Home For Christmas

by Alice Taylor

  Two items in particular were amazing, both gorgeous tapestry pictures. One was of an elegant wine bottle surrounded by delicately coloured fruit. It was the work of a woman who had created beautiful tapestry designs all her life and had made it a fine art. How could you put a price on such beauty? This gentle lady was not even a member of the church she was supporting. Everybody who saw the picture gasped in delight, and one woman declared that she was going to buy it, no matter what price went on it. And she did.

  The second one was a tapestry of a bowl of exquisite roses woven by an English lady who had recently moved into the parish and who was intrigued by the whole concept of a local Christmas market. When another lady with an eye for a beautiful creation saw this picture, she decided to get her six children who were all going to buy her individual Christmas presents to pool their resources and buy it for her.

  It was difficult to believe that all these high-quality goods could come out of one small parish. The standard was unbelievable. When publicising our Christmas market, we let it be known that this was not to be a bargain-basement sale but an opportunity to get one-off rare items, probably the family heirlooms of the future. When one local heard this, she caustically commented, ‘No bargains to be had there.’ She was right. People had put such time and effort into creating all these beautiful things, and we did not want to demean this workmanship by selling them off cheaply. After all, these goods had not poured off an anonymous non-stop assembly line. Their creators had put many hours of exacting precision and love into them. They deserved good homes where they would be loved, cared for and appreciated.

  At last we were ready to roll. The plan was that our Christmas market would be held in the function room of our local Innishannon Hotel, a wonderful venue beside the village, on the banks of the river Bandon. The fair would run for Saturday and Sunday on a weekend before Christmas when people were in the mood for shopping.

  The stalls really should have been set up on the Friday evening, but this was not possible as the hotel had a wedding that day, so the transport of our goods had to be put on hold until the early hours of Saturday morning after the revellers had finally gone to bed. We had a blueprint ready, with all our craft items sorted into different categories and a proposed layout plan, and we knew in advance the exact plan of campaign once the function room was available.

  At 4am on Saturday morning, we loaded up two large vans provided by our local garage and set out for the hotel. It was a crisp, dry, frosty morning, and when we arrived the hotel staff were on hand to whip long tables into place. Like clockwork, the plan went into action, and we laid out our stalls. When all the beautiful things were displayed, they were breathtaking. Tables groaned with homemade Christmas cakes and all kinds of seasonal eats. Oil paintings were standing on easels, lace christening gowns were displayed on large dolls, tables gleamed with glowing woodwork, and all kinds of handcrafted goods were laid along counters. There was a collective glow of pride and satisfaction that our parish had produced all of this.

  The doors were thrown open at 10am, and people poured in. Our Christmas market had been well heralded in the local press, and people came sensing that this was an opportunity to purchase a gift to remember. There was no time for long pondering as a more decisive purchaser might make a move while you were dithering. This happened to one man who was impressed by a hand-knit Nativity scene into which one good knitter had put many hours of dedication. He decided to have a stroll around the other stalls to see if better value was available only to witness his crib sailing out the door in the arms of an alert teacher. She wanted it for her young students and knew a good thing when she saw it.

  As is always the case, the early birds got the most beautiful things. A lot of the craftspeople were manning the stalls, and they got immense satisfaction to see their handiwork receive such appreciation. All the craftspeople, both stallholders and customers, enjoyed the opportunity to discuss their skills and techniques. As it was a dry, crisp day, people were delighted to walk along the riverside and meander into the hotel dining room for lunch or tea and then to come back into the fair for another browse.

  By the end of the second day, our counters were bare. We were all exhausted but glowing with satisfaction. Our Christmas market had been a glorious triumphant finale to a year during which a pool of parish creativity had swirled into motion and a profusion of perfect presents had emerged that had enriched the spirits of the creators and provided many beautiful things to give delight and joy for generations.

