnight on Christmas Eve, the oxen in their byres kneel. It is a poem about longing, memory and faith

to Midnight Mass, requires memory. If we lose our memory, we lose the past and if we lose the past, we lose ourselves. Retrieving the thread again, hearing the Good News again, is a way of finding our true selves again. ‘Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place’ (Luke 2.15).

The Revd Dr Colin HeberPercy is a screenwriter and Church of England priest. His book ‘Tales of a Country Parish’ is out now (Short Books, £14.99)

Alamy; Bridgeman Images

Changing times, unchanging spirit: the glow of church windows on Christmas Eve is as welcoming and uplifting now as it was in 1878

’Tis the season to eat merrily

CHRISTMAS is coming and the goose is getting fat. Or so we hope. Because Britain’s poultry farmers are facing an exceptionally worrying run up to the festive season, in the shadow of the UK’s worst ever avian-flu outbreak. Currently, all birds, including free-range ones, must be kept indoors by law. Three million birds had been destroyed at time of writing. As Verity Copas of Copas Turkeys explains: ‘If our birds contract avian influenza, it would not only mean zero sales at the most important time of the year, but the end of our company, too.’

Worrying times, indeed, and, although the prospect of a Christmas without turkey or goose is a grim one, it pales in comparison to the plight of the farmers. God willing, however, all will be fine and the festive feast will continue to feature our favourite birds. Turkey is a relative newcomer to the party (save for the most regal of tables), an American arriviste popularised with the help of Dickens, Scrooge and the Cratchits. Goose, by contrast, has long been a Yuletide staple, back to when Christmas was a riotous, 12-day pagan bacchanalia of drunken carousing and lascivious high jinks ( plus ça change, I hear you cry), rather than the church-going, family-friendly affair it is today.

In the past, I’ve banged on enough about the blandness of turkey and my preference for a fat goose or great rib of beef, but now is not the time for some ‘bah, humbug’ rant, what with this being the season to be merry and all that. And there are some farmers who raise a markedly superior gobbler, one blessed with not only succulence, but lashings of flavour, too. This, for me, is what Christmas is all about. A time for giving, obviously—as well as the usual eating, drinking and being merry —but also a heartfelt celebration of this country’s produce, a tribute to all those great farmers and producers who work for passion, rather than profit margin. Those who value flavour over a quick buck. Food heroes, all.

I want birds that have been allowed to root and scratch in the yards, roaming free in grassy meadows. And ham, proper ham, made from happy pigs, cured the old-fashioned way, with time and hard-learned expertise. Bacon and chipolatas, too. Potatoes that can be transformed into crisp, burnished roast

Christmas offers a chance to celebrate all those great food producers who work so passionately to ensure that our feast is as ethical as it is delicious.

Tom Parker Bowles applauds some of the very best

It is time for giving, but also a heartfelt celebration of this country’s produce

Jez Taylor, head of the Daylesford market garden, amid Brussels-sprout abundance

beauties. And the Brussels sprout: that wonderful brassica that’s more sinned against than sinning. Not forgetting Christmas pudding, a direct link to Christmas past, spiced and fruited, lavished with dollops of brandy butter.

Turkey

AT Copas, it’s all about the welfare of the bird,’ declares Mrs Copas. ‘Happy birds mean happy eaters.’ You can say that again. The farm was established in 1957 and I first

visited it more than a decade ago, wandering through the cherry orchards and meadows, where the turkeys roam noisily free. ‘The hatchlings come to us at 24 hours old, at the end of June, and we brood on site, with 24-hour care. That’s very important, to check they’re all ok.’ For the next couple of weeks, they are gradually introduced to natural light, to get them used to the outdoors. At four to five weeks old, they’re let outside. ‘The land is enriched with miscanthus, a natural game-cover crop,

Tom’s top turkey suppliers

Copas Traditional Turkeys, Berkshire (www.copasturkeys.co.uk)

Daylesford Organic, Gloucestershire (01608 731670; www.daylesford.com)

The Ethical Butcher, London (020–8900 8585; www.ethicalbutcher.co.uk)

Farmison, North Yorkshire (01765 824050; www.farmison.com)

H. G. Walter, London W14 (020–7385 6466; www.hgwalter.com)

Phillip Warren and Son, Cornwall (01566 772244; www.philipwarrenbutchers.co.uk)

and the birds love to scavenge among it,’ explains Mrs Copas. ‘There are lots of herbs in the grass, which provide a varied diet.’

Turkeys are incredibly inquisitive birds, so tambourines and jingly instruments (seriously!) are left out for them. ‘They like to peck and play with them, as they love being entertained,’ she smiles. ‘They must not become bored and we want them to live the happiest life possible.’

Alpacas have also recently been introduced, to scare off the foxes, stamping and spitting the moment Reynard comes near. ‘They’re brilliant guard animals and they really do keep the foxes away,’ enthuses Mrs Copas. Ed

Nix/Millie Pilkington/Richard Cannon/Country Life Picture Library

Above: From the orchard to the table: a Copas turkey. Below: Tom and Verity Copas give their birds all they need, even tambourines

Tom’s top geese suppliers

Goodman’s Geese, Worcestershire (01299 896272; www.goodmansgeese.co.uk)

Seldom Seen, Leicestershire (0116–259 6742; www.seldomseenfarm.co.uk)

Johnson and Swarbrick Goosnargh, Lancashire (01772 865251; www.johnson-swarbrick.co.uk)

Brisbourne Geese, Shropshire (01743 741672; www.brisbournegeese.co.uk)

The Wild Meat Company, Suffolk (01728 687627; www.wildmeat.co.uk)

The birds grow slowly, reaching full maturity at 26 weeks old, unlike the average supermarket turkey of about 12 to 16 weeks old. ‘The vast majority are hens, as they carry their weight better,’ she notes and, in the last few weeks, they develop a ‘wonderful layer of fat, which melts into the flesh when cooking’. They’re then slaughtered, with as little stress as possible, dry-plucked and hung for 14 days to develop still more flavour. The result is miles removed from the dry, dreary supermarket beast—the white meat sweet and delicate, the dark meat packing a serious flavour punch. ‘We put the time in over the year, so you don’t have to on Christmas day,’ notes Mrs Copas. ‘Our 5kg [about 11lb] birds will cook in two hours.’ I once described them as the RollsRoyce of turkey. One bite and you’ll see why.

Goose

ANDY Goodman really knows his geese. And his family farm, sitting deep in the Worcestershire hills, produces some of the

Grass-fed defined: geese that graze on rich pasture, as at Goodman’s, taste the best for half the time on their back, the other half on their breast and use the fat for your roast potatoes.’ The result is a rich, mildly gamey delight, which tastes of a life very well lived.

best birds in the country. ‘It’s all about the way they’re reared,’ he explains, ‘slow grown, with lots of room to wander, with plenty of whole wheat to get growth and a good strong frame. Corn helps them gain fat and the grass adds essential texture.’

His geese hatch in May and June, before being let out at four weeks old to start grazing on that grass. ‘It really does make all the difference,’ he observes. Geese are highly intelligent birds, too, very inquisitive. Like Copas turkeys, they are allowed to reach full maturity, before being slaughtered at 24 weeks, dry-plucked and waxed ‘to get a lovely finish on the skin’, then hung for 10 to 14 days, to develop flavour and tenderise the meat.

‘Geese do lose a lot of weight during cooking, as all that lovely fat pours out—prick the fat glands under the wings and back of the legs,’ advises Mr Goodman, ‘and make sure the bird has been out of the fridge for at least 12 hours. Stuff them with chopped leeks and apple, place on a rack in a baking tray, cook them

Ham, bacon and chipolatas

THE art of creating the best ham comes down to three key factors,’ declares Mark Gallagher, CEO and owner of DukesHill. ‘Time, care and our special brine recipe we have perfected over the past 37 years. It’s actually quite simple and a labour of love for us.’ His Wiltshire ham uses the leg of an outdoorbred British pig, which is first injected with the company’s own-recipe brine (a small amount of unrefined brown sugar is added, creating a subtle sweetness), before being submerged in it for a week. The leg is then taken out and left to mature for a further seven days. ‘We believe the defining characteristic of a traditional Wiltshire ham is the natural “mouth feel” of the meat,’ he explains, ‘which should exhibit a tender bite, with none of the “rubberiness” that is often seen in lower-quality products. It’s then steamed for 12 hours. Once it has cooled, we will then either send it to our customers as a naked ham or hand glaze

Tom’s top butchers

DukesHill, Shropshire

(www.dukeshillham.co.uk)

Sandridge Farmhouse Bacon, Wiltshire (01380 850304; www. sandridgefarmhousebacon.co.uk)

Daylesford, Gloucestershire (01608 731670; www.daylesford.com)

Lishman’s of Ilkley, West Yorkshire (01943 609436; www.lishmansbutchers.co.uk)

Emmett’s, Suffolk (01728 660250; www.emmettsham.co.uk)

H. G. Walter, London W14 (020–7385 6466; www.hgwalter.com)

The author defies anyone to walk past a DukesHill ham without cutting off a tasty slice

it with one of our homemade glazes, typically honey and mustard or spiced orange.’

You can taste that obsession with quality. The ham is sweet and subtle, gently salty, with an excellent texture. Mr Gallagher likes his with Brussels and squeak, plus a poached egg, on Boxing Day. But it is one of those hams you’ll find very hard to pass without cutting off a slice. ‘We like to consider our hams in particular to be a work of art,’ he asserts.

DukesHill’s bacon is also dry cured. ‘We use traditional curing methods, salting the bacon flitches by hand, combined with our brown sugar, and don’t add any water. Once ready, we allow it to mature naturally over several days in our drying rooms before slicing it. As a result, there’s no water waiting to come out as “white goo” when you cook it, and no annoying shrinkage.’ The smoke is mild, but pronounced, with a proper piggy taste. Bacon as it should taste.

As for their chipolatas… good-quality pork, beautifully seasoned with depth, sweetness and the most wonderfully lingering length.

Top: Liz Morgan, head of food, wine and spirits at Fortnum & Mason, in the tempting store.

Above: We all like a figgy pudding: Katie, Richy, Jo and Jack Evans of Figgy’s in Devon

Christmas pudding

WEmake them all ourselves,’ explains Figgy’s Jo Evans from her home in Devon, ‘to our old family recipe, using Somerset cider brandy and local stout. They’re matured for three to four months, which is not quite as long as they used to do it. But we think it’s the perfect time.’ They use vegetable suet, rather than beef, but Mrs Evans doesn’t believe it detracts from the final eating. ‘People love tradition and there’s so much food history in a Christmas pudding. We’re always told they remind our customers of their grandmother’s pudding, a taste of the past. We don’t believe in reinventing something that is so perfect already.’ As you’ll see from the accolades from punters and food writers alike, this is a serious pudding, rich, stuffed full with fruit and spice and good old-fashioned succour.

Fortnum & Mason has four different puddings. ‘The

Tom’s top pudding suppliers

Put a strain on your own buttons with large buttons of Brussels sprouts, perfectly roasted good for sprouts. We have a breadth of varieties, too. And, as they go straight from field to store, they’re very fresh indeed.’

Figgy’s, Devon (01395 232576; www.figgys.co.uk)

Fortnum & Mason, London (020–7734 8040; www.fortnumandmason.com)

Nana Lily’s, Worcestershire (01905 745437; www.nanalilys.com)

King George is our most classic,’ notes Liz Morgan, head of food, wine and spirits. ‘It’s made with beef suet, plus punchy Christmas vine-fruit flavours and lashings of Fortnum’s cognac and Pusser’s Navy rum.’ There’s also the St James, exactly the same, save being suitable for vegetarians. The Magnificent is the ‘show stopper’, made with damson gin, Marcona almonds and a plum-jam glaze, together with whole orange slices on the outside and a sweet plum-jam centre. Finally, there is a Figgy Pudding that includes a good whack of Fortnum’s fig liqueur.

Sprouts and spuds

THISyear, the Brussels sprouts got off to a fairly ropey start,’ admits Jake Pickering, senior manager for agriculture at Waitrose. ‘They were planted in July and August, when it was very dry. But wetter, milder conditions mean they’ve now caught up. We source from farms in Fife in Scotland, all the way down to Lincolnshire, so we have a good spread of growing season. The problem is Mother Nature isn’t too bothered which day Christmas falls on! Still, it’s looking

Jez Taylor, head of the market garden at Daylesford, agrees. ‘Sprouts can have their issues,’ he acknowledges, speaking from the middle of one of his sprout fields. ‘We plant at the end of June and they have a long growing season, but they’ve grown massive this year, with really large buttons. That’s the hard bit, getting a good set of buttons.’ He feels that sprouts get a bad rap. ‘We should change the way we cook them—they’re the epitome of brassica flavour depth, it’s simply that people don’t cook them well. I like roasting them with thyme, olive oil and garlic, so they’re crisp on the outside and gooey in the middle—amazing,’ he says with a grin.

When it comes to potatoes, I tend to favour the floury varieties, such as King Edward and Maris Piper, but Mr Taylor disagrees: ‘Everyone says you need a floury one,’ he contends. ‘The thing about them is the cells are bigger and there’s less dry matter and that equates to less flavour. I use a main-crop Alouette, for me an improvement on Desiree. More waxy than fluffy, yet, if you parboil them until they nearly fall apart, they make a great roast potato.’

Nonetheless, whatever you use, both Mr Pickering and Mr Taylor agree that there will be plenty of potatoes for Christmas, so we can all sigh a breath of relief.

Tom’s top veggie suppliers

Waitrose (www.waitrose.com)

Daylesford (01608 731670; www.daylesford.com)

Pigs for Christmas –and for life

Once, every rural family had a pig at the bottom of the garden in preparation for the festive feast. Julie Harding meets today’s keepers, but not all of them can bring themselves to eat their own animal

Photographs by Millie Pilkington

WHY Mistress Fripp,’ said the Vicar. ‘I didn’t know you had such a fine pig. You’ll have some rare flitches at Christmas ! ’ Mr Gilfil the churchman can’t resist imagining this magnificent porker carved up and gracing plates over the festive season. Novelist George Eliot’s fictional clergyman appears in her Scenes of Clerical Life (1857) and, in mid-19th-century England, few cottagers’ pigs could expect an active existence beyond December. Mr Gilfil, however, is in for a surprise. Having chanced upon Mistress Fripp sitting in a dry ditch with her pig’s head in her lap, she retorts: ‘Eh, God forbid! My son get him me two ’ear ago, an’ he’s been company to me over sin’. I couldn’t find i’ in my heart to part wi’m, if I never knowed the taste o’ bacon-fat again.’

Long-bodied, stocky-legged, omnivorous, bristled Sus domesticus has found favour with small-scale farming folk for centuries, as grunty, convivial companions who would essentially be dispatched for their ‘pork, bacon, brawn, with the different sorts of offal

belonging to them,’ as John Worlidge observed in his Systema Agriculturae (1669).

First domesticated in about 7000BC, ‘swine’ merit mention in the Domesday Book in connection with the woodland they made their home. ‘They moved from the forest to the back garden probably before the agricultural revolution,’ observes Prof Mark Overton, author of Agricultural Revolution in England: The Transformation of the Agrarian Economy 1500–1850. ‘In the 16th and 17th centuries, almost all farmers had pigs; they were pretty ubiquitous in the countryside. Pigs were important to labouring people, too. You don’t need land to keep a pig.’

When cottagers’ pigs were ‘fed on waste vegetables, wheat and barley that had missed the harvesting process and acorns collected from the woods by cottagers who were only just able to eke out a living,’ as John Martin, professor of agrarian history at the University of Leicester describes, they would no doubt be fat enough to kill by Christmas.

‘When the pig was fattened—and the fatter the better—the date of execution had

to be decided upon,’ writes Flora Thompson in her semi-autographical Lark Rise to Candleford, set in late-19th-century rural Oxfordshire, Buckinghamshire and Northamptonshire. ‘It had to take place some time during the first two quarters of the moon; for, if the pig was killed when the moon was waning, the bacon would shrink in cooking, and they wanted it to “plimp up”. The next thing was to engage the travelling pork butcher, or pig-sticker, and, as he was a thatcher by day, he always had to kill after dark.’

Times have certainly changed. Corinna Bull, a fairly typical 2020s smallholder, pays no heed to the moon’s cycle, instead booking her Saddleback/Gloucestershire Old Spot crosses into her local abattoir when she knows they will be plump. Juno, Omaha, Gold and Utah (named after Normandy beaches because the weaners arrived on VE Day)

Ali

Thom; Melanie Harding

Preceding pages: Sarah Girling with Babe. Above: Ali Thom’s potbelly/cross pig Wilma

were purchased this April and dispatched in October. ‘We ideally send them off before the clocks go back and the worst of the autumn weather sets in. I don’t imagine many people who only do weaners want to look after them during the shorter days, particularly as many small-scale hobbyists such as me also have day jobs and feeding pigs in the dark twice a day is hard work.

‘Dispatching in September/October means, too, that there is plenty of time for the gammon and bacon to be cured and distributed to friends and family ahead of Christmas,’ explains Mrs Bull, who loves to serve up bacon sandwiches on Christmas morning and gammon on Boxing Day.

Although many smallholders’ pigs spend longer in a freezer than they do in a paddock, others are more like Mistress Fripp’s boar, fêted

Could I carve a joint from a pig that’s been running around my paddock? I’m not sure

and destined to celebrate their first birthday and many more besides. My own pig, Lucinda, a strapping and very vocal Tamworth who my husband, Andrew Fuller, and I saved from slaughter, lived happily to the grand age of six before a tumour scuppered her chances of a longer life. She celebrated five festive seasons in our orchard, tucking into her pig nuts with noisy, lip-smacking aplomb on the big day just as she did on the other 364 days of the year.

Over the festive season, Ayesha Finn sources sprout stalks that she proceeds to hide around Churchill and Tilly’s enclosure, where she also hangs boredom-busting horse toys filled with sprouts. Mrs Finn keeps her two Kunekune/potbelly crosses at Shute Farm Studios, a complex of six professional artist studios in Downhead, Somerset, where they’ve built up quite a fan base among visitors, as well as providing inspiration (and distraction) for resident painters Daisy Parris and Sabrina Rowan Hamilton.

‘I’m a dairy farmer’s daughter and I’d grown up with a pony, dogs and chickens, but I’d always wanted a pig,’ explains Mrs Finn. ‘After bringing my two home, my dad didn’t speak to me for a week, but he tolerates them now.’ Tilly is laconic, but the castrated Churchill is not only loquacious, but also

Thelma and Babe have a home for life with vet Dr Girling on a smallholding in Somerset, together with fellow sows Louise and Darcy

unwelcoming to anyone he considers beyond his close circle of humans. ‘My husband, Jamie, isn’t even allowed in his pen,’ smiles Mrs Finn, who admits to being astounded by her pigs’ intelligence. ‘I’ve even stopped eating pork products based on my experience of how like humans pigs are.’

Pigs are joyful. They look at you with human eyes

Nine-year-old Wilma, a potbelly/cross, and Tammy Swinette, a Large White, are also an attraction for Ali Thom’s guests at her Arnbeg Farmstay near Stirling in Scotland, as are her 80 pet sheep, plus goats and Highland cows. ‘I’m like Old MacDonald,’ says Ms Thom. ‘I saved Tammy from slaughter. She had never seen the sky before she came here. I often take her for a walk. I shout her name and she comes.’ She adds: ‘Pigs are joyful. They look at you with human eyes. On Christmas Day, I give the pigs fruit that I buy from the market, as well as iceberg lettuces. I dress Tammy in a Santa outfit, too, and I put a blanket over her—and that’s the only pigs in blankets I’ll have. I’m not a meat eater anyway!’

Back in Somerset, a stone’s throw from Yeovil, vet Sarah Girling’s pigs Thelma and Louise are happily grazing their tree-lined paddock, scrunching through the russet-coloured carpet of oak leaves on their two-toed hooves

as they seek out piggy ‘caviar’—acorns. Her two other sows, Babe and Darcy, are elsewhere on the holding this morning, and the quartet emphatically has a home for life.

‘I got pigs when I was going through a divorce. I would sit with them in their pristine pen. It was so relaxing,’ recalls Dr Girling, who describes Louise, a Tamworth, as the ‘boss pig’ and Thelma as ‘the kind, nice one’. The latter, an Oxford Sandy and Black/Tamworth cross, had piglets in June and, although Dr Girling would usually sell these at six weeks old for breeding, for fattening or as pets, the bottom has fallen out

Pigs in clover

of the market due to skyrocketing feed prices. ‘I’ve ended up with three and I’ve had to harden my heart and arrange the day of their deaths before Christmas. They’re tame, but not named. Could I carve a joint from a pig that has been running around my paddock? I’m not sure, but I will be buying my butcher’s local outdoor-reared pork sausages for my own Christmas lunch.’

All in all, then, very little changes. Time marches on, but the likes of Mistress Fripp and Mr Gilfil, polar opposites in their attitudes to pigs, still exist in 21st-century Britain and long will they remain.

Pig-keeping wasn’t enmeshed in red tape in George Eliot’s time. Today, anyone buying in weaners or adults needs to be aware of the rules, as Ryan Perry, a breed representative for the British Pig Association (www. britishpigs.org.uk) and a trustee of the Rare Breeds Survival Trust (www. rbst.org.uk), explains with his 10 tips

1 Every would-be pig owner must apply for a county parish holding number through the Rural Payments Agency and a herd mark via the Animal and Plant Health Agency

2 Don’t feed pigs scraps from the kitchen—it’s illegal

3 Organic stocking rates are 1/60th of a hectare per weaner

4 Pigs love being able to forage outside, but they also need shelter

5 They are particularly susceptible to heat and need ample areas of shade, as well as water in which to wallow during the summer

6 With no thick coat to keep them warm in the winter, they need plenty of clean straw or shavings provided for bedding

7 Most pig-keepers buy in compound feed. For feeding guidelines, visit www.ahdb.org.uk

8 Pigs are adept at knocking over their water, so containers need to be robust and secured

9 Electric fencing is an effective and inexpensive way to contain pigs, preferably two low-level strands

10 Fatten weaners first to gain experience and, before you buy, spend time learning the ropes from a local breeder

Writer Julie Harding’s sons, William (left) and Oliver Fuller, are pictured with Tamworth pig Lucinda

Pig in a blanket: Ali Thom’s Tammy Swinette, a Large White (above and below right )

Of spice and men

MORE than any other Christian festival, Christmas is a celebration of scents. From steaming puddings to the fragrant oils of Christingle oranges and the frankincense and myrrh brought to Jesus in the manger, so many of the touchstones of the season are olfactory ones.

In Latin America, Christmas means buñuelos frying—sweet fritters laced with aniseed and then drenched in syrup. In Australia, it’s the waft of caramelising sugar from a pavlova crisping in the oven or wood smoke from the barbecue on which the turkey will be cooked. Here in Britain, we associate December with a quartet of sweet, warm spices: cinnamon, cloves, allspice and ginger.

They feel so foundational, so hey-nonnynonny, that it’s hard to imagine a time before these spices were a cornerstone of Christmas. But of course, what Elizabeth David called ‘the English fondness for spiced fruit mixtures’ had a beginning. One account has it all starting with the Crusades. In 1095, so the story goes, Normans who had travelled to the Holy Land to fight the Turks encountered for the first time spices such as cinnamon and nutmeg. These were originally brought into the area by the Greeks and Romans through India and the Arab trade from the east Indonesian archipelago later known as the Spice Islands. The Crusaders, already Biblically aware of aromatics, discovered that not only did spices make their food taste far better, they also helped to preserve it.

