My First Christmas

The first Christmas I can remember is the Christmas of 1982 when I was three years old. This was the first Christmas my parents had bought me gifts, as I was old enough to really start getting the idea of Christmas celebrations.

We spent Christmas Eve at my paternal grandparents' house. I am told that I received a bar of chocolate from them, my first Christmas present ever. I was apparently so happy with my gift, my parents felt a bit silly, as they'd been excited about my first Christmas and had bought me loads of presents that were waiting for me at home (where we'd celebrate Christmas as well).

This I don't remember (although I do remember one of the gifts they did get me, a stuffed toy lioness which I had for well over ten years, so their presents did last longer than the chocolate), but what I do remember is the Christmas tree.

It was big. The silvery star atop reached all the way to the high ceiling, and the branches were massive. I could crawl under the tree, and hide from everything as only a three-year-old can, amazed and keen to take a closer look at this enormous fir.

There were all these colourful decorations, lines of paper flags of all different countries, gingerbread decorations and tinsel. And candles. Not tiny electric fairylights, but real, delicate candles, perching on the branches by brass clasps. This had a lasting effect on me, to the extent I still remember it to this day. The tiny flames illuminating the whole tree, making the decorations come alive in the flickering light.

In this day and age of fire hazard awareness, I eye our electric fairylights with suspicion, but still conjure up images of that very first Christmas, with those incredible little candles.

Merry Christmas Everyone

Megapost: 2 Weekends in 1

Weekend #1: Dutchcookie in Nottingham
We had a wonderful weekend with Dutchcookie visiting. The sightseeing tour naturally included quite a bit of shopping, cafés, restaurants and pubs. We took her to the oldest pub in England, The Old Trip to Jerusalem (it is one of the "oldest pub in England" pubs, there are many, but of course we'll stand by its claim to the title), and made sure to take her for Sunday Roast before her flight departed.

MsCookie didn't seem to be too scared of being in the ever-so-dangerous Nottingham; I got the impression that she quite enjoyed herself, and I believe she did make mention of moving to the M&S and Hotel Chocolat here... But that could've been the cider talking.

We did spend a good amount of time imbibing liquids of all sorts. But we did supplement with a good amount of solid foods as well, so I think we balanced things out quite well.In any case, we had so much fun catching up and showing MsCookie around, and even the weather complied: it was slightly windy but sunny for the entire time she was here. Quite literally so, as a few raindrops fell when we walked her to her airport shuttle.

In the aftermath of her visit, we've been consuming way more chocolate than is necessarily wise. Oh, the woe.

Weekend #2: Bath, Gloucester & the Peak District
Saturday: Bath, Gloucester and the Coventry detour
On Friday we took the cats to the vet for their vaccinations (the "reason" for renting the car in the first place), and then spent some capitalist quality time at stores such as the mega-gigantic-Tesco and Ikea. We are now stocked, and have been reminded of why selecting your groceries online to have them delivered to your doorstep is indeed not such a bad idea after all.

On Saturday we headed south towards Bath. It was definitely well worth the drive, what a gorgeous little town! Saturday was a perfect day for a drive: very cold and windy, but also sunny. We walked around Bath (or tried to, amidst the throngs of Christmas market goers. Yes, we picked the Bath Abbey Christmas Market weekend for our visit (impressively without even minimal googling). We managed to find a lovely pub which served wonderful food--and walked straight to a table for two. Lucky day.

We also found a cheesemonger (which we visited but were pretty much forced to leave as the pungent scents of mature cheese began to infiltrate our nasal passages). As much as I love cheese, that was just way too much--a small shop, chock full of unrefrigerated cheese. The idea was to go visit the Roman Baths, as we were in Bath after all, but our plan was thwarted by a humble £10 entry fee. Per person. For that amount of money I would've required full use of the facilities. Instead, we decided to get back into bumper-to-bumper traffic and head for Gloucester.

