One of the few joys of this time of year is that I can watch a sunrise without having to rise too early myself. In the summer I have to rely on ‘Weather Watchers’ on the BBC weather forecast to see
the sunrises. Sometimes I lie in bed trying to decide whether to get up or not for the event, but by the time I’ve made my mind up I’ve usually fallen asleep again anyway. This morning a rather blanched sun appeared through the mist like summer fruit being strained through muslin, spreading pale pink juice across the sky. It was good to see the sun at all, as lately it seems to have been sulking in some sullen underworld somewhere leaving the sky to drip and fester not far above our heads. (Picture by Eric)
We used to think that we British were the masters of most things, but lately we’ve learned we’re neither the masters of Covid nor of Europe. But we can still do a very good all-weather picnic, out-manoeuvring rain, cold and wind while our less resilient friends from other countries seem to expect sunshine and gentle breezes before they lay out the rug. Yesterday was a case in point when we picnicked in Keddleston Park as the rain drove down. We simply perched comfortably in the boot (trunk) of the car, umbrella balanced over the roof and the rear door steadied by one hand while the other hand held an egg sandwich. We even managed to pull crackers with the occupants of the car boot opposite. Defeated, the rain eased off for a moment, the clouds blew momentarily open and a rainbow rewarded our inventiveness. We’ve eaten picnics in deep snow in the Alps and on Irish beaches with the wind flinging sand into the sausages. We’ve sat in steamed up cars with cake on the dashboard, cowered behind rocks and under parasols. Only once have we ever been defeated and that was a particularly lavish repast watching an orchestra at Chatsworth. It wasn’t the rain that did for us, it was the lightning. Erect umbrellas and metal framed seats just seemed to be pushing it.
Our brightly lit star that’s presiding over our garden Nativity has gone out in the lower left hand section. From the road at night this has the effect of portending something ominous, as if the star is ailing, or even limping. The wise men would have no trouble catching up with it. Fortunately Mary and Joseph are sufficiently effulgent to be able to see what they are doing, but I hope a failed bottom left-hand point is not a symptom of some astral Covid. The authors of just about everything I read now manage to get pandemic into every subject. Referring only to History Today and the London Review of Books, I’ve learned that plague may have been a feature in the decline of Ancient Rome, that Freud lost his daughter to the 1918 flu pandemic which may have influenced his views on the death drive, that Shakespeare’s ‘King Lear’ was probably written while Shakespeare was shielding – ditto with Newton’s Law of Gravity. I’ve read of the effects of cholera in the Wild West and an account of Thomas Mann’s ‘Death in Venice’. That’s one of those books that people like to imagine they’ve read but never have. I thought the death in Venice was just a murder plot, but it’s plague.
Will there be a time next year when we stop talking about Covid, when it drops out of the headlines and instead Laura Kuenssberg can jolly us along with cheery tales of 50 mile tail-backs at Dover or of mangoes rotting in containers at Calais? Only celebrity deaths seem to supplant Covid in the headlines, but this time of the year we work at looking forward to life and hope. Some years ago I was struck by all the traditional carols that were attached to Derbyshire villages: Eyam, Castleton, Dore, Foolow and Bradwell. I was sure Crich must have one – so here it is. It tells of the Holy Family getting a typical Crich welcome and explains why our water trough, where we all sing Carols in the Market Place, never runs dry.
The Ancient Crich Carol
Where the cold wind roars from off the Tors
A donkey trod all dreary
From Galilee to the Jubilee
Bearing Mary maid so weary.
To the tiny town it came slow down
So limp and chilled scarce breathing,
And turned its face to the Market Place
With carts and kine all seething.
And the folk made way and spread fine hay
And stroked the beast so sweetly,
And from the trough it drank enough,
Made new its strength completely.
Then Mary maid she up and said
Because thou’st shown such charity,
This trough hereby will ne’er run dry,
A well spring for eternity.
For at my breast this child hath blessed
This water clear and drenching;
Be ye ne’er so nesh it will refresh
And thirst will need no quenching.
And where I stand the village band
And folk in yearly mooting
With carolling and hymns to sing
The Christ babe all saluting.