  The late autumn leaves crunch beneath our feet as we make our way under the overhanging trees along the narrow road towards Bride Park Cottage. We are on our annual pilgrimage to DJ Murphy’s open house. DJ, who owns Bandon Garden Centre, is a man of many artistic talents. At Christmas, he turns his beautiful period home into a Christmas masterpiece and opens his house and gardens to the public to raise money for charity. Every year it is different, and every year breathtaking. We come here to see, smell, feel and get the flavour of Christmas.

  Turning at the stone-pillared gateway, the garden stretches out around us into wooded contours. The curving avenue is a mysterious walk through lit trees that dilute the dusk to reveal tall tree ferns fanning their fronds like dark swans and creamy white hellebores gleaming shyly from beneath their canopied leaves. Amongst them, cloaked ladies and top-hatted gentlemen view us from a distance. This is a world of mystery, imagery and make-believe, a winter wonderland.

  Coming around the last curve of the avenue, the narrow windows of the gabled house come into view, and Christmas candles glow behind frosted windowpanes. Here, in 1828, was born Patrick Ronayne Cleburne, who became a Confederate major general in the American Civil War, which makes this house a place of pilgrimage for American historians. It is a quaint, quirky, atmospheric house of narrow corridors and cavernous fireplaces, which DJ, a collector of beautiful things, has furnished with period pieces.

  Our footsteps resound off the old quarry-tiled floor of the small front porch where stained-glass windows are muted by candlelight. The opening of the door into the main house emits a gush of warm aromatic air, and from rooms at both ends of the long corridor we glimpse glowing log fires. We are drawn into a room of Victorian opulence where an enormous overmantel mirror above a glowing log fire reflects a sparkling chandelier of cut crystal edged with gold. Gilt-framed portraits of beautiful ladies with ample cleavages and military garbed gentlemen adorn the walls.

  The atmosphere breathes the slower pace of another era, and we need meandering time to better absorb all the minute attention to detail. On top of a baby grand piano spellbinding Christmas scenes bring us to a standstill, and in a deep bay-window recess is a ceiling-high Christmas tree, its glowing lights reflected in the window behind it. Beyond this, a door opens into a glass-domed room where Christmas floral arrangements overflow off elegant stands and realistic-looking white bears and reindeers peer down from equally realistic-looking snow-covered hills.

  Along the hallway, in a candlelit room, a long table is laid out for fine dining, with gorgeous embroidered napery and crested embossed tableware. Sideboards are laden with Christmas fare and candelabra. Everywhere frosted windows glow with candles and richly detailed enchanting decorations. Log fires crackle, and comfortable red plush chairs invite you to sit a while and enjoy this old-world festive season. Elegant chaises longues evoke images of reclining ladies.

  Appreciative visitors exchange their impressions in hushed voices, pointing out their preferences to each other, wanting their friends and, indeed, total strangers to enjoy every tiny detail. To miss anything would be to skip a vital page in this book of Christmas Past. We drift along a dimly lit narrow corridor, where the walls invite us to linger, to enjoy and be entertained by a range of fascinating pictures.

  Coming to the end of the corridor, we reluctantly push open a heavy wooden door and suddenly are enveloped into a blaze of brilliant light in an enormous, warm, welcoming kitchen, buzzing with talk, tea, mulled wine and mince pies.
This large kitchen, with its laden dressers and tables of festive fare smelling of cinnamon and spices, is the throbbing heart of the house. Since this open house is an annual fund-raiser for a local charity, volunteers make, bake and serve Christmas fare, all to be enjoyed in comfortable commodious chairs and soft reclining sofas around a huge log fire. Old friends meet up, and there is much laughter and fun as people discuss the different aspects of the house and their Christmas plans and wish each other the compliments of the season.