We arrived in Gloucester right before six. We were able to find a parking lot in the centre, and proceeded to walk around. It was quite spooky, as all the shops had already closed, and there were a handful of people on the streets (one of which, notably, was having a conversation with her inner voices (or perhaps an invisible friend, we didn't stop to ask), another asked us for a cigarette, and then there was the chick who almost ran us over, but never mind). We decided to head to the beautifully lit Cathedral, and did indeed find it open.

There were only two people there, a staff member of some sort, and a man tuning a harpsichord. I have to say that I've been to many cathedrals, minsters and churches of various sizes, ages and degrees of impressiveness, but the dimly-lit empty cathedral with the monotonous and the melancholy chords of the harpsichord tuner definitely worked together to provide eeriness difficult to put into words. We made it into an even more dimly-lit room (where we relied on MrPicky's mobile phone light to read an engraving), and our expediated pulses shot through the roof when the aforementioned staffmember walked up to us clinking his keys (no, I'm not making this up), and told us to leave, as they were closing. Gloucester Cathedral will go down as the best place of worship I've visited when it comes to setting the mood for some good, old-fashioned god-fearing.

And speaking of god-fearing, as soon as we got out of Gloucester, we decided to divert slightly and visit good ole Coventry, for old times' sake. Ok, fine. We decided to get some of the best Balti in the world.

We had a few nostalgic moments along the lines of "oh god, I can't believe we remembered to turn here; oh, remember this crazy junction, oh wow, that kiosk is still there" until we got to my old street and noticed that not only had the block adjacent to mine been demolished entirely, most of the buildings on the neighbouring block (on the other side) were boarded up. And yes, you guessed it, the Best Balti on the Planet was nowhere to be found. We weren't too surprised, as they did do take out to such high standards that we expected they'd open a restaurant soon. We got to a phone book, but either they changed the name for their restaurant, or they decided to follow a course set by many and leave Coventry behind. Personally I'm rooting for the last option. We did, however, locate our other post-drinking haven for food, Istanbul Kebab, and yes, their kebabs still rank high on the excellence meter. So we didn't leave empty-handed (stomached?) after all.

And it was nice to be reminded that yes, time may have softened some of the memories (as we've been going down the slippery slope of "oh, we were so much younger, it couldn't have been quite as bad". Yes. Yes it was), and definitely needed to be set straight. The M1 sign for NORTH, Nottingham has never been met with greater delight. Even Warwickshire's gift to juvenile humour (oh my god, is that a bear having sexual relations with a log? Yes, it does appear so) paled in comparison.

Sunday: Peak District
On Sunday we pat ourselves on the back for wisely deciding to head further on Saturday and stay closer to home on Sunday. We headed up towards the Peak District, driving through Mansfield, Chesterfield and other not-so-picturesque towns and villages. The Peak District is absolutely humbling. We only saw a minute part of the area, but that was enough to make a lasting impression.We drove through villages each quainter than the next, and saw landscapes more befitting mythical tales than the last.

The day was grim and dreary, blistering winds combined with a drizzle relentless in its consistency, but in my opinion it fit the area quite well.We drove through a tiny village, sat right at the bottom of a rising cliff, tens of meters of stone rising up on one side, and a flowing stream on the other. The landscape immediately brought to mind Lords of the Ring. Sorry New Zealand, THIS is where it should've been filmed.

As daylight rapidly diminished we drove on. We came upon the village of Hathersage, where we stumbled onto a Christmas tree sale. What better way to acquire a Christmas tree than in the Peak District, short of wading in waist-deep snow and felling the damn shrub yourself?I think we may have also stumbled onto a new Christmas Tradition.We headed back, pleased with everything we had managed to see, and satisfied we'd definitely got our money's worth out of the rental.

So ended our weekend, just in time to return the car and begin the epic quest to "Find a Christmas tree stand in a country where real Christmas trees are not the norm without the use of a car" .