In reality, their journey to these shores was more piecemeal than simply being slipped into Crusaders’ saddlebags. The Portuguese and the Dutch dominated the early formal

Christmas is the season of sugar, spice and all things nice, but how did cinnamon, cloves and other aromatics become so entwined in the celebrations? Emma Hughes traces their story

They feel so hey-nonny-nonny that it’s hard to imagine a time before spices were the cornerstone of Christmas

The aromas and flavours of spices (facing page) are synonymous with Christmas, from gingerbread biscuits (above) to roast turkey with all the trimmings (following pages)

spice trade in Europe, focusing on the Spice Islands—Britain’s major involvement was limited to capturing Portuguese ships. Later, British botanists propagated seeds in botanical gardens such as Calcutta’s (established in 1787) for commercial and horticultural purposes.

mince pie,’ writes Mark Diacono. In ground form, they’re essential to mincemeat and Christmas pudding, and Boxing Day hams are traditionally (and deliciously) studded with them. A little goes a long way, as cloves have the highest levels of the peppery, aromatic essential oil eugenol of any spice. Among the festive seasonings, they also feel the closest to Nature, perhaps because we’re most used to seeing them in their un-ground form. The dried buds of the Syzygium aromaticum, a tree native to Indonesia, they’re picked only twice a year.

Spice up your life

• Hill & Vale Ceylon Cinnamon Quills

Imported from Hill & Vale’s partner farming co-operative in Kandy, Sri Lanka. These shards of cinnamon bark add a wonderful warmth to hot chocolate. £3.65 (www.hillvale.co.uk)

The appetite for spice-producing plants was huge: London’s docks were kitted out with grinding facilities and what we now think of as Christmas spices all arrived on these shores with trophy status. This meant that when it came to holiday feasting they were used in all the richest households’ kitchens in the way that caviar or lobster might be today—to signify success and opulence. They became festive, arguably, because festivities were an opportunity for conspicuous displays of wealth.

‘A handful of ground cloves can deliver a lifetime of Christmases in a single mouthful of

Christmas in a cup: Mulled cider

Although you can adjust and experiment with the flavours, you cannot dilute on quality: use good cider and fresh spices. Ordinarily, I’d go with a maximum of three flavours—such as cinnamon, clove and star anise—but here is the exception that proves the rule. As numerous as the spices may be, none are lost to the whole. Sweeten on serving and a little under what you think, as the spices will give a sweetening impression themselves.

Ingredients

Makes about 1.2 litres (2½ pints)

1½ litres (3 pints) dry cider

2 cloves

3 whole star anise

6 allspice berries

6 Ethiopian passion berries

6 cinnamon berries

6 verbena berries

6 green cardamom pods

1–2tbspn honey

Another key Christmas-pudding component is allspice, which can be found in what Elizabeth David termed ‘lavish quantities’ in the best ones. Blossomy, lofty Pimenta dioica trees—relatives of the myrtle—are native to the Caribbean and Central America and also grow in Jamaica, where their berries are picked when green, then spread out to dry in the sun, becoming a poinsettia red. It was named ‘allspice’ in the 17th century by the British, who found it reminiscent of cloves, mace, cinnamon, bay and pepper; before that, it was known as bayberry. Like cloves, allspice berries are rich in eugenol and have an affinity with both sweet and savoury flavours: the Mayans used them to season chocolate.

• Bo Tree Pemba Cloves These jumbo cloves—which have a higher proportion of essential oils than other varieties, meaning a more powerful flavour—are sourced from Zanzibar. £5.49 (www.botreefarm.co.uk)

• Greenfields Whole Pimento Allspice

Greenfields has been stocking professional kitchens with spices since 1982. Its allspice comes whole, so there’s no loss of taste. £2.50 (www.souschef.co.uk)

• Honey & Co’s Sweet Spice Mix This blend of cinnamon, cardamom, fennel, cloves and ginger is perfect for Christmas cakes. £4.50 (www.honeyandco.co.uk)

• Algerian Coffee Stores Roasted and Ground Figs This Soho institution, which has been in the provisions trade since 1887, ships ground and whole spices nationwide. Figs aren’t technically a spice, but their rich fruity flavour cries out for inclusion in a Christmas pudding. £8 (www.algeriancoffeestores.com)

Add the cider to a pan, together with all the ingredients, apart from the honey. Bring up the heat slowly and simmer for five minutes or so. Turn off the heat and allow to infuse for five minutes with the lid on. Taste and stir in a little honey if you think it needs it. Serve immediately.

‘Spice: A Cook’s Companion’ by Mark Diacono is out now (Quadrille, £25)

Even before you get to the part they play in Christmas myth-making, stories around spices abound. ‘They have a history of time and space—they migrate and travel across the world, finding their way into different cultures and telling stories on their journeys,’ notes Dr Anna Sulan Masing, a writer and academic whose podcast A Taste of Place traces trade routes and explores colonialism. The stories told about spices have often had bloody consequences, as cinnamon’s history proves: early traders, as Mr Diacono writes in Spice: A Cook’s Companion, tried to throw competitors off the (literal) scent by claiming the bark they were selling was actually ‘harvested from an unknown land by giant birds who built their clifftop nests with its fragrant sticks, in turn collected by those brave enough to distract the fearsome creatures with slaughtered oxen’. When the Portuguese encountered cinnamon trees in Sri Lanka and realised they’d been had, they promptly colonised the island to stop the Dutch continuing to get away with it.

A highlight of a trip to a German Christmas market (either on the Continent or here

A handful of ground cloves can deliver a lifetime of Christmases in a single mouthful of mince pie

in the UK) is Lebkuchen: soft,dense, sugarglazed and ginger-scented biscuits. Like so many of our Christmas traditions that have links to Germany (thank you, Prince Albert), a warm waft of ginger has become knitted into the British understanding of the festive season. ‘Ginger is one of those sweet spices which tends to spark a cry of “Oh! Smells like Christmas!”,’ writes the food historian Annie Gray in At Christmas We Feast. The first gingerbread recipes appeared in the 15th century and were primarily medicinal. Texturally, they were quite unlike the modernday gingerbread you find in tins, involving mixing the spices with breadcrumbs or grated root vegetables. The resulting (rather claggy) cakes were held to be ‘good for the stomach, excellent for chills, cured trapped wind and —always a bonus—were almost certainly an aphrodisiac,’ Mrs Gray observes. That’s all the festive boxes ticked.

Bearing gifts, we traverse afar

God may have named frankincense a fragrant spice in the Bible (Exodus 30: 34), but, specifically, it and myrrh are resins (from the Boswellia and Commiphora trees respectively). Both were incredibly valuable in ancient times and not only for their heady scents: frankincense was burned as an offering or prayer and myrrh was used in anointing, purification and embalming rituals. They were tricky to extract—Herodotus maintained that ‘small winged snakes of varied colour’ guarded the frankincense trees—and even harder to transport by caravan from the Arabian peninsula to the cities of Egypt, Greece and Rome. This made myrrh (traditionally given to baby Jesus by Balthazar) and frankincense (given by Caspar) as fit for royalty as Melchior’s gold. However, some interpretations of the Scriptures see the three gifts as symbolic of the three natures of Christ— a king (gold), a god (frankincense) and a man destined to die (myrrh). Today, frankincense and myrrh are still used for incense-making and perfumery, as well as traditional remedies, but myrrh in particular also contains compounds that may help fight certain cancers. CP

A pinch of magic

Although it isn’t generally considered to be one of the canonical Christmas spices, a special mention must be given to nutmeg, saviour of bread sauces: what elevates them beyond the realm of wallpaper paste is a judicious grating of a kernel over the top. Nutmegs tend to languish at the back of our spice drawers for years, if not decades, but they were once considered as precious as truffles are now. The kernel of the Myristica fragrans tree’s fruit (its covering is better known as mace), nutmeg was brought to England from the Banda Islands in the Dutch East Indies, after a bloody conflict that saw thousands of Bandanese islanders being massacred. In spite of its associations with the Plague, which it was believed to ward off, nutmeg became extremely fashionable among

English foodies. In the 17th century, as Elizabeth David revealed in Spices, Salt and Aromatics in the English Kitchen, true gourmands carried little silver pocket graters, so that ‘no fastidious traveller need ever have been without a nutmeg to grate upon his food, his punch, his mulled wine, his hot ale or comforting posset’.

Ginger is one of those sweet spices which tends to spark a cry of “Oh! Smells like Christmas!”

Scented frankincense and myrrh are afforded a status on a par with gold as fitting gifts for baby Jesus, as shown in the Adoration of the Magi, from a Book of Hours, about 1460

Carve! The herald angels sing

Having become entranced by Westminster Hall’s 14th-century angels when repairing its hammerbeam roof, woodcarver William Barsley started to carve his own, as Ben Lerwill discovers

Photographs by Millie Pilkington

THE ceiling angels of Westminster Hall have seen more than most. Watching over the seat of parliamentary power for more than six centuries, the 26 winged, wood-carved figures have looked down on everything from the trial of Guy Fawkes and the impeachment of Charles I to the lyings-in-state of Winston Churchill and, most recently, Elizabeth II. They are long-term observers of history, passive, but permanent, their hair tousled and their oaken mouths curved into beatific halfsmiles. A penny for their current thoughts.

Their vantage point, however—40ft up among the trusses of the hall’s hammerbeam roof—means that only a select number of people have ever admired them up close. Woodcarver William Barsley is one of the few. In 2018, he was part of a small team of expert craftspeople brought in to restore the 8ftlong angels (which, despite retaining their celestial bearing, were showing their age) to their 14th-century glory.

Working only at night, so as not to disrupt the daily routines of the hall, he spent 15 months in situ, perched on scaffolding, nose to nose with the medieval angels. His shifts were spent repairing the age-old carvings—studying, learning, smoothing flaws, filling holes and renewing the work of tradesmen long dead. The experience brought him close to the angels in more ways than one. ‘I became a little bit obsessed with them,’ he admits to me. I’ve come to his workshop in Dartington, Devon, where dozens of chisels hang on the chipboard walls and the warm scent of fresh-cut wood fills the space. ‘It was incredible seeing all the intricate, close-up details on the carvings—the fingernails, the little decorative elements, the original chisel marks, the stuff you simply can’t see from the ground—and I found it really inspiring. These are works of art from almost 630 years ago. It got to the point where I wanted to make one, so I started going into work early to make sketches and take dimensions.’

All 26 angels are broadly similar in design, clutching the royal arms of Richard II, yet

It was incredible seeing all the close-up details on the carvings. These are works of art from almost 630 years ago

Left: A scaled-down Westminster Hall angel. Preceding pages: William Barsley at work William Barsley

third on the left, so on the east side. There’s something about it. It has a knowing smile on its face, which I quite like, as if it’s pondering what it’s seen over the centuries.’

The figure went on to be the model for his first hand-carved angel, a work that still stands here in his workshop, surrounded by mallets and order books, exuding all the power and personality of the original. Many more such carvings have followed. Now, in conjunction with the Houses of Parliament Shop, he handcrafts scaled-down versions of the same figure, using the materials and techniques of his forebears. These are emphatically no rush jobs—he allows at least a week for even the smallest sculptures.

‘The angels in the hall are all made from oak,’ he explains. ‘It’s a tough wood, so it’s not the easiest to carve with, but it’s what I use for mine, too. I’ve gone through all the records of the original work—where the timber came from, the names of the carvers, even how much they were paid. It’s amazing to see.’

Similarly intriguing is the tale of how he came to be a woodcarver in the first place. He’s dressed today in a plain blue T-shirt and jeans, although his work attire was once far more formal. As his black Phoebe, looks on from her workshop bed, he makes me a cup of tea (he’s an oatmilk man) and takes me back to the start of his career.

‘I studied international development at university and got a job working for the UN in Rome,’ he recalls, as if landing a graduate role with an intergovernmental

Roald Dahl’s Roly-Poly Bird organisation was the most normal thing in the world. ‘It was great and it helped me to look at things through a different lens, but I wasn’t quite getting that tangible skill I was looking for. I got a bit disheartened. There were 3,000 people in the office, so I felt like a small cog.

‘I’d been carving for a while as a hobby,’ he continues, ‘so, a year or so later, in 2013, I left to start a project called Carving Countries, documenting woodcarving in different parts of the world.’ Again, not the most ordinary of career moves.

It was, however, the start of something big. After learning about the techniques and livelihoods of carvers in places such as Bali, Malaysia and India—a year-long trip largely undertaken by bike—he resolved to learn the craft properly. On returning to the UK, he enrolled at the City & Guilds of London Art School, where he embarked on a three-year diploma in Historic Woodcarving and Gilding.

‘That turned it from a hobby into a career— it was five days a week, 8am to 8pm. Not only carving, but drawing and clay-modelling, too. Anyone can learn to carve, really, but it’s all about what you do with the chisel. You’re drawing with it, in effect. I realised that I had to understand shape and form.’ That commissioned to work in Westminster Hall the year he completed the diploma says plenty.

The angels—which Mr Barsley hand carves in three sizes, with painstaking intricacy—are only one of his talents. Having grown up in Kent, he has a particular fondness for carving hop wreaths. Two hang above his workbench computer, their wooden leaves and chiselled

Where the angels fly

Westminster Hall is a survivor. Originally constructed by William II in 1099, thereby making it the oldest part of the Palace of Westminster, it survived both the blazing fire of 1834 and the carnage of the Second World War. Arguably, its most iconic feature is the hammerbeam roof commissioned by Richard II in 1393. It took five years to build, becoming the largest unsupported medieval roof in Europe. Integral to its design were 26 oak angels, one apiece at either end of 13 vast wooden arches. The lack of columns in the hall means the angels—carved by a small team of master craftsmen, most notably one Robert Brusyngdon—give the impression of carrying the weight of the whole roof on their shoulders. Each one holds the royal shield of Richard II, complete with lions and fleurs-de-lys. ‘The angels are there,’ as Mr Barsley points out, ‘to represent the divinity of the crown.’ Although they look more or less identical at first sight, there are variations in hand positions, drapery, hair and faces, many of which can be spotted from ground level.

cones so real they can almost be tasted. To see them up close is to register the time and care that goes into shaping them. ‘I like to find a flow when I’m working,’ he divulges, before sharing a valuable pro tip. ‘Listening to cricket is one of the best things for focus. I’ll have Test Match Special on all day.’ Other recent projects have included heraldry, as well as more unusual requests. ‘I was commissioned to carve lettering onto a wooden loo seat recently, for a wedding gift,’ he says, amused. ‘It was a family in-joke.’ He’s also sculpted a coat of arms for Roald Dahl’s grandson Ned Donovan, topped by a delicately painted, precisely carved Roly-Poly Bird. As well as all this, he opens up his workshop to run one- and two-day woodcarving courses. It’s fair to say he keeps busy.

Mr Barsley picks up a finished angel to allow me a closer look. Its wings are expertly patterned; its cheeks are plump; every fold of its cloak bears the subtle shapings of his tools. Some three years have passed since the Westminster Hall restoration—‘it was during Brexit, so there were all these protests going on, but it was a very safe environment inside,’ he remembers, ‘you’d go to the canteen after your shift and see Boris having his eggs’—yet the medieval carvings still have a hold on him.

‘I’m so passionate about the hall. But we’ve got other plans, too,’ he says, eyes twinkling. ‘Parliament’s full of incredible old grotesques and gargoyles, so it would be great to explore carving them in the future. Who knows?’

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The master of disguise

Adept at cleverly camouflaging itself, the ptarmigan fools predators by turning snow white in order to survive in a harsh, arctic habitat. Simon Lester tracks this elusive species through the seasons

LIKE the Scarlet Pimpernel of legend, the ptarmigan is a master of disguise, being the only British bird that changes its plumage three times a year. We may seek them here and seek them there, but the only place it’s possible to see these high-altitude grouse in the UK is above 2,500ft in the Highlands of Scotland.

The truth is, however, that most of us will never catch a glimpse of one of these remarkable birds, as they frequent some of the most inhospitable places known to man. Indeed, they appear throughout the world where Arctic conditions occur, as it is not altitude, but temperature, that dictates their colour and, ultimately, their survival.

Slightly smaller than the red grouse, the ptarmigan relies on camouflage to disappear into the bleak environments it resides in to avoid predation by golden eagles, the wily hill fox, the sharp-eyed raven, peregrine and carrion crow. If flushed, these tough birds are strong fliers—in fact, as the fastest-flying British grouse, they have mastered many aerial tactics to avoid hunting raptors, aided by their large hearts, long wings and tail.

The ptarmigan’s favoured habitat is a hungry place for all its inhabitants, with very little cover in alpine conditions, as the wind-pruned plants have a short growing season before being blanketed by months of snow, all of which has forced Lagopus muta to adapt quickly in order to survive. It is for this reason that it changes its plumage three times: in late autumn, a drop in temperature triggers the moult from which it emerges in a dazzling white

Ptarmigan? Where? The rare bird’s powers of camouflage, with three changes of raiment a year, help hide it from would-be predators

winter plumage, only interrupted by black markings on the tail and the bright red wattles and striking black eye stripe of the male. Their feathers stretch from their toes to their nostrils for maximum insulation, as staying still and hunkering down in scrapes behind boulders saves energy. In extreme conditions, the birds will actually fly into deep snow, digging down and pushing it to seal the entrance behind them, which creates a safe, insulated roost.

With food supply meagre at this time of year, they live on leaves and twigs of crowberry, blaeberry, willow and cowberry. Proficient at scratching through snow and ice to find food, they sometimes get lucky when snow is blown off ridges to expose vegetation to nibble on. However, if conditions get really bad, they will move down to lower slopes where heather is available. To extract the goodness from this woody material, ptarmigan need the grinding action of grit to act as teeth in their gizzards—a full crop is digested overnight.

In spring, they need to change again, as the snow recedes and the breeding season dawns—the most dangerous and critical time of year. As they pair up, ptarmigan lose the luxury of the earlywarning system of multiple eyes of the covey: pairs are always more vulnerable and, ultimately, the hen sits on her four to 11 eggs for 25 days at the very same time that all the predators’ demand for prey rises.

Spring highlights their rasping, clicking calls—which gave rise to their Gaelic name, tar machan, meaning croaker—the soundtrack to the increased activity of the squabbling, testosterone-fuelled cocks vying for territories and hens. The size of a territory is directly related to the vigour and aggression of an individual male.

As the snow fades, the cocks remain white during this heightened sexual period, before turning a greyish brown, barred with white and buff. Meanwhile, the

In extremis, the birds will fly into deep snow, digging down and sealing the entrance behind them

hen’s feathering adopts a striking goldenyellow background, heavily marked with bars of black and white—a varied pattern that allows her to disappear into the vegetation as she sits on eggs or broods chicks. She will also often nest near a rock or boulder to protect her home from any adverse weather and to further confuse predators.

After the chicks have hatched and dried off, these hardy little tough nuts venture straight

Lord of thunder

• A Scottish physician, Sir Robert Sibbald, is responsible for the often confusing silent ‘p’ in front of the bird’s name, which he added in 1684

• Also known as rock ptarmigan, the species is called snow chicken in the US and thunder bird in Japan

• The official bird of the Canadian territory of Nunavut, the ptarmigan also features heavily in Icelandic cuisine

• According to The Badminton Library of Sports and Pastimes: Shooting— Moor & Marsh, the best bag of ptarmigan dates from 1866, when the Hon Geoffrey Hill shot 122 birds to his own gun at Achnashellach in Wester Ross, Scotland

out into the big, wide world. The hen ushers her brood towards food-rich areas—and their first high-protein insects—but, soon, they’ll be feasting on an all-vegetable diet. As day-old chicks, plucky ptarmigan are capable of climbing rocks and running over boulders. Furthermore, in the face of danger, the tiny birds will roll like balls down a slope and disappear into cracks and crannies, hiding quietly until the hen calls them out when the threat has passed. They grow quickly: by 10 weeks old, they are hard to tell apart from the adults.

moulting periods if the conditions don’t synchronise. Nevertheless, if this happens, they remain astutely ahead of the game and simply move to areas of habitat where their colour of the moment is most cryptic.

Sadly, despite their many wiles, the ptarmigan’s range and numbers are decreasing in the UK, where—despite being a species of ‘least concern’ through the rest of the world—they are red-listed. Although once present throughout the British uplands, they had died out from Cumbria and the higher hills of Wales by the end of the 18th century and from southern Scotland and the islands of Mull and Rhum by 1830, leaving as their only refuge the munros of the Highlands. Because of the hostile and difficult terrain that they frequent, it is very difficult to get a true estimate of their present population. The British Trust for Ornithology believes that there are 8,500 breeding pairs in spring, but the RSPB quotes 2,000–15,000 pairs, which illustrates the discrepancy.

Both sexes take on their final silvery-grey garb as autumn approaches, when the mottled pepper-and-salt effect allows them to blend in with the lichen-covered screes and boulders of the high glens, which resemble moonscapes.

The ptarmigan’s unerring ability to stay motionless makes these illusionists even harder to spot by a passing observer or would-be predator. However, they can sometimes be caught out during transitional

Ptarmigan can still be shot, as this is not thought to be a threat to their population. By contrast, it has been noted that skiing enterprises can have a negative effect on some populations, as do collisions with infrastructure and predators being attracted to areas in greater numbers. The biggest threat to these alpine birds, however, is climate change, as they really can’t move any higher to maintain their way of life.

High-flying style: the ptarmigan is the fastest British grouse on the wing, with a large heart and long wings giving them extra ability

In the face of danger, chicks will roll like balls down a slope and disappear into cracks and crannies

A winter’s tale

WINTER 1992. Could it have been that year? I would have been almost 10 years old and my sister seven.

I remember the snow falling stubbornly for days, days, and the white walls of the cottages waxing dirty and dull against the brilliant blankets and drifts.

Our house stood on the hill like a sentry post, looking out over the expanse of countryside. Now, the view washes over other thoughts. The snow covers each field, the dry-stone boundaries marking out one patch of white from the next. The trees have been left naked, their leaves long since extinguished. Their fine bones, spindly, supple, reach up, black against the opal sky. From morning to dark, smoke rises steadily from the chimneys of the farmhouses that stand silent and closed-in among the drifts of snow.

Christmas has passed, yet its vestiges remain. The fir trees are still strung with twinkling, coloured lights and the darkgreen pigment of the holly leaves glistens, the cardinal-red berries long since stolen. Midwinter. As poor and mean and lightless as this season seems, it bristles with magic.

My parents’ faces surge to the surface. They are young and vital—my mother with her dark, luscious hair and near-black eyes that laugh. My father, strong and unsubdued.

Now, in their place, the sound of my own and my sister’s laughter burgeons and swells. We are pulling our red plastic sledges up the hill. We are wearing green rubber wellingtons that are too big. The snow gets inside them and melts against our calves and we scrunch up our toes to get the blood flowing warm again. Our mittens are snow-sodden and our woollen pom-pom hats itch our foreheads.

We sledge down the hill and walk back up the hill, over and over again. Our dogs are barking and chasing us and their tails wag at a rate of knots. I remember their eyes—still pools of black liquid against the silver-dusted snow. We build snowmen and we do not think of anything at all.

My bedroom window, single-paned and fragile. From that window, I watch the drama of winter

unfolding—an ice theatre. The glass is frosted at the corners and I examine the snowflakes, studying their beguiling symmetry. Icicles are precarious weapons, hanging from the roof, the guttering, the sills.

These images clarify now, like a person’s reflection as rippled water stills. Dad gives us the news. The cables between the electricity pylons have become weighed down with ice. Last night, they splintered in two. Like sticks of sugar. Snap. I imagine them breaking. What sound did they make, I wonder? Did they spark or burst into flame? Will there be electricity again?

The power is out and darkness now fills the afternoon, as well as the morning and night. Our coal fire, a stock of candles and a small Primus stove provides mean heat and light. All is silent, in every place and corner. We wait expectantly there, all together. We lack nothing. We try to be warm, waiting for the thaw. The cold spell has set in and the world, it seems, has changed state.

Many people long for silence, but few have really heard it. Silence makes the sounds inside each day disappear—the static of the television or crackle of the radio, the chink of glass milk bottles being left next to the front door, the soft slap of letters landing on the doormat. The more distant sounds are swallowed up, too. The car engine growling up the steep road, the train hurtling through the distant valley.

I had never heard silence before and, now, I remember all of its qualities. Silence goes on, like a glass bell being rung again and again. It is loud and it fills every space like fragrance, inside and outside.

After three days—or was it four?—Mum said: ‘Enough!’ We were sent to our grandparents’ house. Dad’s friend gave us a lift in the 4x4. We were jolted from side to side until we joined the clear main road; a length of liquorice-black tar, shining and undulating into the horizon. We ate buttery toast and blackcurrant jam and drank tea and stayed warm. Our parents stuck it out and I can’t even remember the thaw. How warm and real they seem now, the ice days, in the house of my childhood.

