Work on a farm doesn't stop for bank holidays or any other public holiday. True, there are times in the year that are less busy than others, but winter isn't one of them.

So on Christmas day we work. It isn't a day like any other because here in the Valley we like to make much of Christmas. So we have a lie-in until 9 o'clock, maybe even a second cup of tea!

There's yard work to be done and the animals know it. Domestic animals like routine. As we put out books and cups down and begin to plan the day the dogs can hear us and we hear them snuffling, getting out of thier baskets or, in Charlie's case strumming on the metal mesh of the gate to his dog place. Charlie has a troubadour's heart, chivalrous, devoted but aware of his own charms.

Everything now is geared to breakfast. The cattle are waiting for us as we drive up on the quad bike. And the cats are all assembled too. Once they are all fed, we and the dogs can go home for our breakfast. Ours is a bit special because it's Christmas day. It might be smoked salmon and boiled eggs; it might be kippers. It's never the full English for some reason. Perhaps it's because we may be offered mince pies later on in the day. For the dogs' is just dog food because they don't see why they should celebrate Christmas. Midwinter is no threat, never was since they became domsticated, and in any case dogs don't really do ritual; not in its strict sense.

Christmas day is the one day that I can accompany Geoff on the road rounds. It's not that I couldn't on other days, but this one day is a date for both of us. Since it has to be done it makes the daily routine a bit more festive if we do it together. We work until 3 or 3.30 and then we come home; breath puffing in the cold air, cheeks pink and warm as toast from the exercise. I may be wearing a red pointy felt hat that makes me look very silly.

We've stopped at Pen Bryn for coffee and a present swap. We've waved to neighbours out walking their dogs, or frowsting inside and looking out of the window at us, poor us!
Sometimes we've even been to the Pub for coffee and brandy.


These days there is little to do after we've come home. A few years ago there was an evening routine to do as well. There were calves in the sheds to be strawed down and fed. It was often dark when we finished work. These days we have open sheds and more land so the cattle see to themselves outside. Highland cattle are very good at that. They are not happy living in sheds; they sweat and their coats become rank and matted. Outside, especially in the snow, they glow with health.


I wish I could have shown you the big room at Gifachwen this Christmas! My camera isn't working so you can't see the four christmas trees and the big candles that we lit on the dresser, the sideboard and the table for Christmas dinner. The big room is majestic and made for feasts. So we feast, just the two of us. It's wonderful.


And so to New Year's day. I always feel a bit let down by New Year, if one goes out one is left with a feeling of anitclimax. Having friends and family to dinner and dance the old year out is wonderful but one can't do it every year. At my age it's too exhausting! Staying in alone, however, works every time for us. More feasting, lovely music, candle light and very good wine. And so to bed to wake up to a new Year.

New Year's day can be like any other of course. There's still the yard and the road rounds to do. By now the house needs a bit of a wash and brush up and the Christmas lights don't seem to shine with their former charm. I look on them now as things that must soon be cleared away. They gather dust; one of the trees has a sinister lurch and most of the fruit and nuts have gone leaving a large dish with a lonely huddle of 3 or 4 wizened clementines. They look dejected, as if they're waiting in the rain for a bus that will never come. I gather them all up and hustle them into the fridge to await pulverisation and incorporation into a clementine cake. Serve them right for looking so unappetising!