  We are reluctant to leave this heady warmth and step out into the chilly air outside, but the beaming windows of the old coach house across the yard entice us out. Christmas angels and sparkling stars twinkle on the trees and lead us to the door of the old stone building. On the way we are tempted by the perfect Christmas plants and rows of rich red Poinsettias. Suddenly, strains of music come from under the surrounding trees, and young carol singers emerge, red-hatted and warm-coated, filling the air with ‘Silent Night’. Cold forgotten, we stand and savour the moment.

  Finally we make it to the arched oak door and into the high-raftered barn, where a huge open fire surrounded by ancient cooking pots sends out warmth. This converted coach house is tonight a Christmas wonderland, selling a variety of magical decorations. The problem here is what not to buy. DJ has an eye for the perfect Christmas decoration, and, despite strong resistance, we come out laden with bags of ‘musthaves’. But this is Christmas, and even Ebeneezer Scrooge would be unable to resist Bride Park Cottage.

  During the months of spring, summer, autumn and into early winter, Christmas sleeps in an old press along the hallway behind my kitchen. On the top shelf of this press are two long boxes, each containing a regal-looking Santa Claus, both of whom became surplus to requirement in our local shop when a more modern decorating scheme was introduced. Rather than permit them to face the ignominy of unemployment and an early skip demise, I adopted them, and, over the years, they have shown their appreciation. Every Christmas they take up guard duty along the hallway in their red cloaks and impressive staffs, where they keep a look out for intruders.

  Living with these two venerable aristocrats is a large, florid, flamboyant Santa, a present from a sister who believes that Christmas should be celebrated with bling and outrageous exuberance. He sports a shimmering gold jacket and trousers stretched beyond their capabilities over his huge pot belly. A rakish hat is worn at a jaunty angle over a pair of roguish eyes that dance with merriment. He is the picture of bad taste and debauchery, Christmas bling at its worst, but he brings an instant smile to your face. Come Christmas, this Santa jumps onto the top of the kitchen press. From his lofty domain he smiles roguishly down over all the goings-on below. A certain distance is required from his overpowering presence so this high perch slightly diminishes his garish glow.

  Stuffed between these three large guys at the top of the Christmas press is a tattered flexible snowman made more so by years of being pushed into tight corners. His snowy brilliance has diminished to grey slush, and he is not far from a final meltdown. On the next shelf comes the first priority of my Christmas decorating: the crib. It is better to be more specific and say: the main crib. Because I have five cribs. Too many, you are probably thinking and I agree, but, you see, they are not here by design but rather by the way things have evolved.

  The main crib is the one I bought for my first Christmas in Innishannon in 1961. It has seen me through many Christmases and is a little bit the worse for wear. When Aunty Peg and Uncle Jacky died, I inherited their crib, so the two became one. These two cribs have absorbed a miscellaneous collection of other adoptions, which, packed into a retired banana box, find their way onto the credenza at the end of the hall at Christmas.

  Once, on a visit to Sligo, I happened into what looked like a butcher’s shop but was in fact the shop of a master woodcarver, Michael Quirke, who had turned from being a butcher into a woodworker. I brought home one crib figure, and later the rest of the family followed. This weighty wooden crib goes on the window of the seomra ciúin, where it can be viewed by children passing by on the street outside.

  Then, out of the blue, another crib came into our house. When my daughter turned eighteen, her aunt decided to present her with a crib which I had bought for the home farm with my first wage packet. It cost the princely sum of seventeen shillings and sixpence – which may sound like a pittance, but my wages at the time were just two pounds and ten shillings so it was almost one-third of my wages. Unbelievably, after all those years it was still intact and even came wrapped up in the original box.

  When it arrived back to me, years later, I looked at it in open-mouthed wonder and was quite chuffed that my sister had cared for it so lovingly. It is still with me as my daughter has young children and feels that it is safer here. So that is crib number three. This goes on top of the television press. (My television, when silent, lives behind the closed doors of a press.) This is an ideal location for this little china crib.