As the surrounding countryside of her childhood home became buried in soft, powdery snow and transformed into a tranquil winter wonderland, not even a power cut could dampen the spirit of Christmas, recalls Alexandra Wood

Mary Evans Picture Library

From my bedroom window, I watch the drama unfolding–an ice theatre

The Editor’s Christmas quiz

Challenge yourself with our traditional test of knowledge, drawn from all things COUNTRY LIFE

Compiled by Kate Green. Answers on page 268

The year that was

1) Which bell rang for the Queen at her Platinum Jubilee for the first time since it fell silent in the 1970s?

2) How many stripes does the Ukrainian flag have?

3) What farmyard foodstuff can no longer be labelled ‘free range’?

4) Which country topped the Commonwealth Games medal table?

5) Which country finished second in the Eurovision Song Contest?

6) In which sport did Britain win its sole gold at the Winter Olympics?

7) In which county was the top

We are the champions

1) In which sport is Britain’s Yasmin Ingham world champion?

2) Where did this year’s gymnastics world championships take place?

3) Which amateur jockey rode Noble Yeats to win the Grand National and promptly announced his retirement?

4) What major title did Denmark’s Jonas Vingegaard win this year?

5) Who is captain of the victorious England Women’s football team?

temperature of 40.3˚C recorded on July 19, making it Britain’s hottest-ever day?

8) What nationality is the 2022 Booker Prize winner?

9) Rishi Sunak is MP of which constituency?

10) What did Pipe Major Paul Burns play as the Queen’s coffin left Westminster Abbey on September 19?

My family and other animals

1) What was the name and breed of Princess Elizabeth’s first dog?

2) What kind of animal was Beauchamp Oxford Lady, given to the Queen in 1957?

3) The Queen had a Derby runner-up just before her

Cathedral spires

Which cathedrals are associated with the following?

1) St Cuthbert’s bones

2) The first Nine Lessons and Carols service

coronation. What was the name of the horse?

4) In 1972, a present to the Queen was fed bananas, avocado and sugar on a flight from the Cameroon. What was it?

5) What breed is Carltonlima Emma, Her Majesty’s favourite mount, who joined mourners on the Long Walk?

3) Graham Sutherland’s Christ in Glory in the Tetramorph tapestry

4) The fan-vaulted Hogwarts corridors

5) A tribute to Wilfred Owen

Alamy; Getty; Adam Gant

Christmas traditions Name the activity from the clues

Ice Skating

What the Dickens? Name the book from the plot

1) Ghosts make miserly old man feel guilty about his employee

2) Also known as The Parish Boy’s Progress, a workhouse boy escapes from a life of crime

3) Satirisation of a legal company, which led to real-life social reform

4) A rare departure from London to a gritty, northern mill town where children are taught facts and figures

5) Subtitled A Tale of the Riots of Eighty, a country bumpkin and his raven get caught up with an unruly mob

Carols by heart

From which carols are these lines taken?

1) ‘Still through the cloven skies they come’

2) ‘If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb’

3) ‘This star drew nigh to the north-west’

4) ‘O morning stars together, proclaim thy holy birth’

5) ‘Thus spake the seraph and forthwith’

Eat, drink and be merry

1) Stilton cheese is made in Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire and Leicestershire, but in which county is the village of Stilton?

2) When is Stir-Up Sunday?

3) What alcohol goes into a snowball?

4) What fruit makes up a wassail cup?

5) a Bourbon Red turkey?

Country lore

1) In which AONB is ‘Constable Country’?

2) Zorro is the Spanish word for what animal?

3) Which bird’s search for a mate is known as ‘roding’?

4) Where is the world’s largest area of blanket bog?

5) What colour was John Peel’s hunt coat?

6) An ‘exaltation’ is the collective noun for which bird?

7) The ‘leaf miner’ attacks which tree?

8) What colour are the flowers of the bird’s-foottrefoil?

9) Anglesey orange tip and Yashmak are varieties of what flower?

10) Tinca tinca is the Latin name for which freshwater fish?

Watch your flocks

Name these six native sheep breeds

Hotchpotch

1) The aria The Trumpet Shall Sound in Handel’s Messiah originally featured what instrument?

2) What are ELMS?

3) Which 91-year-old artist painted himself after running short of sitters during the pandemic?

4) What degree does the singer Adele plan to study?

5) What nationality is Dalia Stasevska, conductor of September’s Last Night of the Proms?

6) A cete is the collective noun for which mammal?

Dearly departed

Identify these famous people who died in 2022

1) The three-times champion of Thomas Cromwell

2) Self-deprecating star of I’m Sorry I haven’t a Clue

3) Master of leg spin who played for Accrington

4) Nine-time winner of Flat racing’s blue riband

5) Creator of a popular snow sculpture

National pride

7) Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau translates as what anthem?

8) Anthony Trollope, Rupert D’Oyly Carte, Stafford Cripps, Willie Whitelaw and Rishi Sunak have what in common?

9) What is a Derbyshire Redcap?

10) What is bolving?

In which national parks can these places be found?

Plenty of room at the inn

There’s tidings of joy and community spirit during a memorable Christmas Eve at a snowbound pub

Words

THERE’S always a silver lining, reflects Nick, genial bachelor landlord of the Thirsty Shepherd high on the moor above Bleakside-inthe-Wolds. The locals are piling in this winter to huddle around his two open fires; they’ve been glued to rugby, ITV Racing, the World Cup and Strictly Come Dancing on the television; the bridge club, history club,

by Kate Green. Illustrations by John Holder

quiz league and ‘stitch-and-bitch’ ladies’ knitting group have all decamped here. It doesn’t take too many bodies to create a warm fug and the skittlers reckon it’s cheaper to bring their other halves than leave them at home with the heating on full blast. Admittedly, some of these folks can spin out half a lager-shandy for hours and they are not perhaps the most cutting edge

of clientele, but there’s a constant demand for the stew fomented by Nick’s formidable 90-something mother, Gloria—whatever you do, don’t ask what’s in it—that bubbles glutinously away on the stove from dawn to closing time.

Tonight, on Christmas Eve, the bar has drawn in hoodie-wearing, mitten-clad student refugees Steven and Star, who have had

a horrified homecoming to their parents’ new spartan regime, plus their Spanish friend Manuel from Barcelona, who is trying not to complain about his frozen toes. Three brainy young astronomers have given up peering through the murk and are researching local ales instead. The carol singers are in full throttle and the vicar has come in to lubricate his throat with Gloria’s knock-out warm punch before the marathon 24-hour run of services.

Joe, who will be spending Christmas Eve in the lambing shed, has dropped off his wife, Mary, who is heavily pregnant, for a last hurrah before the baby arrives—it’s due sometime between Christmas and New Year. A rather hearty couple renting a holiday cottage has brought their skis. Ivy, postmistress, WI stalwart and church warden, is concentrating furiously on her knitting pattern;

a red jumper with a perky reindeer pattern is a surprise present for Nick, on whom she has a bit of a crush—she’s only got one arm to go.

Outside, a blizzard swirls, but the exquisitely mannered Manuel, dispatched to fetch more logs in the role of ‘yonder peasant’, only thinks ‘Wow! Cool!’, because he has never seen proper snow before, and ‘Who on earth is Good King Wenceslas?’, because that is one weird song. When he returns, no one notices the snowflakes dusting his

long lashes because the vicar is now leading the oblivious throng in a rousing God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen.

Inside, Gloria surreptitiously tops up the punch bowl with a sticky bottle of some obscure liqueur that needs drinking. One of the astronomers is having an animated conversation with Star about light pollution. The vicar realises he must have pulled out his sermon notes with a handkerchief and that they are now on the floor, soggy and unreadable. Nick goes out to change another barrel and vaguely notices that snow has blown in through an open window. Mary feels a strange twinge, but puts it down to Gloria’s turnipheavy casserole and the third mince pie.

Suddenly, the lights go out with a pffffft, prompting the unstoppable carollers to switch to a raucous Silent Night. Star thinks this may not be the moment to reveal that

There’s a constant demand for the stew fomented by Nick’s 90-something mother

she was one of those arrested for chaining herself to a bridge over the M25 in the Just Stop Oil protests. Gloria finds a nightlight for two old codgers who have reached a critical moment in their dominoes match. This prompts an animated reminiscence about wartime blackouts, a request for a kiss under the mistletoe—‘Didn’t anyone tell you not to touch what you can’t afford, you silly sod?’—and a search for a dusty old bottle of Glenmorangie that is far too good for everyday quaffing. Mary, sitting on a bar stool nursing an orange juice, feels an even sharper twinge and, reaching for her phone to text her sister, realises uneasily that the signal has gone.

Nick, meanwhile, en route to the generator, registers that he is knee deep in snow and blinded by stinging flakes. He bumps into the cottage-renters, who have lost all sense of direction and skied straight into a drift, a couple of vapers ‘just chilling’ and old Col Dasher, who was about to offer the vicar a lift down to church on his Mini Moke, but can’t for the life of him remember where he parked it.

Gradually, this disparate group becomes aware of a beam of light advancing unsteadily. The light, they realise, is attached to the bobble-hatted head of a young, be-cloaked woman wearing a nurse’s uniform and gumboots. ‘Is my sister in there?’ she gasps. ‘Mary? The pregnant one? I promised I’d be here in time to help, but my car got stuck.’

Inside the pub, there is a commotion and shouting to ‘clear the lounge bar—there’s a baby coming!’ A white-faced Mary, lit by the beams of a dozen mobile-phone torches, is helped through the bar, her sister Angela, who just happens to be a trainee midwife, gripping her hand and Gloria acting as

vanguard, holding aloft a bottle of brandy. The carollers move onto an unsteady We will rock you and the knitters go into bobble-hat and bootee-creating overdrive.

After a tense and rather more sober halfhour, the lounge-bar door opens: ‘It’s a girl!’ announces Gloria triumphantly. Cue whoops, cheers and much relieved and renewed pint downing: ‘Someone buy that nurse a drink.’ ‘Oh my gosh,’ gasps Angela, ‘we’d only ever done that bit in theory.’

The carollers strike up:

See amid the winter’s snow

Born for us on earth below…

Hours later, when the blizzard has calmed, the stars are again shining brightly in the magical stillness of a bleak midwinter night, and Nick is sporting a too-tight Christmas sweater with a squinting, red-nosed reindeer stretched over his beer belly, the pub and its sleeping customers are awoken by the rumbling of a tractor. It is Joe, come to fetch home his wife and baby daughter, Gabrielle, who sleeps peacefully by candlelight, resplendent in a red bobble hat, swathed in a crocheted babygro and lying on a nest of waxed jackets.

The light, they realise, is attached to the bobble-hatted head of a young, be-cloaked nurse

Put a ring on it

IN 1946, writer Mollie Panter-Downes described a middle-aged couple determined to do things properly. In the aftermath of the Second World War, Stephen and Laura Marshall’s domestic lives have changed beyond recognition. Where once, ‘in the kitchen, caps and aprons shrieked with sudden merriment... the butcher’s young man came whistling to the back door, on his shoulder a clean white enamel tray, on it reposing a leg of lamb’, now ‘silence settled with the dust’ on rooms from which domestic help has vanished. Maids Ethel and Violet have instead learned ‘to assemble the bright and shoddy’ in a nearby factory, the butcher is unable to deliver, the cook long departed and the Marshalls’ gardener—a genius at growing vegetables—killed in action in Holland. In an age before gadgetry, husband and wife, echoing many middle-class couples across post-war Britain—‘wretched victims of their class’—battle to maintain former standards to the best of their ability. Each night, ‘they still had dinner… they faced each other over polished wood, branching candlelight’. And then they washed up, ‘fetched the coal, stoked the boiler, cleaned shoes’.

Whether or not the couple at the heart of Panter-Downes’s One Fine Day continued to use linen napkins is not clear. If they had, with the collapse of their below-stairs support, they would certainly have had recourse to napkin rings. The napkin ring, historians suggest, emerged as a practical response to the laundry challenges faced by middleclass families. In the 19th century, a clean napkin at every meal was commonplace in larger house holds, with the result that even a family of four, small by 19th-century standards, would require several thousand clean napkins each year. In smaller establishments, where laundry on this scale was impossible, napkins were re-used, changed only daily or even weekly. In such cases,

a ring identified each napkin’s user, so they could re-use the one they had dirtied at a previous meal. American writer Kathleen M. Washy has carried out research into the community life of the Sisters of St Joseph of Baden at their motherhouse in Brentwood, New York. Until the 1960s, young women entering the religious community were required to take with them their own napkin ring in order to minimise the sisters’ laundry burden. Convent rules were strict about the right kind of napkin ring, often dictating that they be made of undecorated bone.

The napkin ring’s origins are unclear. In the history of decorative arts, elite commissions are invariably more extensively documented than workaday objects. The humble napkin ring, for much of its history a stranger to elite dining tables, probably appeared in its current form in early-19th-century France. Silver was fashionable and napkin rings were mostly made from the metal at first. From France, the use of silver napkin rings spread across Europe and to North America, where earliest references emerge in the 1860s.

Silver-plated napkin rings were popular in 19thcentury America, where a socially mobile population aped what it regarded as the accoutrements of elegant entertaining. In Britain, napkin rings were frequently made in numbered sets. A Duke of Devonshire is said to have responded to the idea of a family using the same napkin throughout

Napkin rings may have been born out of necessity, but they soon became collector’s items and might now be on the cusp of a revival, says Matthew Dennison

A ring identified each napkin’s user, so they could re-use the one they had dirtied at a previous meal

Napkin rings are created using a wide range of materials

the day by exclaiming: ‘I had no idea such poverty existed.’ But, for many, the silver napkin ring, whatever its labour-saving origins, would come to symbolise something very different.

Their practical purpose accounts for the monograms, numbers and names engraved on many napkin rings, identifying the cloth’s user and re-user. For modern collectors, identifying marks of this sort are among napkin rings’ charms, investing these simple table-top accessories with a human dimension. For many, too, there is an intimate quality to an antique napkin ring. As was the Marshalls’ evening routine in Panter-Downes’s book, napkin rings were a feature of families’ private lives: they were not used for entertaining guests, as they were associated with napkins that were not freshly laundered. Indeed, napkin rings were among the impedimenta of families’ private histories.

Come back into the fold

In her Book of Household Management, Mrs Beeton offered advice on napkins and their use. ‘In ordinary family use,’ she wrote, napkins ‘are often folded smoothly and slipped through napkin rings made of silver, ivory or bone; in fact, after the first use this is usually done, each member of the family having his own marked ring’. This was not, however, appropriate for any sort of formal entertaining and Mrs Beeton gave readers illustrated instructions on how

to create a number of decorative napkin folds, including The Slipper, The Fleur de Lys and The Cockscomb. In some instances, she suggested concealing within the folded napkin ‘a small dinner roll or a piece of bread cut thick’, in others a flower or small bouquet. In every case, crisp ironing and light starching was imperative in order to avoid napkin folds that appeared slovenly or unsightly and Mrs Beeton recommended the use of large, square, white napkins. Some napkin folds can be made today using paper napkins.

When the BBC and the British Museum invited the public to suggest objects for their collaborative ‘A History of the World’ project, one contributor suggested wooden napkin rings bought by her father in Bethlehem during the Second World War as a present for her mother. The simple varnished wooden rings stamped with ‘Bethlehem’, presumably made as tourist souvenirs, were a reminder of a soldier’s love for his wife and a marker of one family’s experience of conflict.

Over time, the rings became a popular christening present, engraved with a baby’s name or initials, their small size a guarantee of affordability. In North America in particular, the association of napkin rings with children led to the emergence of distinct shapes. American silversmiths created figural napkin rings—a ring attached to a sculpted silver model of an animal, child or person. Many are delightful, whimsical pieces, ornamented with squirrels, rabbits and birds, a cello-playing owl, a dog pulling a carriage, rings ornamented with three-dimensional leaves and berries, winsome cherubs. Kate Greenawayinspired figures of children were also popular, as were non-figural models, including a napkin ring in the shape of a book resting on an easel or napkin rings that supported tiny bud vases. Elsewhere,

over time, napkin rings were made in a variety of other materials, including bone, horn, glass, ivory, porcelain, papier-mâché and, in the middle of the 20th century, affordable Bakelite. As were the Bethlehem wooden napkin rings, they were made as tourist souvenirs. Enterprising Victorian makers capitalised on British travellers’ love of Scotland. Silversmiths William Robb of Ballater and Joseph Cook & Son of Birmingham made handsome, distinctive napkin rings for the Scottish market inlaid with local granite and Cairngorm stones, as collectable today as when they were first made. At Liberty, Archibald Knox designed pewter napkin rings, decorated with vividly coloured enamel details in Art Nouveau and Celtic Revival styles. Yet napkin rings have never inspired universal admiration. In The Housewife’s

Facing page: Napkin rings fashioned in intricate designs and animal shapes. Below: The re-usable fabric napkin is seen as an eco-friendly option, leading to the prospect of a napkin-ring resurgence

Library, published in 1883, George A. Peltz made clear his dislike: ‘Unless the washing would thereby become crushingly heavy, the better way is to wash every napkin after one using. Dispense with the napkin ring.’

In today’s households, however, there are persuasive arguments in favour of the napkin ring’s return. In many families, increasingly informal approaches to eating from the 1960s onwards spelled the demise of the linen napkin, with, in some instances, the fabric being replaced by paper napkins. One UK manufacturer currently produces four billion paper napkins a year. Despite the industry’s growing focus on recycled and recyclable material, for many consumers a fabric napkin washed regularly makes better sense ecologically. The humble napkin ring may well be set for a revival.

There is an intimate quality to an antique napkin ring. They were a feature of families’ private lives

Alamy

How to fold the rose napkin

1. Turn the square napkin through 90˚ on the table, so that it resembles a diamond shape

2. Fold one corner at a time into the centre of the diamond to create a smaller square. Then turn this square through 90˚, so that it again resembles a diamond

3. Repeat the process of folding the corner points into the centre of the diamond, again creating a smaller square

4. Repeat this process again, in order to make a fourth smaller square

5. Holding all four corners in place with a finger, carefully turn the folded square upside down. Then repeat the process of folding corners to the middle on this upside-down folded square

6. The finished square will be considerably smaller than the original napkin. Lift the square, holding all the folded points in place in the centre of the fold using your thumb on the top and index or middle finger below

7. One at a time, carefully pull the point from the centre of the bottom of the folded napkin, so that it comes from the back to the front, where it resembles a rabbit’s ear or long, curved petal

8. Do this with all four folded points, until you have a symmetrical four-‘petalled’ flower. It should now be possible to remove your thumb and fingers from the centre points of the fold

9. Turn the folded napkin upside down. Gently pull the next four folded points from the centre to create four more petals

10. Repeat a final time to create four last petals. The result will be a 12-petal flower of bowl-shape formation

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Illustrated by Fred van Deelen

My favourite recipe

Tom Parker Bowles

The golden goose

THE goose,’ mused doctor and scholar Julius Caesar Scaliger, ‘is the most beautiful emblem of prudence.’ He goes on to describe how the birds not only lower their heads when passing under bridges, ‘no matter how high the arches are’, but put a pebble in their beak when crossing a mountain known for its marauding eagles. ‘Because knowing what chatterboxes they are, they ensure they will not emit the sounds which would cause their enemies to discover them.’

Better still, Alexandre Dumas recalls being told of a goose that turned a spit upon which a turkey was roasting. By sticking out and pulling back her neck, the motion mimicked a human arm. ‘All she needed,’ he wrote admiringly, ‘was to be given a drink from time to time.’

Then, of course, there’s the tale of one particularly vigilant goose in ancient Rome, who heard the noise made by the Gauls attempting to secretly storm the Capitoline and awoke all her friends. The resultant din roused that great soldier Manlius and disaster was averted. Not that this noble duty saved them from the pot. The Romans devoured them with much enthusiasm and, like the Egyptians, gorged

Roast stuffed goose with prunes in Armagnac

This recipe comes from Delia Smith’s Christmas. As ever with her recipes, they are utterly foolproof. She is a culinary saint.

Method

Soak the prunes overnight in the cold tea, drain, barely cover with water, add the sugar and simmer for 15 minutes. Drain, sprinkle over the Armagnac, cover and leave in the fridge.

Make the apple stuffing by mixing all the ingredients together.

Make the forcemeat stuffing by mixing all the ingredients together with the reserved goose liver, finely chopped.

Place the forcemeat stuffing into the neck-flap end of the goose,

the birds to enlarge their liver—an early form of foie gras. Back in Britain, every farmyard had a flock of them, strutting, honking, hissing and making the most awful, stinking mess. Clean, they ain’t. As children, my sister and I were terrified by the brutes, traumatised by being chased from some hidden nest by a violently broody mother. When they’re alive, I still give them a respectfully wide berth.

bird, lustily pagan, rather than blandly pious, a throwback to the festive bacchanalia of old. Not only does the flesh have the most richly intense flavour, but you get all that luscious fat, too. Wonderful for roasting potatoes, but also, a couple of centuries back, a miracle elixir, used for everything from hand moisturiser and poultice to leather balm and hoof polisher.

Michaelmas, on September 29, was once one of many fast days. But, thanks to the goose being classified as ‘waterfowl’, rather than meat, it could be eaten with greedy glee, tasting all the better from having been fattened on corn left behind after harvest.

Once safely slaughtered, however, it’s a whole different matter and my fear turns to abject adoration. Because geese make the most magnificent eating. Well before that bland arriviste, the turkey, gobble-gobbled onto the scene, goose was our traditional Christmas

pressing it in as far as you can. Secure the flap underneath with a small skewer.

Place the apple stuffing in the body cavity. Season the goose well and lay it on a rack in a roasting tin, then place it in the centre of the preheated oven. Give it 30 minutes’ initial cooking at 220˚C (gas mark 7), then reduce the temperature to 180˚C (gas mark 4) and give it another three hours.

Meanwhile, make the stock with the giblets (bring to boil in two pints of water with a carrot, onion, celery stick, bay leaf and peppercorns. Simmer for two hours and strain).

Remove the bird to a serving dish and allow it to rest for 20 minutes.

Drain off the fat from the tin (reserve for roast potatoes) and make a light gravy with the giblet stock and a little wine. Heat the prunes gently in a frying pan and serve separately.

And while it’s only possible to get geese around Christmas (my favourites come from Seldom Seen in Leicestershire and Goodman’s in Worcestershire), the traditional cooking of south-western France is still lubricated by goose fat, with the Germans and eastern Europeans also avid fans. Look out for the roast goose of Shantou, in southern China, which is rightly revered. One caveat, however. This is a bird that exits the oven rather smaller than it went in, thanks to losing all that fat. Leftovers are a rare treat.

Ingredients

Serves 8

1 goose with giblets, weighing 10lb–12lb (4.5–5.4kg). Reserve the liver

For the goose giblet stock

2fl oz (55ml) wine for the gravy

For the apple stuffing

1½lb (700g) Bramley apples, peeled, cored and cut roughly into ½in (1cm) slices

8oz (225g) prunes

1 large onion, roughly chopped

2tspn Armagnac

1/8 level tspn ground cloves

¼ level tspn ground mace

Salt and fresh black pepper

For the forcemeat stuffing

1 Cox’s apple, peeled, cored and finely chopped

10oz (275g) good-quality sausagemeat

1 medium onion, finely chopped

2oz (50g) fresh breadcrumbs

2 level tspn dried sage

Salt and fresh black pepper

For the prunes in Armagnac

12oz (350g) ready-to-eat prunes

5fl oz (150ml) Armagnac

1 pint (570ml) cold tea

2oz (50g) granulated sugar

They may be notoriously vicious and loud, but, once cooked, geese promise succulent dark meat and delectably tasty fat, especially at Christmas, says Tom Parker Bowles

The fat was once a miracle elixir, used for everything from hand moisturiser to hoof polisher

Interiors A candelabra saga

The energy crisis offers the perfect excuse to dust off your candlesticks and candelabra, says Arabella Youens

APUB in Cornwall has already bitten the bullet. This autumn, the proprietor of the Mason’s Arms in Camelford, faced with the soaring cost of electricity bills, decided to turn the lights off. Each Monday, from 6pm onwards, the public area is illuminated only with candles. Not only do the flickering flames cast an atmospheric glow over the space, but games such as darts are considered too risky and there’s no background music (a mercy, for many). One regular said it was like going back to the 18th century, when the pub first opened its doors.

