|On the way past this field I heard jangling bells, and stupidly presumed that the noise
belonged to the sheep. It was only on the way back that I saw the real culprit.
The weather here in England’s south east has been so dreary this week. It’s hard to feel christmassy when it’s raining and windy, but hopefully festive feelings will come tomorrow. It will be Christmas Eve, after all. As of yet I haven’t been listening to any Christmas music, and I haven’t done that much decorating. However, my boyfriend stayed with me this weekend, and we exchanged gifts and had a lovely meal in town yesterday. I’m also home with my family, and feeling happy and healthy.
Tomorrow I’ll be creating the traditional nut loaf (for me alone to eat), perhaps reading A Christmas Carol, and doing last minute organisation. Then, on Christmas Day I’ll be seeing one set of grandparents for lunch, and the others for teatime. My Mum’s in England for the first Christmas in around seven years, which I’m sure will be quite strange for the rest of us!
This morning my boyfriend, Chris, and I decided to walk down the road briefly, camera and warm layers in tow. Despite the sun being decidedly absent, the views across the fields were still welcome. There’s always a certain freshness about winter that makes a change from being indoors. The area in which I live is so great for walking, and whilst I’m home for Christmas I’d like to spend more time outdoors. Nonetheless, I’ll always be one for snuggling up indoors with a good book, which explains my finding of the following poem this morning!
All the best, and merry Christmas!
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
Close by the jolly fire I sit
To warm my frozen bones a bit;
Or with a reindeer-sled, explore
The colder countries round the door.
When to go out, my nurse doth wrap
Me in my comforter and cap;
The cold wind burns my face, and blows
Its frosty pepper up my nose.
Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.
Robert Louis Stevenson
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