As there is yet no sign of the bridge being rebuilt – two years after it was washed away – our Christmas will once again be quiet.
I have missed taking part in the ‘posada’ when on the nine days before Christmas groups of friends get together to replicate the journey of Mary and Joseph to Bethlehem, visiting a different house each night for prayers, Christmas songs -villancicos – and, of course, tamales.
I cannot scramble across the stream (now putting on airs as the local version of the Grand Canyon) and refused a kind offer to come to collect and return me on a motorbike….it is a long way round and our road down from town is not the best to navigate in the dark.
The French may hold that riding at the sitting trot is good for the liver but I can assure them that doing so on young Mynor’s motorbike is as good a recipe for rapid corporeal disintegration as I can imagine.
Neither shall I be making the boar’s head this year as it requires masses of hearty appetites to devour it in the tropics….or a fridge which is not full to its eyebrows with maturing cheeses.
It’s a pity though, as I enjoy doing it: boning out the head, filling it with a pate mix and protecting the ears with foil before putting it in the oven where the heat expands the pate and puffs the flattened boneless head back to its proper shape.
I shall have to content myself with listening to Steeleye Span…
Christmas shopping has been at a minimum – just as well, seeing the price hikes – and I have managed to avoid – so far – two of the main local hazards:
A the man selling fibre glass reindeer recovered from the dump last year then
spruced up in his garage
the man selling hammocks made from recycled plastic which are guaranteed to take the skin off your backside in a fashion worthy of admiration by Chinese exponents of death by a thousand cuts.
Still, I shall think myself lucky if I manage to avoid Danilo’s cousin ( he has as many as Gilbert and Sullivan’s Ruler of the Queen’s Navy) who lives in the fond belief that I want to buy a pedigree pup. From him.
He haunts me when shopping, popping up outside the bank, the agricultural co op, the supermarket, like a portly Jack in the Box.
I’ve got a nice puppy for you..
I don’t want one.
Yes, yes, you do. Danilo tells me what a bunch of mongrels you’ve got. You need a a dog with style
So what sort of pup have you got?
What sort of pup do you want?
I’m tempted to ask him for a Turkish Kangal but have a sneaking fear that some five years down the line he will turn up with one and claim his price.
Christmas always has its musical associations but neither the vilancicos nor the supermarket pap really do it for me….one a bit too plinky plonk the other too soapy.
I suppose it goes back to my years in England; when I was a child in Scotland, after all, Christmas Day was not a public holiday – or if it was this knowledge was very successfully concealed from me.
In no way would I return to live through an English winter….but the sound of the Sally Ann blasting out carols in the wet streets marks Christmas for me as much as listening to the Nine Lessons and Carols on the radio, and as summer has finally begun here, I can listen to this without automatically reaching for the thermal long johns.
Best wishes to you all and let us hope and work for the time when there will be peace on earth – though for that to come to pass the Lord had better get a move on in respect of
scattering the proud in the imagination of their hearts, putting down the mighty from their seat and exalting the humble and meek.