Candlelight casts us in a wrinkle-concealing haze that makes food look more delicious

Electric light can lend a clinical mood to a space, but candlelight creates atmosphere. Candlelight casts us in a wrinkle-concealing haze that makes food look more delicious and renders small spaces cosy and comfortable. When Stanley Kubrick filmed Barry Lyndon partly in candlelight, with dining scenes featuring tables laden with candelabra, one critic said it was the ‘most ravishing set of images ever printed on a single strip of celluloid’. Whereas electric light made candles redundant, the energy crisis is giving them a new role in life. This winter, there are compelling reasons to turn off electric lights and dust down candlesticks of all sizes.

For antique dealer Julia Boston, candles lend a genuine charm, as well as warmth

Interiors

Fragments of candelabra have been unearthed in Pompeii, but the glittering branches rose to their greatest popularity in the 1800s, when they were used not only as a blazing source of light, but also as a status symbol. Today, in their grand, gilded form, few could deny the visual impact of a table laden with them blazed in light. Arms held aloft, they are a visual incantation of ceremony and celebration. When developers threatened to demolish two 18th-century silk weavers’ houses in London’s Spitalfields in 1977, the late architectural historian Mark Girouard and fellow members of the newly established Spitalfields Historic Buildings Trust occupied the buildings and held a dinner party with tables adorned with candelabras and dishes of caviar. It was a grand gesture to signal they meant business.

Gilded candelabras are perfect companions for cut crystal and fresh flowers and, with the help of generously sized mirrors on the walls, polished silver and silk curtains at the windows, the shimmering surfaces combine to gently bounce light around the room. ‘I love decorating a table for a dinner party,’ explains antique dealer Julia Boston, who specialises in French 18th-century decorative pieces. ‘There’s something comforting about the ritual of lighting the candles and it creates a gentler atmosphere than can ever be conjured by electric light. Not only that, but candles have a wonderful charm and— given what we’re all facing at the moment —I see a strong chance for a revival this winter. Using candles saves on electricity, and even adds some heat to the room.’

Miss Boston’s mews house in Notting Hill is a wonderful amalgam of glamour and character: fine 18th-century furniture meets lots of colour and a comforting amount of clutter. ‘It offers grandeur without having to go to Chatsworth,’ she quips. Her candelabra and candlesticks are all over 200 years old and boast the original gilding. ‘We purposefully don’t overclean things,’ she adds. ‘That would look so wrong.’

Successfully arranging candlesticks and candelabra, she says, is about creating structure and scale around the table. In the same way that interior designers talk about the importance of layering light in a room, the same is true of candles. ‘Depending on how many

Instant grandeur: candles set in front of a large mirror will increase in glamour, believes Miss Boston, their soft golden light being reflected back into the room

Candelabra care

• To dust, don’t wipe them with anything abrasive, a soft cloth is best

• Pour boiling water over candlesticks to lift the wax. Alternatively, put the candlesticks in the deep freeze and then remove the wax with a thumbnail

• To wash, use a natural soap

people are coming, I’ll either have a candelabra at one end of the table and one on the side or sometimes a pair in the middle,’ she explains. ‘Then some individual candlesticks, too.’ Careful planning is required to prevent creating a conversational barrier between people sitting opposite each other. The advantage of candelabra is that they stand above eye level, so shouldn’t get in the way, but for the next level of light down, Miss Boston recommends slim candles. ‘When it comes to arranging the table, I don’t have any very strict rules, it’s a question of using your eye. What I would say is that light is everything and using candles instead of electric light will only enhance the sense of occasion.’

With mirrors, silver and silk curtains, the shimmering surfaces gently bounce light

Simon Brown/Country Life Picture Library

Waxing lyrical

Flickering candlelight has long illuminated literature, finds Matthew Dennison

IN an essay, Of Masques and Triumphs, Sir Francis Bacon famously identified ‘the colours that show best by candlelight’ as ‘white, carnation, and a kind of sea-water green’. He added: ‘As for rich embroidery, it is lost and not discerned.’ In a painting of 1735, After the Ball, libidinous French artist Jean François de Troy showed the truth of Bacon’s dictum. A lady’s maid removes her mistress’s carnation-pink cloak, revealing a velvety décolletage of glowing whiteness. Despite the painting’s luxurious details and the gilded interior in which she finds herself, nothing holds the viewer’s attention more than de Troy’s pretty pink-and-white sitter. She is lit by the glow of the fire and by two candles, each in a separate candlestick. It is the bright aureoles that surround the candles’ flames that animate this decorously sensual image and show to advantage the colours Bacon had marked out a century earlier.

Writers and artists have long been fascinated by the flattering, flickering effect of candlelight. Even before the advent of gas or electric lighting, candles were seen as more than a functional light source: they possessed qualities to delight and beguile. ‘What Words thy Excellence can praise,/Or paint the Beauties of thy Blaze!’ exclaimed Matthew Pilkington in 1731 poem The Candle. As now, candles invested an interior with butterflysoft animation, warmth, enchantment. They bestowed an aura of mystery.

Lucy Worsley has suggested that, until the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, no room was illuminated to anything approaching the light levels we take for granted today. Candlelight concealed as much as it revealed, sometimes positively, sometimes not. In Jane Austen’s Emma, the exacting Mrs Weston complains of the wallpaper in the Crown Inn: ‘Look! In places you see it is dreadfully dirty; and the wainscot is more yellow and forlorn than anything I could have imagined’, only to be comforted by her husband that she will see ‘nothing of it by candlelight’; whereas Catherine Morland, the heroine of Austen’s

satirical Northanger Abbey, reflects fearfully on ‘the dimness of the light her candle emitted’.

Candlelight is sumptuous. In Dickens’s Bleak House, the material comfort of Esther’s life is evident in the candles that light her bedroom on winter mornings as she dresses. When she looks out of the window, Esther notes that the reflections of her candles ‘in the black panes like two beacons’ prevent her from seeing the garden beyond, which remains ‘enshrouded in the indistinctness of last night’. In Bram Stoker’s Dracula, proof of the Count’s wealth, in Jonathan Harker’s eyes, lies in the large number of candles in the castle’s dining room, as well as in the bedroom readied for Harker.

For the average householder, candles were a luxury, burned sparingly, as by Miss Matty in Elizabeth Gaskell’s Cranford, who is ‘chary

of candles’ and ‘only burnt one at a time’. Winter evenings were lived in semi-darkness, except by the rich, or those prepared to resort to cheaper tallow candles made of animal fat. As Esther notes, visiting Mrs Jellyby in Bleak House, they ‘made the room taste strongly’, a scent of mutton or beef. No surprise that so many preferred the half-light of a single wax candle—and its warm reflections on silver candlesticks, looking glass or the gilded details of a favourite piece of furniture. Or the glow it cast on pale complexions, as Bacon had suggested. Candles, authors agree, bring interiors to life. In A Christmas Carol, Dickens’s miserly Scrooge does his best to manage without candlelight, ‘trimming his candles’, because ‘darkness is cheap’. But Scrooge, as every reader knows, learns the error of his ways.

Candles invested an interior with warmth, enchantment

In Apres le Bal, Jean François de Troy directs our attention with the sensuous candlelight Courtesy of Bernheimer Munich/Bridgeman Images

Burning bright

Candles and holders for adding magic to any room, selected by Amelia Thorpe

This characterful collection of candleholders, from £185 each, is by British ceramicist Ellen Hayward, from The Shop Floor Project (01229 584537; www.theshopfloorproject.com)

Take a dip

These Christmas Cone candles, from £7 each, are dipped and finished by hand in Denmark, from Lamp Ldn Home (020–8127 0050; www.lamplondonhome.com)

Up the wall

This Candle Sconce, £240, is made by ceramicist Linzi West from glazed terracotta, from Berdoulat (www. berdoulat.co.uk)

In the round

The Aten light, small with candle, £1,800, is made from hand-beaten Antique Brass, from Soane (020–7730 6400; www.soane.com)

Heaven scent

Fill your home with the seasonal scent of Seville oranges from the Making Marmalade Smelly Wax candle, £25, from Loaf (020–3141 8300; www.loaf.com)

Standing tall

Made in Stoke-on-Trent, Staffordshire, for Pentreath & Hall, the Black Basalt Ionic Column candlestick, £75, is a reproduction of a 19th-century creamware design (020–7430 2526; www.pentreath-hall.com)

The art of craft

Edited by Hetty Lintell

A little inspiration for last-minute present ideas

Good crack

Cracking walnuts is a serious business in our house at Christmas and this elegant nutcracker will become an heirloom for generations. Hussar nutcracker, £160, Available with a countdown calendar base, which adds to the excitement, £175 (020–8068 4206; www.davidlinley.com)

Burning bright

This magnificent candle vessel made by Jamb and Moro Dabron feels as if it has been excavated from an ancient archaeological site. The delicious smoky fragrance evokes a traditional English country house and the design is inspired by a Bronze-age wheel found in the British Museum, £280 (www.moro-dabron.com)

Getting shirty

I don’t know a lady in Britain who wouldn’t swoon on opening a parcel containing a shirt from With Nothing Underneath. This sapphire-blue silk cocktail style is lovely for drinks parties and beyond, £230 (www.withnothingunderneath.com)

Ice cold

For those tricky-to-buy-for types, I think this bright-yellow mini Smeg fridge ice box with a bottle of (cold) Veuve Clicquot inside would go down very well indeed. £58 (www.clos19.com)

Check mate

Doctor’s orders

When someone needs a little extra pampering this year, Dr Sebagh’s products are incredibly luxurious and gorgeously packaged. This award-winning Iconic Trio gift set is £192, and why not book a facial treatment for your loved one, too? (www.drsebagh.com)

Board games needn’t be boring thanks to British brand Purling, which hand makes these wacky chess sets to revolutionise traditional games with colour, art, beautiful materials and specialist finishing processes. More Or Less II (Eyes) chess set, £18,000 (020–3290 6201; www.purling.com)

Christmas day is not a time for high heels, but it’s still nice to make an effort. These Babette Mary Janes tick all boxes. £735, De Minno

Horsing around

For those who truly do have everything, what about a leg of a racehorse, courtesy of Highclere Thoroughbred Racing, to set you apart from the rest?

From £6,000 (01488 669166; www.highclereracing.co.uk)

High Five

Five gold (ear)rings, especially good if you’ve left it last minute

Gold filigree ear rings in garnet and citrine, Augustine Jewels (020–3556 5780; www.augustine jewels.com)

Boldly go

Everything the British-Israeli chef Yotam Ottolenghi does makes me happy, none more so than his vibrant new Sicily collection of vases, designed alongside his friend, Italian artist Ivo Bisignano, from £115 (www. ottolenghi.co.uk)

Scoping things out

A confusing shape to wrap, but Swarovski Optik’s new compact angled telescope would be the ultimate present for a budding naturalist. Weighing 970 grams and measuring 25.8cm (10in), this is the company’s dinkiest telescope—ideal for adventuring. £1,820 (0800 3242 5056; www.swarovskioptik.com)

Poison Ivy hoops, hand enamelled with star set diamonds, £13,950, Cece Jewellery (www.cecejewellery.com)

Apollo tanzanite and diamond detachable earrings in Yellow Gold, £3,200, Kiki McDonough (020–7730 3323; www.kiki.co.uk)

Fully stocked

Aspinal is known for lovely leather goods, but the company also makes these hand-embroidered velvet stockings, which can be monogrammed. Evergreen Woodland stocking, £195; £15 for monogramming (0808 169 5529; www.aspinaloflondon.com)

Festive frock

I’ve found my Christmas-day outfit in this tartan number (with flat shoes of course).

Diana Check dress, £475, Beulah (07749 725320; www.beulahlondon.com)

Mashrabiya Trellis red garnet gold earring drops, £3,195, gold hoops £555, Cassandra Goad (020–7730 2202; www.cassandra goad.com)

Whitlaw Gold Day 2 Night Hoops, £450 (www.whitelaw gold.com)

A few of my favourite things

The founder and director of Firmdale Hotels opened London’s Dorset Square Hotel in 1985 and now has 10 properties, including Ham Yard Hotel and Covent Garden Hotel in the capital. She founded the Kit Kemp Design interiors and product-design studio, as well as being an author and champion of art, craft and sculpture. She splits her time between London and the New Forest, where she lives with her husband, Tim, and four dogs (www.firmdalehotels.com/shop-kit-kemp).

Words by Hetty Lintell. Illustrations by Ollie Maxwell

My vintage Rabone Chesterman wooden folding ruler (2m or 6½ft) is so handy for measuring because it is rigid and can unfold like a concertina. Mine looks ancient, but it is well used and well loved. It also measures in both metric and imperial. When we are working in New York, they are still using feet and inches, so I can convert

Every Saturday, I take a paper bag out of the kitchen drawer and fill it with chopped carrots and apples for Lonnie, my 30-year-old horse, who has been with me nearly all of his life. He is black with a lopsided white flash on his nose and he often rests his head on my shoulder. He looks into my pockets for the brown paper bag and has been known to eat the bag as well if I go to the tack room to collect his saddle. He is my best friend—I can tell him all my secrets and he never says a word.

The wing chair in our kitchen (we call it Kit’s wing) was collaged with felt flowers by my daughter, Minnie, for when I gave a talk at the V&A Museum, so I could sit comfortably and feel at home in front of an audience. Now, it looks comfortably worn sitting beside the cooker. I always recommend a chair in the kitchen and believe no room should be without a wing chair (preferably with a dog sitting on it). I am never alone when I cook in the evening—Tim, my husband, sits and reads all the gossip to me from the newspaper. It’s my favourite time of day.

Sleigh bells ring

We’re still holding out hope that Father Christmas will be feeling generous this year

Styled by Hetty Lintell. Photographed by Paul Zak

From left: Happy Sport watch with eight dancing diamonds and a red mother-of-pearl dial set in rose gold on a red alligator strap, £15,500, Chopard (020–7046 7808; www.chopard.com); Aquanaut Luce Rainbow chronograph in rose gold, £117,420, Patek Philippe (01892 534018; www.gcollinsandsons.com); Reine de Naples 8918, £34,100, Breguet (020–7355 1735; www.breguet.com); Hamper tree decorations, £29.95, Fortnum & Mason (www.fortnumandmason.com)

From left: Imperial Zenya white-gold and ruby egg pendant with gem-set chain, £44,160, Fabergé (07780 112319; www.faberge.com); Vintage design ring set with oval cut ruby and oval cut diamonds in platinum and SMO rose gold, price on application, Boodles (020–7437 5050; www.boodles.com); Circus earrings with rubies and diamonds in white gold, £10,900, Boodles (as before); Ornamental sleigh decoration, £185, Fortnum & Mason (as before)

Properties of the week

Devon, £1 million

Once a traditional Devon longhouse that would have seen farm animals walking its corridors, Stonecross Cottage has come a long way since medieval times. The ruminants have been re-routed outside and, thankfully, their stomping grounds have now been replaced by a sitting room, snug and a kitchen/dining room, with three bedrooms on the first floor. Listed Grade II, Stonecross comes with bags of charm and is situated in a prime location in the village of North Bovey, which features a popular pub and church, only 13 miles from Exeter. Outside, a small garden is laid to lawn with a seating area for alfresco dining. A stone outbuilding is currently used for storage, but could easily be converted into a home office or studio. Savills (01392 455717)

Midlothian, £2.35 million

Budding (or established) minstrels can take shelter from the cold wind and the long way at the superb Barony House in Lasswade, home of Sir Walter Scott and the very place where he penned those well-known opening lines of The Lay of the Last Minstrel. The property, a six-bedroom partly thatched house, has seen its fair share of famous visitors over the years, including the Ettrick Shepherd James Hogg and William Wordsworth. These days, the property (which has been extended since Scott’s day) is a large family home on the Scottish borders, surrounded on all sides by woodland and rolling hills. Despite its storied past, the interiors are refreshingly contemporary (see spot lighting and bespoke furnishings), but there’s plenty of character, with exposed beams and stonework throughout. The highlight is certainly 4½ acres of gardens, which are beautifully kept and, together with the surrounding scenery, could easily inspire the next Wizard of the North. Ellisons (07704 512755)

James Fisher

Thatch all, folks!

Nothing can beat the charming appeal of a thatched countryside cottage

Properties of the week

Surrey, £1.6 million

When it comes to the ideal thatched cottage, Dormers ticks all the boxes. Actual thatched dormers? Tick. Exposed beams inside and outside? Tick. Mullioned windows with casements? Tick. The former home of E. H. Shepard, illustrator of Winnie-the-Pooh, who entertained renowned guests such as Rudyard Kipling? Tick, tick, tick. The home, which is listed Grade II and dates from the 15th century, has seen a wealth of original features retained and offers plenty of space, with six bedrooms and six acres of gardens and grounds, which include a tennis court, stables and swimming pool. All within an hour of London, Dormers is situated on the outskirts of the village of Charlwood, with the many amenities that it provides.

Hamptons (01737 400228)

Hampshire, £895,000

Dating from the 16th century, but extended in the 1990s, Briar Cottage now offers some 2,200sq ft of living space in the heart of Kings Worthy, two miles north of Winchester. With four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a cellar and two reception rooms, the property has serious potential as a spacious family home and is ripe for refurbishment for those looking to take a step into the countryside without straying too far from civilisation. Outside, the garden is mostly set to lawn, but also boasts mature fruit trees and a small vegetable garden. Kings Worthy itself has a wealth of amenities and, with Winchester being within walking distance, Briars Cottage offers the best of both worlds.

Knight Frank (01962 677242)

Northamptonshire, £1.75 million

When you ask young people today what they really want in life, you might be surprised to hear that it’s not ‘avocado on toast’ or ‘Netflix’, but rather a galleried landing in an unlisted 16th-century house. Amazingly, Willowbrook House offers exactly that, as well as five bedrooms, four bathrooms and an acre of gardens on the edge of the village of Creaton. The home’s lack of a listing means that it has been comprehensively renovated and restored during the owner’s tenure and, as well as a wealth of period features (such as the landing), the property also offers Chesney fireplaces, modern bathrooms and a vast kitchen/breakfast area—the ideal spot for entertaining. Outside, the gardens are sharp enough to set your watch to and also offer a swimming pool and annexe/pool house.

Strutt & Parker (01858 438723)

One pine day

WHEN the land was born again, the Ice Age done and all was windswept tundra, there came the trees. In the vanguard were the towering pines, with needly branches that supported a cornucopia of curiously shaped, fruit-like entities. The skin-clad, prehistoric people, on penetrating the sunslanted pinewood gloom, must have been bewitched by this ‘cone’; it opened and closed mysteriously and was prized by the forest animals. Picked from the bough when green and young, the cone was a pleasure in the hand and intoxicating to the nose; but the mature cone, dry and woody, fell to the silent forest floor to rot, its corpse almost birdlike. The world turns, yet everything remains the same. We are still enthralled by pine cones. Etsy craft suppliers can charge more than £23.44 for 15 assorted cones—such is our eagerness for ‘rustic decorating’ and ‘Nature tables’. Take a child, any child, to piney woodland, and they will, by some atavistic impulse, begin gathering cones, perhaps even arrange them as ‘little people’.

The Stone Agers, the craft lovers and the children are not wrong. The pine cone is an extraordinary thing. Botanically, it is an unusual organ of reproduction, a strobilus. After the male cone— a brief insignificant thing on the end of a twig —has, with wind assistance, spilled its pollen over the familiar, bigger female cone, the scales on the latter swell and seal. This occurs in a helical manner as geometrically constant and exact as the hexagons on honeycomb. Nature does minimalist, precision beauty rather well.

Inside the female pine cone, the seeds, or ‘pine nuts’, develop. In good weather, the cone’s scales gape and the seeds are released and, in cold times, they shut. The mechanical principle is much the same as the ‘coefficient

expansion’ you learned in Form IV Physics, whereby one more sensitive material—here humidity-reactive cellulose—pulls against the adjoined stoical material of lignin to achieve movement. Grandma was on the nail when she hung a pine cone outside the cottage door as a ruralist barometer.

There are about 120 types of pine tree in the world, many of which have been introduced to these isles by Victorian arborealists or commercial foresters. Austrian pine, Monterey pine, Corsican pine and Lodgepole pine are among the most popular imports. A certain nerdish, or perhaps learned, aesthetic pleasure is to be had in differentiating the cones of pine species; the base of the squat Monterey cone is curiously asymmetrical, whereas the cone of the Lodgepole is egg-shaped with prickly scales. The cone of the Scots pine, our one native pine, is an elegant isosceles triangle.

Wherever and whenever, the pine cone, thanks to its generally mammiferous shape and reproductive function, is a symbol of life and fertility. Some images of the Mayan god, Chicomecoatl, depict the deity offering pine cones in one hand and an evergreen tree in the other. The Egyptian god Osiris carried a staff tipped with a pine cone, as did the Greek deity Dionysus. As does the Pope today. Pine-cone images appear on numerous fertility amulets of the ancients. Women of the Celtic tribes in misty Druid times placed a pine cone under their pillow in order to get pregnant.

The pine cone is quite literally life-giving. Mesolithic cave people chewed on pine seeds (‘pine nuts’) and Roman soldiers ported them as campaign food. Italians have been putting the tiny, ivory kernels in pesto since the Middle Ages. Pine-nut coffee is a speciality of the south-western US and pinecone jam, made from boiled young cones, is a staple of European Russia, Ukraine and Siberia. In Austria, Zirbenschnaps (schnapps flavoured with zingy, aromatic Arolla pine cones) is a favourite tonic, with Italians

The Egyptian god Osiris carried a staff tipped with a pine cone, as did the Greek deity Dionysus

It’s a miracle of geometry, a rudimentary barometer and a life-giving food.

John Lewis-Stempel marvels at the humble, but extraordinarily beautiful, pine cone

Precision, beauty and bounty: a pine cone is one of Nature’s most perfect designs

of the Piedmont region extolling the digestive attributes of the similar Pino Mugo.

The health benefits of pine nuts and pinecone extracts were first documented by the ancient Greek physician Dioscorides in De Materia Medica and modern medicine confirms old wisdom. Pine nuts are a good source of protein, thiamine (B1), vitamin K and magnesium and there is evidence that extracts

I’m pine, thank you

• One of the oldest species on earth, with a history dating from nearly 153 million years ago, pine trees are categorised as gymnosperms, plants that have naked seeds, not enclosed in an ovary

• Beware of cones from the Coulter pines of California ( right) falling on your head. They weigh up to 11Ib and are known locally as ‘widow makers’

• In the 1600s, the word ‘apple’ was coined as a noun for many fruits and vegetables; ‘pineapple’ was named for the tropical fruit’s resemblance to pine cones

• Methuselah, a Bristlecone pine growing on the California/Nevada border, is, at 5,000 years of age, the oldest living organism on the planet

• In August 2015, bomb-disposal experts were called to examine an unexploded grenade in Bude—which turned out to be a pine cone. The incident confirmed the opinion of generations of children that a handily tossed pine cone would destroy an enemy’s playground machine-gun emplacement

from some cone types may be effective anticancer, immune-boosting, allergy-reducing chemotherapeutic agents. The beneficial effects of ‘forest bathing’ stem from exposure to aerosols containing terpenes, chemical compounds particularly prevalent in pines and conifers, as well as the psychological effect of communing with Nature.

In the forest, the pine cone was first seized as prized food by the animalia 60 million years ago. Parasaurolophus, the famous crest-headed

Cretacean hadrosaur, even sported uniquely formed jaws with thousands of teeth that were designed to eat tough, chewy pine cones. Similarly, the contemporary common crossbill and the Scottish crossbill (Britain’s only endemic bird) have mouth-gear perfectly and particularly adapted for cones and are able to prise the scales apart to reach the seeds. Pine seeds ripen early in the year and the

birds nest notoriously early, even in February. Parent crossbills, including the dandy male in his salmon-pink livery, may have to collect 100,000 seeds for their brood.

