Satisfying primitive urges with a walk on the wild side of the primeval forest
NEXT year we’ll have an artificial tree. Decision made… Sweet Hermione, so sophisticated in most of her ways, so suave and go-ahead, is an un-reconstructed traditionalist when it comes to Christmas. Her husband is more of a festive minimalist but, like the wise man in the old carol, I would do my part. If doing my part means hacking through dense jungle to reach the perfect conifer, then so be it. If doing my part means risking decades of debilitating back pain, then who am I to argue. If doing my part means saying ‘Yes, dear’ whenever called upon, then I have my lines off pat.
For many years, Hermione’s primitive urges could only be satisfied by a trip into the woods where some enterprising and far-sighted farmer had planted a stand of spruce for the Yuletide market. On the appointed day, we used to set off for the forest in The Jalopy armed with a bush saw and a determination to pick the best specimen in the field. We also brought an umbrella as the day of the trip was inevitably wet and invariably cold.
On arrival at the farm the children would, very sensibly, refuse to leave the car. They realised from an early age that this was no teddy bear’s picnic. As the years passed, they found every excuse to remain at home rather than join the annual expedition at all. There was no escape, however, for the man of the house from the quest to identify a tree of such conformation and majesty as to be fit to grace the great hall of Medders Manor. Never was the tyranny of choice so bleakly exposed.
A hectare of land suffices to grow hundreds, if not thousands, of trees and of course we had to inspect all of these trees in order to identify The One which met all the relevant criteria. This candidate was ‘ too thin’, that was ‘ too crooked’ and the other ‘ too small’. And so on ad infinitum. ‘Yes, dear.’ Only when the prospect of returning home empty-handed loomed did we light upon one which measured up, in the most obscure corner of the plot. Then I was commanded at last to unsheathe the saw and wade through the sopping undergrowth to do the necessarybefore hauling it back to the farm yard for packing and payment.
My relief at finding a tree which was plump enough, straight enough and big enough was tempered by the knowledge that, though I was now soaked cold to the very bone and in immediate need of a hot bath, the torment was not yet over. The bit now firmly between her teeth, Hermione would still not rest until the new acquisition was installed in its appointed place. This always proved more a challenge than a formality.
First there was the vertebrae-busting exercise of manhandling the tree from car up to hall. This procedure generated question marks over its ‘non-shed’ credentials as a trail of green needles was left in its wake. Then it would emerge that the damned thing, in all its magnificence, was too tall to fit in the damned room. Year after year, secateurs had to be fetched from the potting shed so that six inches could be snipped off the top.
Only then would we discover that the base of damned thing was too bulky to fit into the Christmas tree holder. This dictated a dash back to the potting shed, this time to find the trusty hatchet. Ten minutes hard work and the room had a light dusting of woodchips but at least the tree was ready for decoration and lights.
In fairness, in more recent times, Hermione has consented to making the annual purchase in Our Town rather than trekking off into the countryside. It dawned on her that trees rejected during the previous year’s selection process were still not up to standard twelve months later. Now we torment the local vendor instead with our insistence that all his stock must be scrutinised in every minute particular before he parts us from our money. We still buy one each time which is too tall and too bulky at the base…
I decided this year to share my misgivings on the whole process with my beloved. Next year we will have an artificial tree, I suggested. Decision made – or maybe not. ‘So you’d rather back a factory in China than support a grower in the neighbouring parish,’ she responded with all the wonderfully restrained wrath and logic at her command. She is right, of course. We will stick with the real thing.