  Crib number four is not really a crib but the stable of a crib made by a son when he was in a woodwork class in school. It has no figures, but come Christmas I place in it a large baby Jesus moulded for me many years ago by Sr Eithne who once taught me in Drishane convent. Years later, she came to live in our parish in St Patrick’s, Upton, where she helped to care for the residents with special needs. I was particularly fond of this nun as she taught me many things that in later life proved invaluable. So her baby Jesus is special. This treasured crib, with its special Jesus, goes beneath the tree.

  There is yet another, tiny, crib, which was a gift from a dear friend. It has to be stored in a tin box due to its fragility as it is actually made out of wood shavings. And it has to be very carefully situated as it has a tendency to topple over. It usually rests on a cut-crystal cake stand on top of Aunty Peg’s sideboard, where its delicacy is reflected in the glass. All the cribs, packed carefully into retired banana boxes, take up a full section of my Christmas press.

  Another is missing – a little cardboard crib bought for two shillings many years ago when we were children. Because of its delicacy, it was stored away very carefully. So carefully that I cannot now remember where.

  On the shelves beneath the cribs are the boxes for the different areas of the house. There is the Christmas tree box containing the lights and many smaller boxes of baubles and miscellaneous odds and ends for the tree. There is the seomra ciúin box, with the overmantel decorations, including a string of little multicoloured presents bought many years ago on a Christmas shopping expedition with my sister. Then there is the front hall box, the kitchen box and the front room box. There is the box of cloths, including a richly embossed banner of the Holy Family created by people in the Cope Foundation which graces the inside of the front door. Finally, there is a huge, richly embroidered teddy bear dressed as Santa, made years ago by the residents of St Patrick’s, Upton, under the guidance of Sr Attracta who ran a workshop there. Those residents and the nuns are now gone, but I am glad to have a sample of their craftsmanship. All these boxes wait in this old press, but come Christmas the doors will open and they will march out and find their way, like emigrants returning to their own corners all around the house.

  My grandmother, who held very traditional views, was not overly enthusiastic about Christmas trees, declaring them to be of foreign origin. She informed us that they were not rooted in our Gaelic culture and so were not to be part of her Christmas ritual. Instead, she placed her tall, white Christmas candle on the window and edged her windowpanes with holly and ivy leaves that transformed her Christmas window into something magical.

  As a result, my mother was not reared with the Christmas tree tradition, and when I was very young we did not have a Christmas tree in our house either. Nor did any of our neighbours. We dragged bundles of holly from the local wood and peeled strings of trailing ivy off the old trees in the fort and groves around the house. With all this greenery we decorated the kitchen. Ivy trailed from the meat hooks on the ceiling. Holly was poked b
ehind every picture – more with enthusiasm than artistry.

  My mother dispatched us with bundles of holly to any neighbouring house where there were no children to do the collecting and the dragging home across the fields. The big pay-off for doing these deliveries was that our elderly neighbours were happy to let us do the decorating, and we were even happier as we got a free run decorating a house with no competing sisters.

  One Christmas, my eldest sister decided to fill the gap in our festive requirements. She went on the prowl around the farm for a suitable tree to meet her needs. This brought her into conflict with my father, who was a planter but not a feller of trees. After many arguments, during which we backed up our pioneering sister and heard our father’s usual prayer of ‘God pity the man who has five daughters’, he yielded to female pressure. A compromise was reached, and a settlement agreed on a large branch of a pine tree he had planted as a young man. He insisted on cutting the branch himself as he did not want one of his trees permanently disfigured by his marauding daughters. He listened to but did not follow instructions as to the height and width of the requested branch.

  This Christmas branch masquerading as a tree stood on the kitchen’s second table, which catered for the overflow of activities from the main table. Usually an enamel bucket of spring water stood here and another of fresh milk filled daily for household needs. It also served as a desk for our homework and a base for my mother’s sewing machine when it came into action. Over Christmas, however, all such activities were suspended, and it became the home for our gramophone, which normally resided in the parlour – and, now, it also held the tree, or branch.