Red squirrels are another prime feeder on pine seeds, as are Britain’s three woodpecker species, who will hammer cones open, using notches in the tree as a vice. When harsh winters threaten, pine trees produce more

The scales of the female pine cones, as geometrically arranged as a honeycomb and hiding equally valuable succour inside

Parent crossbills, even the dandy male in his salmon-pink livery, may have to collect 100,000 seeds

Drink pine and be merry

If the precise recipes of Zirbenschnaps and Pino Mugo tend to be closely guarded clan or commercial secrets, the basic recipe consists of picking young, green pine cones in spring, then immersing these in alcohol in the proportions of 700fl oz of alcohol (grappa, or vodka work well) to 5oz of cones and 5oz of sugar. Put everything in a large, airtight jar. Shake occasionally over a period of two months. Drink chilled as a digestif or with pudding. But do know your cones. The cones of the Scots pine, Pinus sylvestris, are eminently and safely edible. Slàinte!

and larger cones to ensure seeds will endure the crossbill and red-squirrel feeding frenzies. Such are the wonders of the pine cone that the scholarly suggestion that Eve was tempted not by an apple but by a pine cone hardly seems far-fetched. Doubtless, the boffins who developed this theological theory utilised the pine cone in their head. No, really. The pineal gland, the geographic centre of our brain, is named for the pine cone due to its shape. The pineal regulates our wake and sleep patterns; it is considered our biological ‘third eye’ and ‘the epicentre of enlightenment’. Hence the pine cone’s exaltation in Christian imagery: as well as symbolising life, it represents thought and spiritual awakening. Outside St Peter’s in the Vatican City is the evidential Court of the Pine Cone, where an out-size (13ft-tall) bronze sculpture of a pine cone literally holds court. A church near you may well be equipped with candle holders and lamps carved in the shape of pine cones. Then you have Christmastime, when no chimneypiece decoration or wreath is complete without

a spray-frosted cone or, if you are Scandinavian, without a ‘cone cow’, a traditional toy with sticks for legs. In Finland, there is a park with giant pine-cone cow sculptures big enough for children to ride on.

Of course, as every canny country person knows, a pine cone is not only for Christmas decoration or even a festive potpourri with chillies and oranges. A resinous pine cone is Nature’s own and free firelighter to start the Yuletide blaze.

Above: For red squirrels, pine cones are a feast. Below: The bronze Roman sculpture, dating from the 1st century AD, once a fountain, in the Court of the Pine Cone, Rome

The pineal gland, the geographic centre of our brain, is named for the pine cone; it is considered our biological “third eye”

PRECISION is the word that keeps coming to mind when considering the waterside gardens at Fullers Mill near Bury St Edmunds in Suffolk. In particular, the precise way in which every plant, large and small, is placed to best advantage both for its own development and to draw the visitor on with an interesting specimen or intriguing view. This counts for so much in the depths of winter, when flamboyance and floriferousness are in short supply—and it is unexpected in a plantsman’s garden. But Bernard Tickner, who carved this space out of rough ground and woodland over 50 years, was a man of many talents.

Before buying Fullers Mill—a cottage on the banks of the River Lark—in 1958, Tickner had never gardened. His business was beer: he was head brewer at Greene King, where he developed Abbot Ale and a special Queen Elizabeth Coronation Ale in 1953. Although, as he wrote in his memoirs, A Scratch in the Soil (2017), gardening became his work and brewing was ‘a paid holiday’.

In the still of winter

The cottage on the edge of King’s Forest, 5,700 acres of Forestry Commission (FC) land, came with a little vegetable plot and a small island between the Lark and the Culford Stream that could be reached by a footbridge over the weir. But there was no garden as such and, over the years, Tickner bought up more pieces of land from the FC as they became available, until the garden encompassed seven acres in all.

The fine Corsican pines that greet the visitor today were only knee high when Tickner arrived and the land that is now the Top Garden, opposite the entrance, had been used for growing poplars to make matches. After the Second World War, with the introduction of cheap lighters, the crop was no longer viable and only the stumps survived.

The first job was to improve the ground and make a lawn. This required as many as 15 to 20 lorry loads of washed soil from the local sugar-beet factory to smooth the difference in levels. For a year thereafter, every visitor was dragooned into marching up and down to help compact the soil before a roller was brought in to complete the job.

The River Lark winds through the garden, Midland and East of England RHS Partner Garden of the Year 2022. Bernard Tickner used discarded filter plates from the mash tuns at local breweries to protect trees

The garden at Fullers Mill, West Stow, Suffolk

Even in the coldest months, there is much to discover in this remarkable plantsman’s garden lovingly created out of rough ground by Bernard Tickner, finds Tiffany Daneff

Photographs by Richard Bloom

He determined never to employ a designer

The island was the first area to be planted. In went 40 6ft-tall cricket-bat willows, as Tickner fondly anticipated the profits that would be made from harvesting them one day. In the meantime, in what would become a familiar pattern, he began collecting willows. Anticipating the many gifts of plants that would follow, a friend gave him a rare cutting from a Napoleon willow. (After the Emperor’s death, whips propagated from a willow growing on his grave on the island

of St Helena were spread by sailors and were soon dispersed around the world.)

By the time the cricket-bat willows had matured, Tickner was already developing new horticultural interests and, over the years, he built up collections of euphorbias, peonies and species lilies, many of which continue to enjoy the dappled shade in the Low Garden, as the area became known. His philosophy was simple: to include as little hard landscaping as possible and to focus

on rare and interesting plants. To cope with the poor sandy soil, many plants—particularly on the island—are Mediterranean in origin, planted into fine gravel, and there is a superb collection of alpines on the terraces in the Low Garden.

‘What I seek here is really a lack of design and a more natural feel to the garden,’ he wrote. Influenced by his great friend and neighbour Beth Chatto, he determined never to employ a garden designer. Instead, he used

a mower to mark curving paths on the ground that would create new vistas and lure on the curious visitor. He loved showing keen gardeners around and took delight, when asked who had designed it, in replying: ‘No one. What you see has just happened; it has evolved.’

At first, he used to draw up a planting plan for the island beds created between his paths, but, on realising that things rarely grew according to plan, he simply planted a few specimens, usually selecting those

with strong sculptural elements. ‘What interests me the most,’ he wrote, ‘is the effect of foliage in its infinite variety and combinations. It is the sculptural quality of plants that attracts me, their architecture.’

In large part, this is why the garden holds the eye in midwinter when even the sound of water, the only sound in this tranquil spot, is sometimes silenced.

He also loved it when visitors asked: ‘What’s that plant?’ Indeed, there are plenty of unusual

Fullers Mill cottage with the alpine terrace (left), where plants are grown in fine gravel. Mediterranean plants do well in the Breckland soil, which is poor and sandy

specimens in the garden. Many were gathered in the mountains of Europe. Tickner’s Norwegian wife, Bess, became an expert at spotting plants and discovered a white Iris cretensis (violet is more usual), which was named after her. In turn, a yellow fritillary,

spotted in a ravine in the Pyrenees, is now known as Fritillaria pyrenaica ‘Bernard Tickner’. Crete became a favourite hunting ground, one to which the Tickners returned again and again over 30 years, but many plants came from friends.

Graham Stuart Thomas was, Tickner wrote, ‘the presiding genius’ of the garden. ‘His insistence on the integrity of the species and his purist’s distaste for modern hybrids made the link for me between my childhood delight in wild flowers and the idea of making a garden.’

Tickner was influenced by Cedric Morris, Margery Fish and Christopher Lloyd and bought plants from the latter’s Great Dixter in East Sussex. He sought out hellebores— of which there are many at Fullers Mill—from Elizabeth Strangman at Washfield Nursery near Hawkhurst in Kent and Mary Barnard, both of whom did much work on hybridising. He became friends with Maurice Mason, Victoria Medal of Honour, who, after a good lunch, would pop specimens from his pinetum at Larchwood in the boot of Tickner’s car.

Alan Bloom of Bressingham, Norfolk, was another friend and provider of plants, but most of the plant labels that survive from those days record gifts from Ivan Dickings who was then the propagation manager at Notcutts nursery, Suffolk, and eventually became a trustee of the Fullers Mill Trust.

Annie Dellbridge now heads up the team at Fullers Mill, which Tickner left to Perennial, the only UK charity supporting those in horticulture, so that it would be properly cared for after his death (in 2017). She arrived in 2010, having worked for the Vestey family at Great Thurlow Hall and Little Thurlow Hall in Suffolk, and spent days with Tickner, learning his likes and dislikes, what he liked cut back and what he didn’t. They would go on plantbuying trips together. ‘Ninety-nine times out of 100, he’d go for the species over a cultivar,’ says Ms Dellbridge. ‘He appreciated the structure and form over massive flowers.’

In winter, she maintains the same routine, cutting back as required, clearing leaves as necessary and removing loose leaves from crowns, adding barrow loads of homeproduced compost and applying quantities

The stand of white-barked Betula pendula subsp. pendula ‘Silver Grace’ was grown from a single specimen discovered by Bernard Tickner by the lake

He loved it when visitors asked:

“What’s that plant?”

of bark mulch to help conserve moisture on the free-draining Breckland soil. ‘Winters here are pretty mild, wet and windy.’ The small, full-time team is bolstered with a rota of 30 volunteers. ‘If it’s a cold day, everyone will be put on rakes. If it’s warm, some will be down on hands and knees cutting back through the herbaceous material.’

Those years working with Tickner have put her in the ideal position to be true to his vision. ‘There are no statues in the garden and the benches—which are all wooden— were only added as he grew older.’

However, it is not always easy keeping track of every plant. ‘He kept books listing where plants came from—but not everything is in there—and he didn’t say where he planted them.’ That will eventually change, as Ms Dellbridge is going to upload and record everything in the garden on the IrisBG botanical-collection management system; a task that, if he didn’t fancy doing it himself, he surely would have applauded.

‘I feel the garden is still the same,’ she says. Some things, of necessity, have had to change: new plants—including his favourite

lilies—have gone into the recently cleared area under the cricket-bat willows and across the water on a strip of land between the Culford Stream and the lake wildflowers are being encouraged. To add to the interest in winter, many more snowdrops have been planted and there are now more than 100 different kinds from around the world. ‘But the garden is still run on the same principles

Notable winter-interest plants at Fullers Mill

Maytenus boaria An unusual South American evergreen tree or shrub with delicate, fresh-green leaves in winter

Betula pendula subsp. pendula

‘Silver Grace’ A willow with striking white bark

Euphorbia ‘Redwing’ Discovered by Bernard Tickner as a chance seedling (possibly from E. characias subsp. wulfenii ‘Purple and Gold’), it is named after its bracts, which turn red in late winter

as before,’ she emphasises,’ so I hope it still feels like his garden.’ No doubt he would be delighted at its evolution.

Snowdrop Days at Fullers Mill, West Stow, Suffolk (01284 728888; www.fullersmill. org.uk) will be held on Wednesdays and Fridays in February 2023, from 11am— 3pm. For information about Perennial, visit www.perennial.org.uk

Ligustrum quihoui A semi-evergreen Chinese shrub that, at Fullers Mill, is coppiced to give a lovely airy vase shape

Hellebores Architectural foliage and early flowers

Snowdrops Fullers Mill is home to more than 100 varieties

Ilex myrtifolia A handsome holly with fine spiny leaves

Nandina domestica The attractive, lanceolate leaves turn purple in winter

Hamamelis mollis ‘Pallida’ A large specimen with sulphur-yellow flowers that bring scent, as well as colour in late winter

Clockwise from top left: Euphorbia characias; Acacia pravissima produces yellow flowers in late winter; Euphorbia amygdaloides var. robbiae edged with frost; bushy Pinus mugo; Polystichum setiferum; the fine fronds of Ophiopogon planiscapus ‘Nigrescens’

Well bred

SOMETIMES, a great horticulturist comes along who changes our tastes and creates new markets. The rose breeder David Austin was one such: who would have supposed, 50 years ago, that roses with muddled centres would oust the elegant Hybrid Teas and superfloriferous Floribunda roses that everyone grew and loved?

Let me introduce you to Hans Hachmann, another innovator, but little known to English gardeners. He was by far the most significant breeder of rhododendrons of the 20th century. Better than Loder, Aberconway, Millais and de Rothschild? Yes, without a doubt. I realise there are still a few Brits who cannot believe that any country does gardening better than we do—and certainly not Germany. But that is where we must look for the best modern rhododendrons, not to mention disease-resistant roses and prairie-style gardens.

Hachmann’s nursery, now run by his son, is at Barmstedt in Schleswig-Holstein, a region of Germany to which sandy soil and mild climate have attracted nurserymen for at least 150 years. Hachmann laid out a show garden and stocked it with rhododendrons from England and the Netherlands. Then came a beast of a winter, when the temperature dropped to -20˚C, and he lost almost everything. Hardiness immediately became Hachmann’s priority and hardy rhododendrons could only be obtained by breeding new varieties. Between 1950 and his death in 2004, he raised

more than five million rhododendron seedlings in search of hardiness, as well as floriferousness, bright colours, handsome leaves and plants of compact size suitable for small gardens. It is greatly to his credit that he introduced only about 400 of them.

His new super-hardy rhododendrons proved popular, especially in markets where these most beautiful garden shrubs had never before been growable. ‘Mine’s a Hachmann’ became the catchword of first-time rhododendron lovers in the American Midwest, where his introductions began to carve out a place for themselves in cold-climate gardens.

But there is more to his story than all that. Hachmann also made an unusual discovery. Someone told him about a rhododendron seedling—one plant— found growing in a limestone quarry. Such a phenomenon— a rhododendron that tolerated a pH of 7 or more—was thought

Horticultural aide-mémoire Prune a vine

A glasshouse vine can be pruned now that the leaves are off and you can see what you’re doing. If you act now, the plant is dormant, so that, when you cut it, the sap will not bleed. Set up a platform, stable and moveable enough for you to be able to proceed with confidence. Keep the main rod as it is. Shorten the long side shoots to two buds each. Now look over the whole plant to inspect for pests and act accordingly. Ruffle up the soil in the bed and place a layer of well-decayed organic matter on top. SCD

impossible. Everyone knew they needed acid soil, with a pH no higher than 5.5. But Hachmann saw that lime-tolerant rhododendrons would greatly expand their growability and he created a consortium of some 20 large nurseries to work with him to breed new varieties for soils with a high pH.

Look to Germany for the best modern rhododendrons

There is a tough old rhododendron called ‘Cunningham’s White’, introduced nearly 200 years ago and often planted as a windbreak because it grows to about 10ft and is very hardy. It also has a reputation for tolerating soils that are not quite as acid as most rhododendrons require. Hachmann decided to cross it with the plant from the lime quarry. Research and development can be expensive and this cross produced some 20,000 seedlings, all of which were grown on until they were large enough to flower. What was he looking for? Lime tolerance and hardiness, of course, but also vigour, ease of propagation and usefulness as a rootstock for grafting. Eventually, he chose one seedling that combined all those qualities, named it Inkarho and patented it.

Inkarho is a German acronym for INteressengemeinschaft KAlktoleranter RHOdodendron or lime-tolerant rhododendron partnership. Inkarho had two uses. First, it became the progenitor of a whole new race of hardy, limetolerant rhododendrons. It is these that have spread the cultivation of rhododendrons into climates where they would not otherwise survive. Several have received an Award of Garden Merit from the RHS already, including ‘Hachmann’s Polaris’, ‘Hachmann’s Porzellan’ and ‘Hachmann’s Marlis’. Almost all are chunky, compact and very floriferous: Millais, Larch Cottage and Burncoose are among the leading English stockists.

The second use of Inkarho was to breed a race of lime-tolerant rootstocks. Older rhododendrons could then be grafted onto them and grown in areas where the pH is neutral or alkaline. The jury is still out on the degree of alkalinity that they tolerate. Some report success in soils with a pH of 7.5 where the plants receive a thick covering of leafmould or other organic mulch. They are said to flourish even in the middle of Salisbury Plain.

Hachmann’s example should also be applied to other acidloving genera. Take magnolias, for example. Most of them require an acid soil, but a few will flourish on chalk—evergreen M. grandiflora is one such. Why have our English nurserymen not learned to graft acid-loving magnolias onto lime-tolerant rootstocks? How I would love to grow the March-flowering giants—such a feature of Cornish gardens— on the chalk hills of Hampshire. First, however, the insular English must admit that, sometimes, there are good things we can learn from the Germans.

Charles Quest-Ritson wrote the RHS Encyclopedia of Roses

December 28 Books

Rhododendron ‘Hachmann’s Polaris’ is one of several hardy, limetolerant Inkarho varieties to receive an RHS Award of Garden Merit

Alamy

Bursting with life

Cheer up the darkest days by packing pots with bulbs, then wait for the magic to unfold, says

Steven Desmond

CHRISTMAS is midwinter, a time when all of Nature is wisely dormant. One of the ways humans persuade themselves that life continues just below the surface is by bringing flowering plants to the dining table and the windowsill when all around is dark and silent. But if we are to persuade living plants to bloom in the shortest days of the year, we will need to resort to some polite deception and even then the plants won’t put up with it for long.

Bulbs are a classic way of doing this. That deception is most commonly practised on hyacinths, which are ‘prepared’ for winter flowering by being potted and covered with compost in a cold frame for several weeks before they appear in shops and garden centres, so that, when they are watered and brought into the home, they will respond by sending up their richly scented blooms. We have thus misled them into assuming the long,

Bulbs to bloom

Hyacinth The key to successful indoor hyacinths is to buy prepared bulbs and follow the instructions. There is nothing difficult about it, but the timings are important. The growing medium merely needs to enable them to sit upright. Once they are indoors, give them as much natural light as possible or they will rapidly lurch about and lose their poise. The scent is famously overwhelming, but does not suit every dish you might wish to eat.

Narcissus The classic daffodil for winter flowering is ‘Paper White’. Potted in good time, they will flower for Christmas, but make a fine and delicate thing of admiration for the early New Year. A few bulbs in a pot kept in a cool glasshouse will come along nicely. As the shoots rise, erect a support of four split canes with raffia rails at intervals, then

a giant bulb in early autumn and keep it cool and dry until six weeks before you wish it to flower, then pot it up. It needs a big, deep pot to look right. The upper third of the bulb should be visible. Water and feed it twice weekly. A north-facing windowsill will suit its needs. The daily progress of growth is marvellous to behold.

Crocus ‘Blue Pearl’ This is an excellent choice for naturalising in a lawn, but keep a few back for potting and another dimension is revealed. Pot them up in autumn in a shallow pan with a gritty compost mixture, label and place in a cold frame. Keep them just damp and observe their progress. When the flowers begin to show colour, increase watering and make sure the sun can get to them so that the flowers will open.

Scilla mischtschenkoana An easy and pretty bulb that should be better known, not least because it is cheap. It flowers in Feb-

choice is hippeastrum, known to us all by its more elegant name of amaryllis (‘Trumpet majors’, November 30). This is a whopping great thing from southern Africa, readily available as a papery bulb in the autumn and the vegetable equivalent of a firework. Six weeks ahead of the required date, plant the bulb in a suitably large and deep pot with one-third of the bulb showing above the surface. Water and feed the brute until the whole astounding flower is open, like a publicaddress system at an agricultural showground. It only lasts a few days, but it is an unbeatable spectacle and not at all difficult to achieve. A third classic, although easier to flower in the new year, is the paperwhite narcissus. This has been with us so long that it has become

a classic. As are many such bulbs, it is best kept in a cool glasshouse until the flowers are just opening, then brought indoors for everyone to enjoy its combination of demure beauty and that delicate, but floating scent. There are other bulbs that can be readily cultivated in pots, ideally grown in a cold frame or, even better, an alpine house, sunk up to the rim in a bed of sand and brought indoors for an hour or two of glowing appreciation before being returned to their spartan, but happy, quarters. Among these are some of the little delights of early spring: crocuses, dwarf irises (‘Katharine Hodgkin’ is unbeatable) and one or two others. Simply set aside a few from outdoor planting, pot them up and grow them cold, then let everyone enjoy their moment of glory in the deep midwinter. One more way to keep the home fires burning.

Where to buy

Bloms, Bedfordshire (01234 709099; www.blomsbulbs.com)

Avon Bulbs, Somerset (01460 242177; www.avonbulbs.co.uk)

Thompson & Morgan, Suffolk (0844 573 1818; www.thompsonmorgan.com)

Water and feed it until the whole astounding flower is open, like a public-address system at a showground

Left: Hyacinth bulbs for forcing. Above left: The dwarf Iris ‘Katharine Hodgkin’. Above right: Scilla mischtschenkoana deserves to be better known

GAP Photos/Friedrich Strauss/Visions/Howard Rice/Victoria Firmston

Kitchen garden cook Sprouts

by Melanie Johnson

More ways with Sprouts

Brussels sprouts and chorizo cheesy gratin

Steam 750g of prepared Brussels sprouts for four minutes. Fry 200g of chopped chorizo and heat until it releases its oil. Add the cooked Brussels sprouts and toss to coat in all the chorizo flavours. Tip into an ovenproof dish. To a large jug, add 400ml of double cream, two cloves of grated garlic, two tablespoons of chopped rosemary, 50g of grated Parmesan and 100g of grated gruyère. Season well and then pour over the Brussels sprouts. Grate more cheese on top and bake in a hot oven until browned and bubbling, about 25 minutes.

Pheasant Parmesan schnitzels with roasted lemon and garlic Brussels sprouts

Method

Preheat your oven to 180˚C/ 350˚F/gas mark 4.

Prepare Brussels sprouts by removing any dirty outer layers and trimming the bottoms. Add to a roasting tray and pour over the olive oil. Toss to evenly coat. Roast for 30 minutes, so they are cooked and slightly charred. Take three bowls and add the flour to one, the beaten egg to the next and the breadcrumbs to the third.

Lightly tenderise the pheasant breasts beneath clingfilm, then dip to coat in each of the bowls in order.

Set aside. (You could chill the schnitzels for up to 24 hours from this point.)

Add butter and oil to a large frying pan and cook the schnitzels on both sides until golden and cooked through. Place on kitchen roll.

Take the roasted Brussels sprouts and season generously. Add the grated garlic, lemon zest and juice, and Parmesan and then mix everything together to marry the flavours.

Serve the schnitzels immediately with the Brussels sprouts on the side.

Ingredients

Serves 4

600g Brussels sprouts

75ml olive oil

2 cloves garlic, grated

100g plain flour

2 eggs, beaten

200g white breadcrumbs

4 pheasant breasts

1 lemon, zest and juice

50g grated Parmesan

Tyrolean Gröestl with Brussels sprouts

Fry a sliced red onion in butter until soft and add a couple of chopped rashers of bacon. Add equal amounts of roughly chopped cooked Brussels sprouts and slices of cooked potato. Sprinkle over some caraway seeds and cook until everything is slightly charred and the bacon is crispy. Divide between plates and top with a fried egg.

Melanie Johnson

Brussels sprouts are a Christmas must, so let’s make them a dish to get excited about

A walking life

Fiona Reynolds

Gone rabbiting

Watership Down, the land of Hazel and Fiver, makes for a thoughtful walk

IT’S 50 years since the celebrated children’s novel Watership Down was published, as few of us will have mis sed (Masterpiece, November 2). Much of the publicity has, however, been about how it came to be written, as Richard Adams’s way of keeping his daughters occupied on long car journeys. That’s a great story, but there has been remarkably little focus on the place where it is set. Yet what drew me to Watership Down in my youth was its evocation of place and descriptions of the English countryside in the 1960s, before the intensification of agriculture and widespread suburbanisation.

The novel is, in fact, as much about place —or places—as rabbits. Adams set it in a landscape he knew and loved and it’s still possible to follow the rabbits’ adventures and see the countryside as they did. The story opens when Hazel and Fiver (thanks to Fiver’s uncanny sixth sense) escape with a few brave friends from their home at Sandleford Warren (south of Newbury) just before the warren is gassed out, float across the River Enborne, navigate ‘The Heather’ (surely Burghclere Common) and, via a strange warren of somnolent rabbits, find the haven of Watership Down.

