February snow and the ones that got away

ARE you dreaming of a white Christmas? Well, probably not; if you've got livestock to look after.

When we first moved to our lovely little Ffarm, we were naively delighted at the tantalising whirl of white flakes which came earlier than anticipated. No matter; for at that time our only animals were two scruffy Shetland ponies, four fluffy cats and a handful of Black Rock chickens: the cats opted to do the standard feline thing of curling up in front of a roaring fire; the disgusted hens retired to the sanctuary of the tractor shed to indulge in a spot of therapeutic dust bathing; and the ponies kicked up their heels in delight, racing around their paddock like a pair of miniature Grand National runners. Meanwhile, we had little option but to stay indoors, although when the snow stopped, we wrapped up snugly to bury a bottle of champagne in a snowdrift and dusted off the old garden table, indulging in a glass of chilled "bubbly" - our first real opportunity to pause, reflect and toast our "wise" downshifting decision.

We approached that first festive season on the Ffarm with a mixture of trepidation and excitement: while the thought of such an occasion in a new home is always a pleasurable prospect, for us it was tempered by the knowledge that Tony would again be absent on RAF detachment in Iraq, with its inevitable danger and stress.

Thus waxed and waned another year, and along came another Christmas; yet how things had changed. With the mood deeply clouded by the tragic death of my sister, another unexpectedly heavy fall of snow heralded winter's arrival. Rather than our previous festive mood, we found ourselves embroiled in a bitter elemental struggle with a multiplicity of new responsibilities to cope with: as we now also had a gaggle of geese; a flock of sheep; horses; and a herd of goats. Slipping and sliding across the farmyard with armfuls of straw and heavy pails of feed and water, the normal round of chores was painfully extended; and we'd made the mistake of accommodating our sheep on a particularly steep field which made feeding an unexpectedly treacherous operation.

But our worst mistake was keeping the horses on our highest, furthest meadow: we struggled up the steep, icy hill, numbed fingers clutching heavy baskets of hay which we balanced on our backs, before forcing our way through deep drifts of snow to break the ice on the water troughs. We quickly concluded enough was enough - we had to risk bringing the horses back down the hill to the safety of their stables. At the close of each exhausting evening, we curled up with a glass of mulled wine in front of the warmth-giving woodburner, a comforting bowl of "cawl" (Welsh lamb broth) to warm our chilly bones.

Although Tony would yet again be away over Christmas and New Year, as we stole a few precious, celebratory days together on the Ffarm, having our "Christmas" a few days before the "real thing", we decided to revive some ancient customs: and with our surname being Knight, Tony was especially keen to do so. Our first attempt was that of "Stir-up Sunday": the first Sunday in Advent being allegedly the best day to make your Christmas pud. I tend to follow Mum's lead and make ours one year in advance.

The modern version of Christmas pud is a departure from the original, which was more of a pottage consisting of beef or mutton in broth, thickened with breadcrumbs and dried fruit then flavoured with wine and spices. It was served as a first course and it wasn't until 1670 that the plum pudding with which we are familiar, was introduced. Turkey didn't grace British tables until 1518, prior to which the wealthy would have eaten boar's head at Yule, presented with an orange in its mouth to represent the Sun Boar. Should said piggy not prove readily available, the well-heeled alternative was peacock or swan stuffed with spices, nuts and fruits. Those less well off would have celebrated with roast goose, which is what we opted for as our "Christmas" dinner. While not a gander we'd bred ourselves, he'd been hatched on a neighbouring farm; but with a twisted wing, was inevitably destined for the pot. His last weeks were spent blissfully unaware of his fate as he wolfed down plenty of corn from the comfort of a plump pillow of straw.

About a week before our festivities Tony despatched and swiftly plucked him; as the bird cools the skin contracts, literally welding feather quills into the skin (even working flat-out, pliers were required - and some people resort to ironing the feathers to remove them!). It was certainly harder work than anticipated and a job for a windless day, otherwise you end up doing a passable impression of a snowman and pull scratchy feathers out of your clothing for weeks afterwards. Preparing the bird for the table was another challenge as removing the sinews from the legs is also a tricky job. In the end we resorted to the "door jamb" method, in which the bird's feet are inserted in the gap between the hinges, the door partially closed and used as a lever to separate said body parts with a firm tug. I certainly wouldn't recommend attempting this in the dark, after a couple of glasses of sherry and at the edge of a precipitous doorstep... I leave the rest to your imagination! We stuffed our goose with a wild mallard, the whole then being roasted in the Rayburn and served with the usual accompanying feast - fit for many a squire and Knight. Our mince pies were of the traditional oval shape to resemble a crib; but we didn't use the original recipe of savoury minced mutton, preferring to stick to the sweeter, seventeenth-century version - much more appetising.

The meal was concluded with half a fine Stilton cheese wrapped in damask, served with a basket of plump walnuts and crisp celery, and washed down with a decanter of ruby-red port in front of the blazing yule log before venturing back into the chill of evening to put the Ffarm to bed for another Christmas.

Boxing Day revived its own customs, too: as a child I always used to go to Kenilworth Castle to watch the hunt set off in a swirl of pink coats, the clatter of hooves and baying of hounds an awe-inspiring experience when you're only small.

Tradition has it that the Wild Hunt from the Otherworld gallops along our valley, but they're remarkably quiet about it these days; so we indulged in a little noisy wassailing of our orchard to awaken the Spirit of the Tree and encourage a good apple crop. Believed to date from Saxon times, the wassail or "waes hael" translates, "be well" and involves sprinkling the tree roots with cider, placing soaked toast in the branches and banging pots and pans to scare off demons. A communal cup is passed around, containing a potent brew of baked apples, ale, sugar, spices, eggs and cream; decorated with little pieces of bread and dubbed "lamb's wool". After this, it was time for a hearty supper of braised pheasant and a last, luxurious snooze in front of the fire, to dream of the words of Sir Walter Scott: "Heap on more wood! The wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still."

I'll remember that, next time I'm struggling though the snow with armfuls of hay....

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