The Daily Telegraph - Saturday
No one does festive cheer like country folk
You have my sympathy. Your rural abode has been invaded. Your drawing room sofa appears to have languishing upon it a lanky teenager in big socks staring at a phone, someone has attacked the chicken liver pâté meant for Boxing Day and even the labrador is rather put out by the presence of a rather small and yapping sausage dog.
The townies have descended. Which perhaps leaves the remaining townies heaving a sigh of relief. Just for a few days: more space on the Tube, smaller queues at the cinema, less cock-ups from Deliveroo and a taxi cab with a yellow light on. Or possibly not. I haven’t spent Christmas in London since I was about six, and the last time I was in London on a Sunday the traffic seemed similar to that of a Tuesday.
But the retreat to the countryside is in full swing. And perhaps those who have journeyed to us from “the Smoke” might, if they can keep their eyes open, use their noses and put down their phones for a few seconds, appreciate for a moment what it means to live in a rural part of Britain.
Yes, the Wi-Fi can be a bit dodgy, good restaurants are a bit thin on the ground and you can’t get a pint of milk round the corner or order sushi at 1am, but there are plenty of upsides.
Take the seasons, which we feel more keenly. We yearn for a frost to kill the fruit flies; we relish the summer and a break from the damp. As autumn comes, we’re really aware of the leaves falling from the trees because we won’t see a municipal sweeper trundling past the window, we need to collect the leaves ourselves.
We worry in storms about trees falling and then when they have, and we saw them up (and yes, I would commission that work – even though I have passed a voluntary test and am certified to operate a chainsaw on smaller logs), we appreciate the sight of them stacked in the shed, and later get more than just warmth at seeing seasoned wood crackling in the grate.
Where I live, off Exmoor, I can see and hear the sheep in the fields around us. I can see and hear the farmer, Phil, and his son Ash, careering across the steep slopes, on quad bikes or buggies, checking on them each morning, rounding them up and moving them to different grazing areas. And I’ve talked to Phil’s dad, John, about how, when he was younger, pre-quad bikes, he would do it all on foot.
When you see the work that goes into sheep farming you appreciate the lamb in the shops more. You get even more incensed at seeing New Zealand lamb in those chilled counters.
You also get to know your neighbours and come to rely on them keeping an eye out on one another’s places. You acknowledge, say “good morning”, then get to know people in the local towns and villages. The place where you get your car fixed is garage, not just a garage. The same can be said for the butcher or the pub even.
I’ve delved even deeper into country life by putting a kitchen and dining room into a large old cowshed we have. So that every month, tempted by a big-name chef, locals pile in for a party. Through this, I’ve met and become friends with farmers whose meat we use, a local brewery whose ale we stock, local artists who exhibit their work on the walls and, just simply, made some wonderful friendships.
So we’ll drag our visitors to Wiveliscombe on Christmas Eve to where the town gathers around the large Christmas tree in the square to sing festive songs (that’s songs, not carols, so we can all be Noddy Holder or Shakin’ Stevens for an evening). Then we’ll pile into The Bear, steaming thick with people, and drink pints of Exmoor Gold.
On Christmas Day we’ll gather in a cold and isolated little 13th-century church for a service of traditional carols before we thank our lovely local vicar, greet others with handshakes, hugs or kisses, eyeing up the dodgy urban relatives of our friends.
And there’s another tradition of rural community that you’ll already know about, that never seems to fail to get on to the front pages of the newspapers: the Boxing Day meet.
If you’re visiting rural pals that day, find out where the local hunt meets, and go and have a poke about. You’ll quickly realise that it doesn’t have very much to do with hunting foxes. It’s all about the greetings, the doffing of caps, the chat, the sausage rolls and the port. You’ll quickly realise the futility of trying to start a class war against a group of people who represent every class there is.
I’m not a fan of hunting, but that’s because I can’t cope with the faff
(not least the clank of buckets at dawn as they’re filled with water as ponies are readied), or the fear. I am terrified of falling off and smashing myself to pieces.
But I have been out a couple of times in my life and it helped me to understand it. It’s like skiing down a mountain on an animal that might not
‘I’m no hunting fan, yet nothing connects yourself with the landscape than riding a horse across it’
stop when you want it to. Nothing can ever connect yourself with the landscape than riding a horse across it.
When you gallop across the fields you look at those poor souls who can only drive along roads to get to other places and who can have no appreciation for the real topography of the land and to breathe its air and appreciate its soil, hedges and trees.
I quite envy that hard core of followers (riders), those who line up second horses, who stay the course with a diminishing band of riders and, with the talent to stay on-board, course across the land until darkness falls and then make the slow trek home, their clothes and faces splattered with mud.
What I do appreciate is that one of the best moments is the bath afterwards, when, still intact, you get clean and soothe those muscles and think back on the day.
And no, I’ve barely mentioned the fox, because he’s barely relevant. The population needs controlling and I’d rather his dispatch was the glue of community than it was left to farmers to annihilate them with rifles on quad bikes.
Of course, rural poverty is a very real problem but when the townies flee back to the bustling cities, I hope they carry with them the memory of the positivity of rural community and appreciate that in the countryside, your soul can get a workout without the need to pay for a therapist.