From there, as we all remember, they begin the urgent search for females to establish their new warren: journeys that take them first to Nuthanger Farm and then south to the railway and River Test, where they encounter the fearsome General Woundwort in their attempt to liberate a group of brave, imprisoned does. Their eventual success, after a series of narrow misses and the help of the incomparable gull Kehaar, makes for an unforgettable story.

Re-reading the book this year, I was struck by the power of Adams’s evocation of the landscape on the Hampshire/Berkshire border. It was (and still is, in parts, away from the A34) a place of springy turf, wildflowers and cart tracks, into which the occasional tarmacked road and speeding car (or hrududil ) was an ugly intrusion. The Common was peat, gorse and heather, and the chalk edge of Watership Down—which they saw from miles away—rose magnificently from the valley. The river, a chalkstream, was

peaceful and clean; and a small railway once ran through undisturbed countryside. Although tempted to explore their whole journey, it is to Watership Down that I am drawn, and on a drear, but thankfully dry November day, my friend and I walk in a nine-mile circle from Kingsclere up onto the Down, and in a great loop past Nuthanger Farm (a real place) and back again to the pretty village.

We reach the Down via a steep path through scrubby woodland before emerging onto a wide, green track along the scarp face. Here, nearby, are the trees where the rabbits picked the perfect spot for their warren, alongside the gallops where Andrew Balding’s racehorses are trained. We walk along the edge of the Down to the hill fort at its western end, recognising how this

prominent landmark was as appealing to Iron Age humans as to 20th-century rabbits, before descending to the valley via a long track strewn with golden leaves.

At the bottom, we walk on well-marked paths through the Lloyd Webbers’ beautiful Sydmonton estate and its parkland and past Watership Farm, the stud. It’s a short step from there to Nuthanger Farm, which looks altogether more prosperous (and no longer a farm, although the barns where the cats stalked and the tame rabbits were kept are still there) than in Adams’s day. We remember Lucy, the farmer’s daughter, through whose kindness the injured Hazel found his way home.

As we return to Kingsclere, we reflect on a book whose influence was profound, yet which Adams declared had no hidden meanings or message. Perhaps, we thought, it is ultimately in places and the stories they evoke that we find what matters to each of us. Those brave rabbits who followed their instincts found a lasting home, and meaning, in the pursuit of kindness and community. Not a bad metaphor for today.

Fiona Reynolds is the author of ‘The Fight for Beauty’ and chair of the Royal Agricultural University governing council Alamy

Downland peace: the landscape where Richard Adams’s rabbits ran is little changed

We reflect on a book whose influence was profound, yet which Adams declared had no hidden meanings

Jamie Blackett

The verdict on 2022

THE cows’ eyes shine like black diamonds in the darkness and the headlights amplify the steam from their breath. The one I call Tina Turner, a black Jersey with a spiky ginger fringe, stretches her nose out in greeting as I reverse the Land Rover into the log bunker, catching the cool, piney aroma above acrid farmyard smells.

A boot-full will satisfy the voracious goddess inside the biomass boiler, for now, and keep us warm for a day, when I feed the flames in the darkness like the stoker on an old steam train. It becomes a Stakhanovite task in December, but there’s grim satisfaction in thwarting Putin’s energy squeeze: the logs are all home grown. I am in up to five layers of clothing now and a woolly hat in preference to a tweed cap as often as not and especially after sunset. Parkinson’s eponymous law states: work expands to fill the day. But, as the year hurtles towards the winter solstice, it needs a rider ‘and some’. Jobs are mentally sorted between those requiring daylight and those that can be done after dark.

Herself tells me that I would have more time if I did less shooting. (She is a little out of sorts as Alice, our brilliant robotic daily, has proved not to be quite as smart as she thought she was. Alice the Bot can avoid falling down the stairs or getting cornered, but doesn’t know not to hoover up an undetected puppy mess. Vexing.) I reply that shooting is necessary for continuous professional development. How can I embrace whole lifelearning if I don’t spend time on other people’s farms, discussing land-management techniques and how to cope with the latest insane wheeze dreamt up by our political lords and masters? The most recent initiative has had us both burning midnight oil for days.

It started when some bright spark in the Edinburgh nomenklatura realised that there are many more tenants than landlords who vote. They legislated to make it all but impossible to evict tenants from houses, which is a charter for bad tenants, because no landlord ever put out a good tenant without compelling reason. Surprise, surprise, landlords responded by turning properties into holiday lets, saturating that market and causing resentment among wannabe tenants who were unable to rent. A few years ago,

Be more dog: for Pippin and the other animal inhabitants of the farm, life is still good

we stayed in a tenement flat in Edinburgh and had a note pushed under our door, which read: ‘**** Off AirBnB.’

Doubling down on distortion, a few weeks ago the apparatchiks came up with the brainwave of making owners of holiday properties all over Scotland apply for licences, so that the commissars could decide whether our cottages should be reassigned to some other use. This involves a marathon of boxticking to ensure that every possible elf-andsafety/climate-change exigency is covered.

gone mad. Independence may be needed. We have the sea on three sides, so, if we blockade the bridges over the burn and declare UDI, the rest of Scotland can go hang.

Here, at least, I can report good progress on all fronts. The cows faithfully go on giving us our daily milk, blissfully unaware that the ‘white gold’ is worth more in nominal terms than ever before. It is six weeks before the first calves appear and the whole cycle of life begins again. The arable fields glow in varying shades of green—catch crops of rye, vetch, mustard and radish—part of our carbon-sequestration strategy, soon to be measured by the boys and girls of Glasgow University. We must be doing something right: endangered birds—sparrows, starlings, curlews and lapwings—are daily sightings and the new ponds are holding duck.

After nights of form filling, we are 2,000 quid poorer from the licence fees, the Big State has poked more tentacles up our nostrils and our holidaymakers will not notice a thing, except perhaps that we seem a bit greyer than when they last saw us. Of course, there are some who want to abolish property ownership altogether, but, by that time, we kulaks will all be in lunatic asylums anyway.

As the year end draws nigh, I can take stock. The country beyond our marches has clearly

The hedges I’d planned to plant have been postponed by the box-ticking, but the woods are looking much better after a good thinning and on dreich evenings, as I sit by the fire with a nourishing glass of my son’s new John Paul Jones ‘Ranger’ rum with tonic (who knew?), I dream of dappled sunlight on a carpet of bluebells and spring birdsong.

Jamie Blackett farms in Dumfriesshire. His latest book, ‘Land of Milk and Honey: Digressions of a Rural Dissident’, makes the ideal Christmas present

The farm is blooming, but beyond its boundaries the world has gone mad

Sheri Blackett

If we blockade the bridges and declare UDI, the rest of Scotland can go hang

The flying ghosts of Christmases past

Outstanding winners in the following years included Mandarin (in 1957 and 1959), Mill House (1963) and Arkle (1965). Sadly, a stunned Boxing Day crowd would witness the horse affectionately known as ‘Himself’ finish only a valiant second to Dormant in 1966. It turned out Arkle had sustained a broken pedal bone and it was his final race.

TO peruse a list of King George VI Chase winners is to envisage a cavalcade of equine ghosts from Christmases past parade, each a star jumper. The Grand National has a firmer grip on the public imagination and the Cheltenham Gold Cup is the most prestigious prize in steeplechasing, but the backlist of King George winners surpasses both for undiluted quality. This may be because Kempton Park’s Boxing Day showpiece allows runners to return for repeat helpings. The Cheltenham Gold Cup is a gruelling affair and occasionally throws up unexpected results; winners often struggle to run to the same level of form, but Kempton’s brisk three miles is not such a stern test. Fifteen horses have won it more than once, whereas only eight have followed up in the Gold Cup, an older race.

Although run in the mud and murk of midwinter, Kempton’s sharper turns place more demand on speed and quicker jumping. Not every Gold Cup winner in the past 25 years has been an outstanding chaser, but it’s rare for a King George victor not to represent the cream of the crop. Nine out of the past 12 winners have come from the first three in the betting although, ironically, the most recent two came in at bigger prices, last year’s Willie Mullins-trained Tornado Flyer (at 28–1) and Frodon, ridden by Bryony Frost, the only female jockey to triumph, at 20–1, in 2020.

1937 to mark the accession of George VI in 1936,

so there’s a fitting parallel with this year’s renewal, which falls during Charles III’s first year on the throne. George VI was a keen supporter of racing, maintaining the royal interest, although it was his consort Queen Elizabeth who was the most visibly active supporter of National Hunt—Manicou carried her colours to victory in the King George in 1950.

The quality was sustained in the 1970s, dual winners being Pendil (1972, 1973), Captain Christy (1974, 1975) and Silver Buck (1979, 1980). Bachelor’s Hall’s triumph in 1977 completed a remarkable treble, the diminutive chaser having triumphed in the big autumn handicaps then known as the Mackeson Gold Cup at Cheltenham and the Hennessy Gold Cup at Newbury. Hats off to trainer Peter Cundell and jockey Martin O’Halloran—such positive campaigning seems unthinkable now.

The inaugural running of the race occurred in February; the victor, 12-year-old Southern Hero, remains the oldest winner. There was no race between 1939 and 1946 (Kempton Park housed prisoners of war), but, switched to Boxing Day in 1947, its profile took off. The 1948 winner was the great Irish horse Cottage Rake, but the first notable English-trained horse to become truly associated with the race was Halloween. He was a tricky ride, but the brilliant jockey, later champion trainer, Fred Winter established an understanding with him that eluded all other riders; his victories

Although the 1980s brought the race’s first triple winner, the slick-jumping Wayward Lad (trained by Michael Dickinson in 1982 and 1983 and his mother, Monica, in 1985), by the end of the decade it was ‘Dessie’s race’. The David Elsworth-trained Desert Orchid, the beautiful free-running grey, was one of few racehorses in modern times to gain a following beyond ordinary racing circles after his four Boxing Day wins between 1986 and 1990. The stylish jockey Richard Dunwoody, on board for two of the triumphs, then won twice on another outstanding grey, One Man, trained by Gordon Richards, in 1995 and 1996.

The suave French trainer François Doumen became a regular festive dish at about this time (five wins with Nupsala, The Fellow, Algan and First Gold from 1987 to 2000), but the star turn for the past quarter-century has been champion trainer Paul Nicholls. His unmatched ability to enable staying chasers to retain their form and enthusiasm and bring them back year after year is exemplified by the triumphs of See More Business (1997, 1999) Kauto Star (a record five wins between 2006 and 2011), Silviniaco Conti (2013, 2014), Clan Des Obeaux (2018, 2019) and Frodon. To achieve such dominance in a race so packed with quality

The roll of honour for the 85-year-old King George VI Chase at Kempton is of the highest quality in jump racing, observes Jack Watkins

Alamy

The free-running Desert Orchid was one of few racehorses to gain a wider following

Beloved grey Desert Orchid, under Simon Sherwood, takes the first of his wins

They wrote the words the whole world sings

THEY are the ghosts of Christmas past and present: the barely considered wordsmiths whose lines adorn the time-honoured favourite carols that coax even the most vocally timid of us into a wintry warble. Most of us, however, have a passing acquaintance with one story. On Christmas Eve, 1818, an Austrian Catholic priest, Josef Mohr (1792–1848), took verses he’d penned to his friend Franz Gruber, hoping the schoolmaster-musician could conjure an accompanying tune for that evening’s Midnight Mass in the Alpine village of Oberndorf. Gruber could and Stille Nacht Silent Night duly made its debut, apparently with guitar accompaniment, given an ailing church organ.

However, a host of other lyricists are now shadowy characters at best, many of them clerics, many of them Americans. Take the Revd Phillips Brooks (1835–93), who came up with O Little Town of Bethlehem in 1868 when he was rector of the Church of the Holy Trinity in Philadelphia. Brooks found fame via his sermon at Harvard’s 1865 commemoration of American Civil War dead. Later that year, perhaps seeking solace after the conflict, he headed for the Holy Land.

‘In the course of his travels he visited Bethlehem,’ reports Cynthia Staples, historian at Trinity Church in Boston, where Brooks became a legendary preacher. ‘He may have been there on Christmas Eve, 1865. On his return,

he wrote O Little Town of Bethlehem for his Sunday-school children and asked Holy Trinity’s organist, Lewis Redner, to set the words to music.’ On this side of the Atlantic, Ralph Vaughan Williams’s use of an English folk-song melody, The Ploughboy’s Dream, has prevailed —a reminder that ‘Traditional’ and ‘Anon’ have made huge contributions to our Christmases in terms of both tunes and texts.

A similarly troubled backdrop may colour the words of It Came Upon the Midnight Clear, written by Edmund Sears (1810–76) at a time when the Massachusetts pastor seems to have been deeply disturbed by world events, such as the 1848 revolutions in

Europe and America’s war with Mexico. Hence, apparently, such lines as ‘the woes of sin and strife’ and ‘man, at war with man’. Again, an English traditional tune is preferred over here, selected by Arthur Sullivan.

Then there’s the remarkable Cecil Frances Alexander (1818–95). This prolific Anglo-Irish poet gave us Once in Royal David’s City, remembered in stained glass at St Columb’s Cathedral in Londonderry, where Alexander’s husband was Church of Ireland bishop. Her anthology Hymns for Little Children was published in 1848. ‘This was designed to teach aspects of the Creed and the meaning of faith, going through the seasons of the year,’ explains St Columb’s resident historian, Ian Bartlett. ‘Once in Royal conveyed the story and meaning of the Nativity very simply.’ It was only poetry, however, until English organist/songwriter Henry Gauntlett provided the tune that invariably launches a carol service, in 1849.

The history of carol/hymn-writing contains many such examples of words being written without the immediate prospect of a tune, as in the case of Christina Rossetti (1830–94), whose haunting In the Bleak Midwinter awaited its two captivating musical transfigurations by Gustav Holst and Harold Darke. Lyricists and translators didn’t necessarily see it as their job to come up with melodies. The words of While Shepherds Watched were created by Dublin-born Nahum Tate (1652–1715), Poet Laureate from 1692 and writer of the libretto for Purcell’s famed opera Dido and Aeneas, yet destined to die in poverty.

Many of our best-loved and most moving Christmas carols started life as poems in search of a tune. Andrew Green uncovers the writers whose works were nearly forgotten, yet are now imprinted on the memory

Once in Royal conveyed the story and meaning of the Nativity very simply

Facing page: Sing joyfully: carols are for all. Right: Phillips Brooks. Far right: Cecil Frances Alexander

Carol texts for the 21st century

The contemporary composer Bob Chilcott is a prolific writer of Christmas music: ‘I’ve worked with contemporary poets, such as Charles Bennett and Georgia Way. Generally, I’m asking them to come at a familiar feature of Christmas from a new angle. For example, I’ve just set a poem by Georgia that imagines the Virgin Mary’s experience as a very human one. I’m also keen that new carol texts should be clear and straightforward, so that listeners immediately feel at home with them—after all, that’s what we find with so many favourite carols that people have loved all their lives.

‘All composers enjoy trawling through historical carol/hymn books and poetry collections for forgotten texts to set. It’s exciting when you find something that really inspires you, such as the anonymous words I set as The Shepherd’s Carol for the choir of King’s College, Cambridge, in which I used to sing. For my part, I’ve always been more likely to set the text of female poets, whether it’s Christina Rossetti, Emily Dickinson or Elizabeth Jennings. There’s so often a tone to their writing that particularly appeals to me.’

Tate made several contributions to the volume A New Version of the Psalms of David psalms re-written in regular metre for ease of singing. A 1703 supplement featured a Song of the Angels at the Nativity of Our Blessed Saviour, also known as While Shepherds Watched. However, no music was attached. From the host of melodies employed down the years, the one we know best today, perhaps first used in the 1861 Hymns Ancient & Modern, is thought to be 16th century in origin. There is a similar story to Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, the 1739 origins of which (only as verse) rest with a familiar name: the great Methodist leader and dedicated hymn-writer, Charles Wesley (1707–88). Wesley’s straightforward metre attracted many tunes before the familiar one by Mendelssohn, thieved and adapted by English musician William Cummings, staked its claim over a century later. Hark! The Herald is one example among many carols whose original words have been ‘improved’ by editors—Wesley’s first line was ‘Hark how all the welkin rings’.

Only occasional examples (before modern times) show one individual writing both words and music, for example the Pennsylvania Episcopalian minister, John Henry Hopkins (1792–1868). He gave us We Three Kings, created for use within a dramatic presentation

The mountain church at Oberndorf, Austria, saw the first rendition of Silent Night in 1818

of the Nativity at the New York seminary, where he studied in about 1850. As for composer/ lyricist partnerships, Woodward and Wood may lack the ring of Rodgers and Hammerstein, but this pairing made impressive contributions to the development of congregational singing. When he wasn’t bell-ringing or tending bees, Anglican priest George Woodward (1848–1934) fashioned both original verse and translations from earlier written sources. Often, he fitted the lines to existing melodies, which, in many cases, were harmonised by his favoured collaborator, composer/academic Charles Wood (1866–1926). Thus we acquired Ding Dong Merrily On High and Past Three O’Clock English clergyman John Mason Neale (1818–66) also made a highly significant contribution to Christmas carolology with his translations and adaptations, notably from Latin and Greek sources. This was despite a daily struggle with a chronic chest condition that dogged his relatively short life. Neale is particularly renowned for mining

Will they stand the test of time?

For nearly 40 years, a composer has been commissioned to produce a new piece of Christmas music for Carols from King’s. Here are five that have stood the test of time:

lluminare, Jerusalem (Judith Weir) In 1985, the celebrated Scottish-born composer (and current Master of the King’s Music) chose an anonymous text in 15th-century medieval Scots. It swiftly became a Christmas classic, performed far and wide.

a 1582 collection of late-medieval religious songs in Latin, known in shortened form as Piae cantiones (‘Pious songs’); he provided the words for the likes of A Great and Mighty Wonder and Of the Father’s Love Begotten One piece of original verse from Neale has been branded by some as no better than doggerel, but that’s not going to stop us belting out Good King Wenceslas as lustily as ever.

To end, a carol conundrum. Was the original Latin text of O Come All Ye Faithful (Adeste fideles) written to convey coded messages of support for the Jacobite cause of restoring the Stuart dynasty? The man most identified with the text and music is John Francis Wade (1711–86), an underground Roman Catholic plainchant scribe and book publisher. Wade fled Britain for France after the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie in 1745. Bennett Zon of Durham University finds the evidence for this covert messaging compelling, citing the background of a literary tradition of decorating liturgical poetry with Jacobite imagery. One of Wade’s

The musical language has a timeless feel, as the carol relays the Nativity story within the context of Christ’s mission on Earth

The Shepherd’s Carol (Bob Chilcott) John Rutter describes this as ‘the most beautiful modern carol there is’. The haunting music, reflecting a still, cold winter’s night as the shepherds survey the sky, precisely matches the spareness of a poem by Clive Sansom (1910–81). Poetry apart, the British-born Tasmanian’s life largely focused on deeply held Quaker beliefs and an ardent environmentalism

Charles Wesley (above) penned the words to Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, which originally had a first line that read ‘Hark how all the welkin [world] rings’

most important liturgical books, says Prof Zon, dates from 1773. ‘This places the Latin text of Adeste fideles immediately adjacent to a beautifully engraved and coloured portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Given their proximity, Adeste fideles becomes not simply a Christmas carol, but a Jacobite birth ode (Bonnie Prince was born close to Christmas in 1720),’ he suggests.

Thus, for example, ‘Adeste fideles’ means ‘Come, faithful Catholics’ (faithful to exiled Bonnie Prince Charlie). ‘Laeti triumphantes’ is ‘Joyful and triumphant Catholics’. ‘Venite, venite, in Bethlehem’ is ‘Come to Bethlehem’ (to England). ‘Regem angelorum (King of Angels)’ becomes a conventional historical pun for ‘Regem anglorum’ (‘King of the English’— Bonnie Prince Charlie) and so on. ‘The evidence is very strong, given the context,’ says Prof Zon. It’s fair to say, however, that not many of us will be thinking about Jacobite origins on the one day of the year we can sing the verse beginning ‘Yea, Lord, we greet thee’.

There is no Rose (Cecilia McDowall) Last year’s commission. Daringly, she used a 15th-century text in praise of the Virgin Mary already much favoured by composers—but made it her own. Phrase after haunting phrase seems to hang in the midwinter air above us, meeting the brief to write music ‘…that has some kind of intimacy and quietness about it.’ There is no Rose is here to stay

The Three Kings (Jonathan Dove) He used a poem by Dorothy L. Sayers (of Lord Peter Wimsey fame) which reflected

her profound religious faith. Sayers imagined the kings being of very different ages, her pictures of their presence at the Bethlehem stable interwoven with the words of a gentle lullaby, which has been set to hypnotic perfection

What Sweeter Music (John Rutter) Surely no king’s commission has had a more widespread after-life than this. Melting Rutterian melody all the way, haloing Christmas with a golden glow. The words are by Robert Herrick (1591–1674), prolific poet and Anglican clergyman

Interview Sir Philip Rutnam

A coalition of interest

The new chairman of the National Churches Trust talks about the challenges ahead

THE National Churches Trust (NCT) is a charity that seeks to support the 30,000 churches, chapels and meeting houses of all Christian denominations in all parts of the UK that remain in use.’ Sir Philip Rutnam is explaining what makes the charity he recently took responsibility for so special and so different. ‘Our work is not to be confused with that of the Churches Conservation Trust or The Friends of Friendless Churches. They are responsible for churches that are no longer in regular use. We aim to keep living buildings in repair and in operation.’

We are sitting in the London office of the NCT. Appropriately, it occupies the former parish hall of St John’s Smith Square, designed by Lutyens, which opens out on an unexpected scale from behind a modest street front in Westminster. Sir Philip traces his interest in churches and history back to his childhood.

‘I grew up where London turns into Kent and into green countryside,’ he explains. ‘As a teenager, I realised there was a whole world of historic buildings and churches to explore. I went off on expeditions on my bicycle and also discovered Pevsner, which I took out of the school library for months. Then I became part of a local archaeological society in Orpington and I dug at sites such as Lullingstone and Otford. It came as a revelation that beneath the suburban streets and industrial landscape I knew was a wealth of layers of the past.’

In conversation, Sir Philip speaks with precision and a nice turn of phrase. There is real friendliness and courtesy in his manner, but it’s not over-stated; he smiles rather than laughs and, as we speak, he efficiently notes down points he needs to check. The impression is of someone with serious interest, attention

to detail and intellectual authority. His education and professional experience perhaps explain that.

Having read History at Cambridge, Sir Philip took up a Kennedy Scholarship at Harvard in the US. There, he studied ‘more history, but from a completely different perspective’ and clearly relished, in particular, the teaching of Simon Schama. He took an interest in the French 17th-century engraver, Jacques Callot, who recorded the battles and brutalities of the Thirty Years War. ‘But I didn’t have patience for academic life,’ he says, ‘so I returned to Britain and joined the Treasury.’

regulator, Ofcom, an arm’s-length body. He formally assumed his present role as chairman of the NCT at the end of September.

‘Our focus,’ he explains, ‘is on churches and chapels that are of greater historic interest, but we define that broadly and we support unlisted buildings. It’s important that the buildings we help are sustainable and serve the community.’ He adds: ‘As a very small operation, we rely on long experience and people on the ground passing on information and the church team is the jewel in our crown. Through it, we have a strong network of relations via local and diocesan contacts. Our size also makes us pragmatic and a good fit for churches, which are likewise small organisations.’

He refuses to be downbeat about the future of churches. ‘There are huge challenges,’ he admits, ‘but it’s important to resist a narrative of decline. No area of our heritage is more in need of care, attention and a positive future than our churches, chapels and meeting houses.’ He cites the NCT’s recent report, The House of Good (2021), which documents the extraordinary breadth of activities accommodated by churches, from baby and toddler groups to orchestra and choir spaces. ‘It estimated their worth at more than £50 billion per annum. I want to be more visible as an advocate for what this tremendous legacy of buildings offers our country.’

