As the festive season draws to a close, a family in rural Berkshire prepares for the annual, heartfelt ritual of packing away their Christmas treasures. For the writer of this country diary, the arrival of Twelfth Night brings a familiar tug of melancholy, mixed with a personal defiance of strict tradition.
A Tree Steeped in Memory and Meaning
The centrepiece of their home, the Christmas tree, is far from a generic display. Each ornament tells a story. The family now sources their tree from Willis Farm, high on the downs, chosen for its sustainable cultivation with wildlife in mind. But it is the decorations that transform it into a personal chronicle.
Among the branches hang cherished relics from a childhood, including a treasured wooden goose. A particularly unique piece, a beaver nestled delicately inside a walnut shell, was purchased in 1989 from a Christmas shop in Banff, Alberta, during a day off from ranching. The collection is a vibrant menagerie of silver acorns, golden apples, and an array of animals – from a sleeping fawn and a bejewelled owl to a whimsical badger in a dressing gown, casually smoking a pipe.
Interspersed are the irreplaceable clay ornaments crafted years ago by their children at the local school. This year, the same school was where the writer fashioned the family's festive wreath, weaving another layer of place and memory into the season.
The Ritual of Dismantling and Renewal
The task of taking everything down is approached with care and intention. The now-brittle golden-green mistletoe will be carefully disentangled from the ceiling light. Its berries will be frozen, with a plan to press them into the leaf scars on apple tree boughs come spring, a hopeful gesture for new growth.
This year saw old decorations find new life. A swag of tinsel, which for two decades adorned the banister of their previous 1950s cottage, was repurposed to create a grotto in the arch of their bungalow kitchen, adorned with sprays of fir, holly, ivy, and hawthorn berries.
A Blaze of Glory for the Greenery
The final act is both a disposal and a celebration. All the foraged greenery – extracted from the tinsel swag and the charming felted mouse choir that staged a performance on the mantelpiece – is fed into the lit fire. The writer dashes outside to watch the sparks, like gold stars against a silver night sky, rise from the chimney. The sustainably grown tree, once cut up, will eventually follow, its end as considered as its beginning.
This personal ceremony is their own way of marking the transition back to ordinary time, honouring the memories of Christmases past while gently ushering in the promise of the new year. The ritual is a poignant blend of reverence and irreverence, a deeply felt goodbye to a period that always feels too brief.