This proved to be the first of three blocks of time Sir Philip worked in the civil service, which he finally left in 2020. The first interruption in this career came with a job in the banking sector in Hong Kong. ‘Spending time abroad,’ he remarks, ‘made me aware of how fortunate Britain is with the quantity and quality of its historic buildings.’ Later, he left government service again, to set up the communications

Amid the pandemic, those grassroots connections made the NCT a helpful partner in the distribution of the Cultural Recovery Fund, which swelled its grants last year to £5.2 million. In a normal year, it distributes about £1 million. The lion’s share of this money goes to the Church of England, but about 20% goes to the churches of other denominations. ‘We’re always seeking to do more,’ Sir Philip assures me. ‘And more in Scotland. We also want to work in partnership with other groups, as well as with statutory bodies.’

On the record

For more information about the National Churches Trust, visit www.nationalchurchestrust.org

Where is your favourite place? Hong Kong, 1996 Favourite building? St George’s Brinsop, Herefordshire—Romanesque sculpture and fittings by Comper Music? Schubert or Motown Book? Tom Jones by Henry Fielding is very funny

Alternative career? I’m a historian manqué Dinner guest? Charlemagne, although he’d be terrifying Who is your hero? My greatgrandmother, who married across racial boundaries and transformed public health in 1890s Ceylon

Are such documents, I ask, really aimed at the Treasury? Indeed, do they presume that the future of these buildings is dependent on Government support? ‘Government is obviously very important,’ he rejoins, ‘and so is the approach taken by the Lottery. But these documents are also necessary to persuade society at large of the importance of church buildings, whether that is parish councils or devolved administrations or philanthropists. We need a broad coalition of the interested and willing to keep these buildings.’

In recent years, Sir Philip and his wife have restored a Grade II*listed house in Herefordshire, an area they both independently used to visit for holidays. ‘It was a beautiful house in need of love,’ he says simply. ‘It’s been there for 600 years and it deserves new life, which is what we have tried to give it.’ What has the work taught him?

‘The most important qualities in a project of this kind are patience and love, the former because the more you look, the more you find.

Seeing these things as a financial balance sheet is ultimately too narrow.’ It’s heartening to hear that from a former Treasury official.

John Goodall

It’s important to resist a narrative of decline

Photograph by Mark Williamson

Britain’s greatest masterpieces

Peter Pan, or The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up

by J. M. Barrie

PETER PAN has become such a staple of the Christmas pantomime season that it’s easy to forget what an ambitious undertaking it was when the curtains first went up at the Duke of York’s Theatre, London, in December 1904. Lavish sets, machinery enabling characters to fly though the air and a cast of 50 made it unusually expensive for a children’s play. Fortunately, American theatre magnate Charles Frohman responded enthusiastically to J. M. Barrie’s idea and financed the production.

Fashionable artist of the day William Nicholson was given a free rein as the designer (he also painted Barrie, perfectly capturing this slight, 5ft 2in man with his deepset, shadowed eyes and drooping moustache) and it was to be an early example of a play with a director, Dion Boucicault Jnr, at a time when the London stage was still in thrall to the actor-manager tradition.

The critic Kenneth Tynan later lambasted Peter Pan for its ‘unctuous sentimentality’, but, as Roger Lancelyn Green put it in Fifty Years of Peter Pan (1954), this was ‘really the first absolutely straight play for children’, at the same time as being ‘a great play in its own right, a memorable theatrical experience, differing only in the nature of its appeal to the adult playgoer, or to the child’.

Its origins lay in Barrie’s friendship with the young sons of Arthur and Sylvia Llewelyn Davies, whom he had met a few years earlier when walking his dog in Kensington Gardens. Barrie was already an established writer with several stage hits behind him, including The Admirable Crichton, and told the boys stories, including about the Birds’ Island in the middle of the Serpentine, where the mysterious Peter Pan and the fairies lived. Further tales were told in holidays at Barrie

Alamy; Getty

Straight on ’til morning: Peter Pan and Wendy fly away over London, in a 1904 illustration

Barrie was haunted by the idea of the boy who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, grow up

Two very important dogs

There might never have been a Peter Pan were it not for Glen, or Porthos, as he was usually called, a St Bernard that the Scottish-born James Matthew Barrie (1860–1937) bought for his wife, Mary, in 1894. He had a wise face and gentle manners and the pair doted on him. Barrie taught him to stand on his hind legs and box; according to his biographer Janet Dunbar, the sight of the well-known author, a short figure in a bowler hat and overcoat, and his fashionably dressed actress wife, Mary Ansell, walking and playing with this huge dog in Kensington Gardens became a familiar sight.

It was Porthos who grabbed the attention of the Llewelyn Davies boys, whose mother Barrie had already met at a social event. When Barrie devised plays at Black Lake Cottage for the boys to act in, Porthos joined in, playing the dog of the Hook

and his actress wife Mary Ansell’s weekend retreat at Black Lake Cottage near Farnham, Surrey, where the lake, reimagined as an exotic lagoon, and surrounding pinewoods, became the hideout of pirates and brigands.

Children were carried screaming from the stalls at Captain Hook

Peter Pan, destined to become a figure of fantasy, had a deeper significance for Barrie, long haunted by the idea of the boy who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, grow up, loss of innocence and even the memory of childhood, and the feeling that adult responsibility meant the loss of liberty. Clearly conveying something of this longing, and beginning the tradition of the part always being taken by a female, the performance of Nina Boucicault, the director’s sister, as the first Peter was still fondly recalled years later by witness Denis Mackail who, The Story of J. M. B. (1941), described ‘her haunting eerie quality, this magic, and this sadness, which is a kind of beauty too’.

prototype, Captain Swarthy. When Porthos died, his place was taken by Luath, a bounding Newfoundland ball of fluff just as enthusiastic about frolicking in Kensington Gardens. The movements of Nana, the Newfoundland children’s nurse in Peter Pan, played by Arthur Lupino in the first production, were based on Luath, after he’d been taken to a Drury Lane studio specialising in making up actors to look like dogs on stage.

What they said

‘Wendy: “Ran away, why?”

‘Peter: “Because I heard father and mother talking of what I was to be when I became a man. I want always to be a little boy and to have fun; so I ran away to Kensington Gardens and I lived a long time among the fairies”’

‘Peter Pan’ by J. M. Barrie

‘Peter Pan is not so much a play as a spree and never has Mr Barrie spreed to better purpose’

‘Morning Post’ openingnight review, 1904

Although Captain Hook would become a figure of parody in later versions (‘He’s behind you!’), Barrie also envisaged him as a more sinister figure. Daphne du Maurier in her biography of her father, Gerald, the first Hook, describes how children among early audiences ‘were carried screaming from the stalls, and even big boys of 12 were known to reach for their mother’s hand… How he was hated, with his flourishes, his poses, his dreaded diabolical smile!’

The play was such a success that Frohman opened another production in New York the following year, to similar acclaim. Barrie wrote a sequel play, When Wendy Grew Up, in 1908 and a novel, Peter and Wendy, in 1911. Nina Boucicault modelled for George Frampton’s bronze statue of Peter Pan near the Long Water in Kensington Gardens, which appeared overnight in 1912 because Barrie wanted children to think it had arrived by magic.

Jack Watkins

‘It is so true, so natural, so touching that it brought the audience to the writer’s feet and held them captives there’ ‘The Daily Telegraph’ opening-night review

Above: The dastardly Hook meets Wendy. Left: The ‘magical’ Kensington Peter Pan

All aboard: the 1904 Peter Pan poster

An Othello for the times

SHAKESPEARE’S plays change with time, as proven by the current production of Othello at the Lyttelton Theatre. In 1964, when Laurence Olivier adopted black make-up to perform the title role, the play became about the tragic downfall of a self-dramatising hero. Now, in Clint Dyer’s new production, it is more about the racism and misogyny within society that dooms both Othello and Desdemona. The result is a compelling night at the theatre, even if Mr Dyer sometimes twists the text to prove his point.

Let me state my reservations. In the war-council scene, the Duke of Venice pointedly refuses to shake Othello by the hand, despite the text indicating his sympathy with the Moor (‘I think this tale would win my daughter too,’ he says after Othello’s account of his wooing of Desdemona).

Iago, when he alone plots Othello’s destruction, is accompanied by a silent chorus of Fascist sympathisers, which suggests the play is about communal, rather than individual, hatred. At the end, there is also exultation at the injunction to Desdemona’s uncle, Gratiano, to ‘keep the house And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor’, implying that the whole play is about the restoration of white supremacy. I can see what Mr Dyer is driving at, but I feel he sometimes loads the dice.

That said, there is much to enjoy in this production. Giles Terera, latterly brilliant as a gay fashion designer in Blues For An Alabama Sky, is a lithe, limber Othello who prides himself on his fighting prowess: he is first seen brandishing a sword-stick and, in the great scene where Iago poisons his mind about Desdemona, he is busy pummelling

What to see this Christmas, plus the best, worst and funniest of 2022

Lovers doomed by racism and misogyny: Giles Terera and Rosy McEwen, both at the top of their game, star in a new Othello

Jonathan Tafler with Miranda Foster in Shaw’s Arms and the Man

a punchbag, unaware that he himself is the one being sadistically abused. Even if Iago’s agency is somewhat undermined by making him the representative of society’s racism, Paul Hilton offers a plausible portrait of a cloth-capped, street-corner thug who cannot bear any trace of nobility: Iago’s observation that ‘Cassio hath a daily beauty in his life that makes me ugly’ gains particular pungency when delivered by this puny, thinmoustache’d villain.

Unusually, it is the women who make the sharpest impression in this production. Rosy McEwen’s svelte Desdemona is clearly a strong-minded character who, having defied social custom by marrying a black soldier, is not going to easily desert him; yet, when she cries ‘O, these men, these men!’ to Emilia, you feel she is lamenting the cruelty inflicted upon her sex as a whole. Tanya Franks, with comparable power, suggests that Emilia’s own trust in her husband, Iago, is wickedly betrayed and that only at the last can she speak the truth. This may not be an Othello for the ages, but what it does prove is that the play still speaks urgently to the world we inhabit.

James Graham’s Best of Enemies, which has transferred from the Young Vic to the Noel Coward Theatre, is another work of extraordinary topical resonance. This may seem surprising, as the play is about the hostile confrontations on American television in 1968, between William F. Buckley Jr and Gore Vidal after the Republican and Democratic Conventions. I must admit I find the debates riveting, but the larger question Mr Graham is asking is whether they marked a turning point in television history by putting the emphasis on a clash of personalities rather than ideas.

My own feeling is that we would be lucky if we had two such eloquent intellectuals on our own native screens. There is no doubt, however, that the two

men are impeccably portrayed by David Harewood as the languidly brutal Buckley and Zachary Quinto as the smoothly vituperative Vidal.

Conan Doyle by suggesting that Holmes, after the death of Moriarty, has turned into an embittered, Scrooge-like recluse who can only be redeemed by taking on a new case. The text is rich in allusions to Irene Adler, the Fezziwig family and the case of the blue carbuncle and offers a piece of unusually literate escapism. Ben Caplan captures all of Holmes’s morose solitude and, in a frantically role-swapping cast, Richard James as both Dr Watson and a beaky-nosed housekeeper and Rosie Armstrong as a seductive Countess and a lynx-eyed member of the Cratchit family shine with conspicuous brightness.

neglected by most of the British theatre. I confess this is not my favourite Shaw, but in its story of a Bulgarian heroine who rejects her bombastic fiance for a Swiss mercenary, it pokes fun at military swagger, fake romanticism and social pretence: I especially like the line of a Balkan hostess who announces: ‘Our position is almost historical—we can go back for 20 years.’

For something more seasonal, I warmly recommend A Sherlock Carol, which is running at the recently opened Marylebone Theatre, a stone’s throw from the great detective’s Baker Street residence. Written and directed by Mark Shanahan, the play ingeniously fuses Dickens and

No less festive in its way is Paul Miller’s revival of Arms and the Man at the Orange Tree Theatre. This is Mr Miller’s farewell production and the sixth George Bernard Shaw play he has directed during his tenure: he deserves great credit for keeping the theatre buoyant when it lost its Arts Council grant and for staying loyal to Shaw, who is ludicrously

The piece is also played with enormous gusto by Alex Waldmann as the chocolate-eating Swiss soldier, Rebecca Collingwood as the girl in whose bedroom he hides and Miranda Foster as her mother, who has learned her grandiose behaviour from the opera. I wouldn’t claim that the play, unlike Othello, has great relevance for today, but it remains a farcical delight.

‘Othello’ until January 21, 2023 (020–3989 5455); ‘Best of Enemies’ until February 18 (0344 482 5151); ‘A Sherlock Carol’ until January 7 (020–7723 7984); ‘Arms and the Man’ until January 14 (020–8940 3633)

Ben Caplan and Richard James in Mark Shanahan’s blend of Dickens and Conan Doyle, A Sherlock Carol

Myah Jeffers; Ellie Kurtz; Danny Kaan; Manuel Harlan; Marc Brenner

The text is rich in allusions to the Fezziwigs and the blue carbuncle and offers literate escapism

2022 The good, the bad and the ugly

Most gripping new play Peter Morgan’s Patriots at the Almeida, which explored the rise and fall of the Russian oligarch Boris Berezovsky. Not to be missed when it moves to the Noel Coward Theatre in June 2023

Stand-out performances Ralph Fiennes, who gets better with each advancing year, dazzled as the New York landscape architect Robert Moses in David Hare’s Straight Line Crazy at The Bridge (below) and then capped it with his solo performance of T. S. Eliot’s The Four Quartets

Funniest play Richard Bean’s update of Sheridan’s The Rivals, Jack Absolute Flies Again, at the Olivier. It also contained the line that made me laugh loudest when Jack says to his father: ‘When mother eloped with your butler, you were bereft.’ To which a deeply saddened Sir Anthony replies: ‘Yes. I miss him’

Unfunniest play Much as I admire Terry Johnson and the Menier Chocolate Factory, The Sex Party left me staring po-faced at the antics of a group of desperate north London swingers

as Nicholas Woodeson’s Prospero reminded us that ‘the rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance’

Least moving classical revival Jamie Lloyd’s production of The Seagull at the Harold Pinter Theatre was literally unmoving in that the actors simply sat on chairs while delivering Chekhov’s text in strangulated whispers

Jodie Comer also flew solo in Prima Facie at the Harold Pinter Theatre in what, astonishingly, was her theatrical debut. Everyone’s favourite assassin in Killing Eve held the audience captive as a defence lawyer confronting direct experience of rape

Best performance of a living egoist

A close tie between Bertie Carvel as an orange-complexioned Donald Trump in Mike Bartlett’s The 47th at The Old Vic (right) and Andrew Woodall as a foulmouthed Paul Dacre in Tim Walker’s Bloody Difficult Women at the Riverside Studios

Discovery of the year Kate O’Brien’s Distinguished Villa, written in 1926, at the Finborough Theatre. Although she later became famous as a novelist—referenced by Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter—Miss O’Brien turned out to be a first-rate playwright who here pinned down the ghastly consequences of a sham gentility

Finest revival of an American musical Daniel Fish’s production of Oklahoma!, which transfers in February from the Young Vic to Wyndham’s, was a genuine eye- and ear-opener. It made you see that Rodgers and Hammerstein’s classic is partly about the victimisation of a love-lorn outsider, Jud Fry, superbly played by Patrick Vaill. The imperishable tunes were beautifully sung by Anoushka Lucas as Laurey and Marisha Wallace as a lusty Ado Annie

Worst revival of an American musical In a year that saw the death of the great Stephen Sondheim, Southwark Playhouse’s production of his early piece, Anyone Can Whistle, did him no favours. This story of a small American town exploiting a fake miracle was anything but miraculous

Most moving classical revival Deborah Warner’s production of The Tempest at the Ustinov Studio in Bath reached the heart

Best puppetry That word hardly does justice to Basil Twist’s amazing creations in My Neighbour Totoro at the Barbican. I’m torn between admiration for the vast, furry, friendly-but-sinister Totoro and the inflatable Catbus, with laser-like eyes and mice clinging to its bodywork

Most memorable design Jon Bausor’s set for Majeure in the limited confines of the Donmar Warehouse gave us a slanted ski slope, a snowy mountainscape and even a thunderous avalanche. Watching it, I felt infinitely closer to St Moritz than to Seven Dials

There’s no business like snow business: the Donmar Theatre and designer Jon Bausor went the extra mile in Force Majeure, even conjuring up an avalanche

All creatures great and small

IF you leaf through a collection of some of Britain’s best-loved children’s books, it is remarkable how many of them feature animals, either as m ain characters or as much-loved sidekicks. From Victorian tales to contemporary classics, there’s an abundance of horses, dogs, cats and other creatures racing across the pages, capturing generations of readers and helping to foster the enduring love of animals that

idiosyncratic and eccentric as humans and furnished with irrepressible energy and good humour. As main characters, they transport readers into another world and, as accomplices, they are (generally) obedient to their young owners, faithful companions keen to get involved in all sorts of adventures.

Two of the best-known series for young children are A. A. Milne’s ‘Winnie-the-Pooh’ collection and Michael Bond’s ‘Paddington’ books. Both feature bears that incline more towards the teddy rather than the grizzly variety and both of them have survived the

test of time, remaining firm favourites many decades after they were first published. The first collection of stories about Winniethe-Pooh appeared in 1926, although the eagle-eyed can spot an early poem about the bear in When We Were Very Young, which Milne had published two years earlier. The inspiration for the character famously came from a toy bear belonging to Milne’s son Christopher Robin, which, in turn, had been named after a Canadian black bear called Winnie who lived at London Zoo. Pooh’s irrepressible good humour and propensity for

From bears to ponies, lions–and even a hedgehog–we all have favourite animal characters from the stories we read as children, says a wistful Catriona Gray

finding himself in sticky situations immediately made him a popular figure and, following the sale of the film rights to the Walt Disney Company in the 1960s, his fame spread internationally.

Paddington Bear undertook a similar journey—Bond’s first book, A Bear Called Paddington, appeared in 1958, the first of more than 20 volumes to feature the wellmannered bear from Peru with a penchant for marmalade sandwiches. A number of television adaptations followed and Paddington stuffed toys became popular. Television presenter Jeremy Clarkson received one of the first prototypes as a child in the 1970s —his parents, Shirley and Eddie Clarkson, ran the company licensed to make the toys. After the release of the film Paddington in 2014 and its sequel three years later, the

bear gained a new wave of admirers and is regarded as such a quintessentially British treasure that he even made a cameo appearance with the Queen earlier this year in a short film to mark her Platinum Jubilee.

Of course, there are many books about animals that have become firm classics without being turned into global franchises. Take Dick King-Smith, for example, who produced a large number of books between 1978 and 2007, nearly all of which had animals in prominent roles. Born in 1922, he became a farmer after serving as a soldier during the Second World War and this provided him with a wealth of inspiration for his many books— the best depictions

of animals in books tend to come from writers who have had first-hand experience of the creatures they write about, because they are able to fictionalise them, as well as making them seem real.

King-Smith’s first book, The Fox-Busters, starred a trio of intrepid chickens determined to fight back against constant attacks by neighbouring foxes, but almost all his stories feature animals in some form or another, from his collection of picture books to his chapter books for slightly older children. These include the ‘Sophie’ series about a small and very determined girl who dreams of becoming a farmer; The Hodgeheg, which tells the story of a young hedgehog left somewhat confused after a near-death experience crossing the road; and The Sheep-Pig (which was later turned into the 1995

The best depictions of animals come from writers who have first-hand experience of the creatures they write about

film Babe), about an ebullient pig convinced that it can do the work of a sheepdog.

Animals feature particularly heavily in books aimed at eight to 12-year-olds—this category contains so many classics that can be happily re-read throughout a lifetime. One such is Black Beauty, which has never gone out of print since it first appeared in 1877. Written by an ailing Anna Sewell, who died only five months after the book was published, it is—as many will know—a tearjerking account of the life of a horse, from idyllic beginnings as a foal in the English countryside to the brutality of pulling cabs in London. It shocked readers with its grim and intricate descriptions of practices such as the use of bearing reins—used to keep horses’ heads up and incredibly cruel if over-tightened

—and highlighted the unfeasibly long working hours endured by London’s cab horses. It stirred up immense public sympathy in Victorian England and brought much-needed attention to the subject of animal welfare.

Black Beauty is also considered to be the forerunner of the pony book, a genre that had its golden age in the middle decades of the 20th century. The Pullein-Thompson sisters were by far the best-known names, each sister responsible for a remarkably prolific output—Christine Pullein-Thompson alone wrote more than 100 books for children, the majority of which were pony stories. Their mother, Joanna Cannan, was an early pioneer of the pony book, writing a number of them in the 1930s and 1940s, beginning with A Pony for Jean, which became a classic of the

genre. Her three daughters—Christine, Diana and Josephine—were clearly precocious, writing from a young age, as well as dropping out of formal education to open a riding school at their home in Oxfordshire. They chronicled their early adventures in their joint autobiography, Fair Girls and Grey Horses, which is as captivating a read as any

of their novels. Although the majority of the sisters’ books are currently out of print, their sheer popularity at the time means that there are a reasonable number of second-hand copies still available, the charmingly illustrated covers making the originals far more appealing than any modern reissue.

Animals are also staple characters in many of Britain’s most popular fantasy stories, from the Cheshire Cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland to the assortment of owls, ‘When he shakes his mane/ We shall have spring again’: the great king Aslan saves the land of Narnia ( left ) and its people, including Mr and Mrs Beaver ( below ), when the Pevensies arrive through the wardrobe, a device that has led countless hopeful children to try to follow suit

The PulleinThompson daughters were precocious, writing from a young age, as well as opening a riding school

toads and magical creatures in J. K. Rowling’s ‘Harry Potter’ books. C. S. Lewis featured many across his seven ‘Chronicles of Narnia’, creating a kingdom that was ruled over by Aslan, an almighty lion, and populated by talking beasts large and small—Lewis’s talent lay in his ability to anthropomorphise the animals he wrote about, as well as retaining their essential wildness.

Mr and Mrs Beaver provide some muchneeded shelter for the four Pevensie children in The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe their respite from the wintery cold in the warm, wooden lodge supplies a welcome moment of calm in a rapidly escalating plot. There’s Reepicheep, the mouse who appears in three of the Narnia books, whose enormous bravery and lust for adventure sees him sailing off alone towards the very edge of the world in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, and a talking horse is one of the title characters in A Horse and His Boy : captured by the Calormenes as a foal, Bree is on a quest to return to his homeland of Narnia. Along the way, his rather vain and proud personality slowly transforms and evolves, in an internal journey that’s profound enough to rival that of any of the human protagonists in the series.

Having grown up on a diet of stories such as these, it was inevitable that when I started writing

Black Beauty

my own books for children, animals would loom large in the story. My debut novel, Spellstoppers, is a fantasy aimed at eight to 12-year-olds, in which three of the most lively characters are a trio of black hounds named Banana, Sardine and Treacle.

Animals provide an opportunity for humour and chaos, and can supply some much-needed light relief in a fast-paced story. However, my villainess also possesses the ability to turn into an animal at will—in this case, an enormous European eagle owl, the inspiration for which came from a feature on British owls published in the pages of this magazine (‘It’s all in the stare’, September 27, 2017 ).

Looking at recently released works by my peers, I find their pages are similarly filled with an assortment of animals, showing that there’s no danger of this tradition dying out any time soon.

Our collective love of animals has always revealed itself in literature and, hopefully, the prevalence of animals in children’s books means that this very British passion will continue for many generations to come.

‘Spellstoppers’ by Cat Gray (Usborne, £7.99) is out now

‘Every adventure requires a first step’: the Cheshire Cat may be mad, but he is wise, too

Left: That’ll do, pig: Dick King-Smith’s would-be sheepdog charms all hearts. Above: Always welcome at the Palace: Paddington Bear

The internal journey of talking horse Bree is profound enough to rival any of the human protagonists of the “Narnia” series

Alamy; Getty

12 children’s classics for animal lovers

The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame (bottom)

Since this book first appeared in 1908, countless children have eagerly followed the adventures of Mole, Ratty, Badger and the irrepressible Mr Toad

National Velvet by Enid Bagnold (below right)

After winning a horse in a raffle, 14-yearold Velvet Brown trains and rides it to victory in the Grand National. The 1935 book was subsequently made into a film starring a young Elizabeth Taylor

The Hundred and One Dalmatians by Dodie Smith

Deliciously witty and succinct, this 1956 novel doesn’t fail to bring a smile as it follows the efforts of Pongo and Missis to rescue their puppies from the wicked Cruella de Vil

The ‘Carbonel’ series by Barbara Sleigh

A well-regarded trilogy of books published from 1955 to 1978 about a talking cat called Carbonel and his rooftop kingdom. Based on an old British folk tale, the novels are known for their magical atmosphere

Jill’s Gymkhana by Ruby Ferguson

Published in 1949, this is the first of the ‘Jill’ series—nine very popular pony books that chronicle the journey of the heroine as she evolves from novice to prize-winning rider

The Little Broomstick by Mary Stewart

Mary Smith is led by the cat Tib on a quest to save its brother and other animals from an evil witch’s transformation spell

War Horse by Michael Morpurgo (above)

Set in the First World War, this novel follows the experiences of Joey, a horse bought by the army to serve in France, and the attempts of his youthful former owner to bring him safely home

The Beasts of Clawstone Castle by Eva Ibbotson

Eva Ibbotson wrote a number of influential children’s books that stand the test of time —this 2005 fantasy novel revolves around the theft of wild cattle from a very unusual castle in the Scottish Borders

The ‘Romney Marsh’ and ‘Punchbowl’ series by Monica Edwards

Full of ponies, brave children and thrilling adventures—plus understanding parents —these books describe the kind of childhoods we dream of having

Moorland Mousie by Muriel Wace

Evocatively illustrated by Lionel Edwards, these short stories tell the life of an Exmoor pony and his friends, human and equine

Tarka the Otter by Henry Williamson

This beloved chronicle of an otter’s life and death in the Devon waterways is ‘probably the greatest animal story ever written’, according to BB

Wild Lone: the story of a Pytchley fox by BB

A motherless fox fights to live another day in a tale that brings the English countryside and Nature to life

Touch of the toadstone

IHAVE a soft spot for toads—with the exception of the gigantic cane variety that plagues northern Australia—indeed, amphibians of all kinds, so do not understand how they could have been so mistreated as to acquire the entirely imaginary stone believed to be encased in their heads. As the toad does have poison glands in its skin, it was supposed that it would carry an antidote and, from the 14th to at least the 18th centuries, people maintained that the touch of such a ‘toadstone’ was sovereign against poisoning and similar disorders.

In his 1608 History of Serpents, Edward Topsell tells us: ‘There be many that weare these stones in Ringes, being verily perswaded that they keepe them from all manner of grypings and paines of the belly and the small guttes. But the Art (as they terme it) is in taking of it out, for they say it must be taken out of the head alive, before the Toad be dead, with a peece of cloth of the colour of red Skarlet, where-withall they [toads] are much delighted, so that they stretch out themselves as it were in sport upon that cloth, they cast out the stone of their head…’

Oh dear. It is tempting to hope that in this murdering hecatombs of innocent toads a law of unintended consequences was triggered and many more of their persecutors than normal perished from agues and insect bites.

Naturally, there were plenty of quacks happy to supply the market, even if the toads

themselves could not, and the substitutes they found are apparently something almost as magical: the fossilised teeth of a 175million-year-old, long-extinct Jurassic fish. These polish very well.

Recently, a 16th- or 17th-century gold ring set with a toadstone (Fig 1) was brought amid a box of miscellaneous jewellery into Sworders of Stansted Mountfitchet, where it was recognised by the specialist Catriona Smith. The mount is pierced to allow contact with the skin for better efficacy. Last month, this ring, which was in good condition, went for a healthy £16,250 to a bidder from Guernsey, underbid from Scotland.

Another ring, this time medieval (Fig 2) , made headlines at the Mayfair coin, jewel and medal specialists Noonans. This had been discovered in Dorset by David Board, a metal-detectorist, and is believed to have been the wedding ring given by Sir Thomas Brook, or Brooke (about 1355–1418), to his wife, Joan Cheddar, née Hanham, for their marriage in 1388.

This alliance brought the Brook family great wealth and status, but also considerable danger, as it involved them with the heretic Lollards led by Sir John Oldcastle, who was hanged and burned despite being

the former friend of Prince Hal. Shakespeare gave Falstaff a less gruesome end.

Lady Brook’s first husband, Robert Cheddar (d.1384), MP and twice Mayor of Bristol, had left 17 manors, five advowsons and extensive properties throughout Devon, Dorset, Somerset and Gloucestershire, together with 21 shops, four cellars and 160 tenements in Bristol. These went to their young son, but he passed them to his mother and stepfather for life. Sir Thomas wanted a plain memorial for himself, but his widow had other ideas and, eventually, they came to lie under a magnificent ledger stone and monumental brass.

A pair of unusual rings, one found in a field, and a collection of stuffed fish are among interesting recent sales

Fig 1: A gold ring set with a 16th- or 17thcentury toadstone, made from the tooth of a long-extinct Jurassic fish. £16,250

Fig 2: A medieval double gold twist ring set with a diamond, found in a Dorset field. It is believed to be a wedding ring given by Thomas Brook to his wife, Joan. £48,944

Their ring, which sold for £48,944, was a double gold twist set with a diamond and engraved within ‘ieo vos tien foi tenes le moy’ (as I hold your faith hold mine). Mr Board and the farmer in whose field the ring was found watched the sale together in a local pub.

In the course of the epic journey up the Thames recounted by Jerome K. Jerome in Three Men in a Boat (1889), he and George (Harris had unaccountably disappeared) found themselves in a pub between Streatley and Wallingford, the Beetle & Wedge probably, where they admired a remarkably fine cased fish, which the locals, one by one, claimed to have caught. Unfortunately, when George climbed up for a closer look, he brought it down. ‘We thought it strange and unaccountable that a stuffed trout should break up into little pieces like that. And so it would have been strange and unaccountable, if it had been a stuffed trout, but it was not… That trout was plaster-of-Paris.’

However, the collection of stuffed fish more recently accumulated by a now retired landlord at the Flower Pot Hotel, on the bank a few miles below Henley, seems to have been composed of properly prepared and stuffed specimens. These were sold last month at Summers Place Auctions, West Sussex.

Many of them were in the well-known bowfronted cases that were a speciality of the Islington taxidermy business J. Cooper & Sons, set up by a Clerkenwell watchmaker in 1825 and continuing until 1960. Early Cooper cases, some with labels, tended to have flat fronts and basic groundwork, but they became more

elaborate towards the end of the century and many had gold-leaf details of the catch painted on their bow fronts.

When I last wrote about Cooper cases, about 25 years ago, the best were more expensive than today, with pike particularly popular, but this time it was a 1910 perch weighing 3lb 10oz (Fig 3) that took the prize, at £1,430, and a case of three reached £1,300. A considerable surprise was the £468 paid after fierce bidding for a small recently made case containing a tin of Glenryck pilchards (Fig 4) , the more so as the previous lot of John West sardines had only reached £78.

December 28 Memory and inspiration

Pick of the week

Noonans also sold the collection of English Civil War medals formed by Jerome and Arlene Platt of Philadelphia since the 1970s. The choicest were by Thomas Rawlins (about 1620–70), a playwright as well as a medallist and coin designer. According to Evelyn, he was ‘an excellent artist but debosh’d fellow’. The grandest example was a gold Royalist medal of Charles I (far right), which made £26,000 (estimated to £10,000), whereas a silver-gilt medal or award celebrating Prince Rupert reached £14,300 (estimated to £5,000). The reverse of a memorial medal to Charles I (right) showed not an axe and block, but hammer and diamond for steadfastness (£7,800).

Fig 3 left: A perch weighing 3lb 10oz caught in 1910 and cased by taxidermist J. Cooper & Sons, of Islington. £1,430.

Fig 4 below: A tin of Glenryck South Atlantic pilchards, recently cased. £468

Print’s pulling power

New interiors books, chosen by Giles Kime

PRESUMABLY, when the television was invented, it was seen by early adopters as the end of the road for radio, as the arrival of electric light meant curtains for the candle. Yet only rarely does new technology supersede the old. Ten years ago, I interviewed an interior designer who said that he never fitted bookshelves in his clients’ homes because ‘they wouldn’t be reading books for much longer’. Cheeringly, book sales rose by 20% over the beginning of the pandemic.

There’s no doubt that, for anyone interested in interior design, there’s a lot of free stuff online. Instagram, Pinterest and websites all feature beautiful imagery of a quality that you could only have found in books and

magazines a decade or two ago. It’s lovely, if seemingly infinite. Yet, as every bibliophile knows, books have the attraction of a beginning, a middle and an end.

Books on interior design also owe their existence to a very different process, which requires a good deal more commitment in time and financial investment. Creatively, there’s a vast gulf between deciding on the theme of a book, structuring it, commissioning photographs and writing the text—and uploading images somewhere in the digital universe. The rigour and discipline required ensures that books tend to be, by their very nature, more considered.

As do many journalists, I have a bit of previous in this matter;

15 years ago, I wrote three books before taking a decade-long breather and then writing another.

I assumed that, in the intervening period, the rise of online interiors content would diminish the power of print. How wrong I was; the book I wrote on the

interior designer Nina Campbell flew off the shelves, not only in Britain and the US, but all over the world; a WhatsApp message from our teenage son showed a pile of them for sale in Jakarta. Miss Campbell’s lecture tour marking the publication of the book took her far (Melbourne) and wide (Omaha). The printed page, it seems, still has considerable pulling power.

Interiors books do very different things. Some act as monuments to their subjects: A Life Of Design by David Hicks’s son Ashley captures his inventive spirit; Roger Banks-Pye’s Inspirational Interiors explains the extraordinary detail required to create classic English interiors; Living by Design by John Stefanidis

Living in a period house no longer has to involve sacrificing creature comforts on the altar of authenticity

Books

reveals the secret to the designer’s marvellously studied elegance.

Other books celebrate shifts. Of these, there has been one major new arrival this year, in the form of Craft Britain: Why Making Matters by Helen Chislett and David Linley (£40, OH Editions), which is a hymn to both traditional and contemporary craft that is at last moving from the margins to the mainstream. ‘Craft would be marginalised if it were only a minority activity and archaic hobbyists. Instead, it’s a larger concern of caring about the nature of things, being suspicious of meretricious novelty and investing passion in the everyday,’ enthuses an optimistic Stephen Bayley in the foreword.

There is something refreshing about the depth and breadth craft skills explored; cool, young knitting designers and wheelwrights sit alongside ceramics destined for glass cabinets. Look out for Felicity Irons, who has preserved the art of weaving rushes that she cuts on the River Great Ouse and weaves in her Bedfordshire barn.

Another publishing highlight of the year is Edward Bulmer’s

demonstration of how colour can be used to bring period houses into the 21st century. In his first book, The Colourful Past: Edward Bulmer and the English Country House (£47.95, Rizzoli), he discusses what working with the owners of statelier piles has taught him about employing a rich, distinctive palette to create happy family spaces in timeless places.

I must declare an interest in The Evolution of Home: English Interiors for a New Era (£40, Rizzoli), which I co-wrote with the interior designer Emma SimsHilditch. I hope the book demonstrates that living in a period house—particularly one in the country—no longer has to involve sacrificing creature comforts on the altar of authenticity. Nor do aesthetic choices have to be hamstrung by historical correctness. In my favourite project, an immense pile rescued from impending gloom, Mrs SimsHilditch decided to paint over the brooding architectural details, a move that brings the space to life and shows off the ancestral furniture at its very best.

The great thing about breathing new life into old houses is

that they have plenty of individuality. Distinctive and individual interiors that reflect the personal tastes and whims of their owners are subject of The Life Eclectic (£30, Hardie Grant), Alex Breeze’s charming tour of homes of creative souls, from

With a combination of individuality, craft, a healthy lack of respect for the past and an enthusiasm for the challenges ahead, the future for interior design looks bright indeed.

Manfredi della Gherardesca to Martin Brudnizki.

Preceding page: Felicity Irons, who weaves rushes in her barn in Bedfordshire, features in Craft Britain: Why Making Matters. Clockwise from left: Books by Alex Breeze, Edward Bulmer and Emma Sims-Hilditch reveal a positive future for interior design

Portrait of Felicity Irons by Andrew Montgomery

Christmas crossword

by Roderick Easdale

A bottle of Champagne will be awarded for the first correct solution opened. Solutions must reach Christmas Crossword, Country LiFe, 121–141 Westbourne Terrace, Paddington, London, W2 6JR, by Tuesday, January 3. UK entrants only. The answers will appear in the January 4 number’s Town & Country pages and the winner will be announced in the January 11 number

ACROSS

10 I copied peer when editing work of its time (6,5)

11 River time short as afraid of being filmed (6-3)

13 Has every right now in assessing first breach (6)

14 None cried when repairing internal secretion (9)

15 North East way home (4)

16 Narrates two books of the Bible (10)

20 It is ration formula for fathers (10)

21 Less than two errors during riptide (8)

22 A tempting ace piece of recording equipment (8,4)

25 Losing female boxer perhaps at plant (5-4,5)

28 Large-scale electronic photograph (4)

30 Unlocked? Simple (4)

31 Saint marches in to dispute something Jesus begat to the world (9,5)

34 No seats for substitute equerry (8,4)

37 Love to record European Union comeback after some French tête-a-tête (8)

38 Near time medic begins essay on clothing item (10)

41 Match American hat at pub (5,5)

42 Stray sheep eats nowt (4)

43 I rent airy place as part of programme (9)

46 Crazy bird (6)

48 Prevent everyone taking to the woods (9)

49 Scenting ill wind drawing in (11)

DOWN

1 Polythene used to make radio (9)

2 Wrong about good suggestion (4)

NAME

ADDRESS Tel No

3 Italicised writing is romantic (10)

4 Bad habit of deputy (4)

5 Acerbic article on the police (4)

6 Wreck at one point was ocean going (8)

7 Copying petitioner again (10)

8 Greedy person gets bird (6)

9 Hunter has a cannon (6)

12 Longing to be nagging (6)

17 Finished with chap and nut carrying too much baggage (9)

18 Way to drive slowly wearing little clothing (3,4)

19 Grins when each card is small (7)

23 So other free options (9)

24 Feel for power couple (4)

26 Melissa now of enormous proportions (7)

27 Ecclesiastical body in charge of conjunction of two bodies (7)

29 Rush to river (4)

31 One of the most famous

SOLUTION TO 4759

instances of this was on December 25 (10)

32 Each Celtic area is frozen (10)

33 Foolish to start puzzle (9)

35 Bush fighter and I urge all to come round (8)

36 Removal of new routes (6)

39 So go in when in shape (6)

40 Small village play (6)

44 Book of play parts (4)

45 American is a jerk (4)

47 Two officers share horse (4)

ACROSS: 7, Barefoot; 9, Remain; 10, Iron; 11, Price index; 12, Flecks; 14, Inertias; 15, Roundthe-clock; 17, Acetates; 19, Lascar; 21, Sextuplets; 22, Bats; 23, Crowns; 24, Playgoer.

DOWN: 1, Laurel; 2, Mean; 3, Composed; 4, Breeze; 5, Emanations; 6, Tidemark; 8, Twilight sleep; 13, County town; 15, Rocketry; 16, Colossal; 18, Typist; 20, Anthem; 22, Bags.

The winner of 4758 is Simon Marks, Forest Hill, London

Quiz answers

How did you do? Check your answers to the Editor’s Christmas quiz ( page 168)

The year that was

1 Great Paul; 2 Two, blue and yellow; 3 Eggs, owing to avian flu; 4 Australia; 5 Great Britain (Sam Ryder); 6 Curling; 7 Lincolnshire (at Coningsby);

8 Shehan Karunatilaka is Sri Lankan; 9 Richmond (North Yorkshire); 10 Sleep dearie, sleep

We are the champions

1 Eventing; 2 Liverpool; 3 Sam Waley-Cohen; 4 Tour de France; 5 Leah Williamson

My family and other animals

1 Susan, a Pembroke corgi; 2 A Jersey cow; 3 Aureole; 4 An elephant called Jumbo; 5 Fell pony

Cathedral spires

1 Durham; 2 Truro; 3 Coventry; 4 Gloucester; 5 Ripon

Bridge Andrew Robson

Eat, drink and be merry

1 Cambridgeshire;

2 The last Sunday before Advent; 3 Advocaat, which is brandy based; 4 Apple; 5 Chestnut with red wattle and white tail feathers

Country lore

1 Dedham Vale; 2 Fox; 3 Woodcock; 4 In the Flow Country, Caithness and Sutherland; 5 Grey; 6 The lark; 7 Horse chestnut; 8 Yellow; 9 Snowdrop; 10 Tench

Hotchpotch

1 Trombone; 2 Environmental Land Management Schemes; 3 Frank Auerbach; 4 English Literature; 5 Finnish; 6 Badger; 7 Land of My Fathers ; 8 They are all Wykehamists; 9 A chicken; 10 A West Country tradition of imitating a rutting red-deer stag

Watch your flocks ( picture round )

1 Cotswold; 2 Herdwick; 3 Soay; 4 Manx Loaghtan; 5 Bluefaced Leicester; 6 Balwen

Dearly departed

1 Hilary Mantel;

Christmas traditions ( picture round )

1 Log fire; 2 Star in the east;

3 Farmers’ market; 4 Wreath making; 5 Dog walking; 6 Boxing Day hunt; 7 Midnight Mass; 8 Sledding; 9 King’s Speech

Carols by heart

1 It came upon the Midnight Clear ; 2 In the Bleak Midwinter ; 3 The First Nowell ;

4 O Little Town of Bethlehem ;

5 While Shepherds Watched

What the Dickens?

1 A Christmas Carol ; 2 Oliver

Twist ; 3 Bleak House ; 4 Hard Times ; 5 Barnaby Rudge

2 Barry Cryer; 3 Shane Warne; 4 Lester Piggott; 5 Raymond Briggs

National pride

1 Exmoor; 2 Brecon Beacons; 3 Peak District; 4 Yorkshire Dales; 5 Norfolk Broads

IN the 45th World Team Championships, held last spring in Salsomaggiori, the English Open Team lost narrowly to the eventual winners in the quarterfinal—no shame there as the average age of the team was nearer 30 than 40. The English Women went one better, winning their quarterfinal match versus France before losing to Turkey in the semifinal. There was no third-place playoff, so it was a glorious bronze medal for the English sextet.

Watch Fiona Brown make this unlikely Four Spades from that victorious cross-Channel battle.

Dealer South Both Vulnerable N W E S ✢ K92 AKJ43 J1093 9 Q10 1086 A652 7653 J74 9752 KQ87 K4 A8653 Q 4 AQJ1082

At the other table, the French North-South pair reached the hopeless Five Clubs, the contract drifting three down when declarer lost trump control. Mind you, Four Spades looks to have four losers.

West led out the Ace-King of Hearts, declarer winning and advancing a low Spade. West passed the hurdle, playing low, East beating the Knave with the Queen. Declarer ruffed East’s Heart return and cashed the Ace of Spades. Leaving the master trump outstanding, declarer crossed to the King of Clubs and returned to her Ace.

West ruffed and, in a moment she will wish to forget, led a fourth Heart. Declarer ruffed with her last Spade and could cash her four winning Clubs, discarding all four of dummy’s Diamonds. East went to bed with the Ace of Diamonds and that was game made.

Switzerland. In case you are wondering how come such a small nation came to be all-powerful at bridge, and without wishing to denigrate, I should point out that Swiss property developer Pierre Zimmermann brought on board arguably the two best pairs in the world: Brink-Drijver (originally from Holland) and GawrysKlukowski (originally from Poland).

Mr Zimmermann can play, though. He’s perhaps about on a par with the legend of screen (and green baize) Omar Sharif—he competes with the best and comes up only half a yard short. Our second deal comes from the semi-final between Switzerland and the US, and Zimmermann made an unmakeable Four Hearts—mind you it was more a case of a misdefence.

Dealer

North

South West North East Pass Pass

1

3♥(3) Pass 4♥(4) End

1) Playing Strong Notrump.

2) Maximum passed hand with a four-card fit.

3) Doesn’t think game will make facing a passed partner.

Holding the Ace of Hearts, looking for a ruff appears the best defence and West duly led the Six of Clubs, declarer playing dummy’s King. East-West passed their first hurdle when East necessarily ducked—reasoning (correctly) that it was more likely West was leading top of two than a singleton.

At trick two, declarer led a Heart to the King. West won the Ace and now fell from grace, switching to a Spade. The third-round Club ruff disappeared, as declarer won the Spade, drew trumps and gave up only the minor-suit Aces.

A thought: in a social game, East’s Club duck will not be smooth and West will ‘know’ his partner has the Ace. The US East-West pair are to be congratulated for their ethics.

Alamy; Getty

Spectator Lucy Baring

Tree tartars and a needling issue

IT’S my fault that our children have unshakably rigid views about Christmas, but I’ve decided to blame my sister for my unnecessary yet mounting panic. Having explained, throughout their young lives, that our Christmas tree is only decorated with silver things, I’ve toyed with abandoning this rule (and I mean rule, obeyed throughout my childhood) because, well, I’ve changed my mind. I actually like colour. But when I tried to add a couple of nonsilver objects a few years ago, this was greeted with such scorn and derision that I asked myself: ‘What have I done?’ I’ve created a family of tree tartars.

I should have known, because which of us can ever forget the year I persuaded them (when young enough to be persuaded) that we would have a lovely twinkly tree using only the clear chandelier drops I’d bought in a junk shop? We turned on the lights in the ta-da moment to a terrible silence broken by the sound of one of them sobbing.

This year, I tentatively suggest a small tree that could stand on a chest or table because we don’t actually have room for a big tree without the quite inconvenient moving of furniture, such as bookcases. ‘This is the second time you’ve mentioned it,’ says one on the telephone, ‘and the answer is no, obviously.’ I try the idea on another who texts back: ‘I won’t dignify that with a response.’

Some things have changed: I no longer make angel wings and shepherd’s crooks. I don’t spend hours buying whoopee cushions and exploding pens. I am not tempted by ant farms (why? ever?) and have already committed financial aid towards an airfare and a mattress, neither of which need wrapping. So why do I still feel as if the wheels are running too fast and nothing will be ready?

Here I blame my sister. ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’ We are sitting in a taverna, grateful for the shade and musing about a cold beer. I shut the topic down and suggest we swim. It’s late summer.

A few weeks later, she rings with a tone of half-hearted resignation. ‘Perhaps we should do Secret Santa this year.’ This is a Christmas conversation I’m prepared to engage with, having recognised the enormous benefits (financial, time, landfill) since it was introduced to the other side of our large family. One present to one recipient. For the over 18s. Perfect. We agree she will ask another aunt later that week. It is October.

‘Too late,’ she reports back with joy (my sister is, I should say, the best present-giver ever). ‘She’s already done her shopping.’ I can’t believe it. ‘Buy them all a T-shirt,’ she adds, hearing me wail. ‘Again.’

I wander up the road for a tree. It is early December. Much earlier than usual, in fact, but I’ve just seen my sister. Deciding between two, I settle for one that won’t fit on a table or chest. Obviously. Another customer immediately takes up my reject. ‘It’s a bit lopsided,’ I tell him, not least because now I think I want his tree. ‘Sshh,’ he mouths before calling out to his companion that This is The One. She stands back and eyes it critically. ‘Happens every year,’ he says to me quietly, ‘only row we ever have. She makes me look at every bloody tree and we always end up with the first one we see.’ We are both laughing and, all of a sudden, I feel thoroughly cheery. ‘How big is it?’ they ask warily on the phone. Big enough for the customary row about lametta that splits the family 50/50. I can’t recall which side I’m on. ‘I’m a bit worried,’ I say, as I run through the various family events. ‘When are we going to watch The Sting?’

December 28 Joe Gibbs

“It’s a bit lopsided,” I tell him, because now I think I want his tree