Christmastime in the heart of England has a different flavor.
Few decorations are offered for trees, which are small, perhaps thigh-high, and potted, if you can find one. Each costs 10 pounds (about $16) and fits nicely on a tabletop. (Bigger Christmas trees are inappropriate for mostly smaller British homes.) I finally found some large golden and red balls for my little evergreen, along with thin, sparkle-y wire packaged in a wreath-like shape, for winding around it. (I rejected wide, glitzy boa-wraps with fat, foil-y spangles; they'd surely overwhelm it.)
But nobody sells ornaments. I couldn't find any colored paper to design my own. Never mind; I'll fashion them from foil-y wrapping paper, which is everywhere.
People celebrate Christmas with things called crackers. These traditional, very popular cylindrical, glittery objects, sold in 6-packs, are placed at table settings. A different person holds each end; they both pull. Crrack! It separates. Inside, there's a tissue-paper hat, and a joke. One person gets nothing; the other wears the silly prize. Crackers can be elegant; others are not so posh. All are jolly. Christmas crackers fascinate me.
Brenda Lee's distinctive 12-year-old alto voice was a phenomenon in the late '50s. Her hit, "Rocking Around The Christmas Tree" reverberates throughout the huge pedestrians-only town center from the bowels of the large, horse-y merry-go-round. Excited youngsters, shouting and waving, straddle every whirling steed. Doting parents ride behind, supporting their thrilled toddlers.
Bundled, rain-damp shoppers wave back from large, fenced, umbrella-ed areas, chatting and enjoying purchased hot drinks, sandwiches and sweets. (It's rarely colder than the mid-30s, with high 40s being typical; eating outside is normal.)
When David is asleep, I stride the half-mile to Hereford Cathedral, the ancient (and modern) center of this city. There's a life-sized, faintly smiling, papier-mâche, camel-colored camel deep inside the massive, magnificent structure. Made by local children, it's trotted out yearly to stand, unadorned and alone, next to 1,000-year-old tombs. Every day I pause before it to smile at the simplicity of its statement.
The cathedral houses the little Cloisters Gift Shop/Cafe, also full of ancient graves in the walls and under the stone floor. Annually, thousands of visitors enjoy delicious, simple food and warming pots of tea as music wafts in from the main vault. (Today, townspeople have turned out in good numbers to enjoy a free mid-afternoon community choral Christmas concert.)
Instrumental and vocal music have filled this marvelous acoustical treasure for a millennium. (Ten years ago I gave a solo vocal concert here; it was one of the great thrills of my life.)
Today, I'd rather wander. Four, child-sized medieval, arched wooden doors, black with age, are scattered throughout the cathedral's immense interior. Possessing intricate iron hinges, they are mysterious, and always enchant me. (What might be behind them?)
I'm reminded again that human beings were much smaller, a thousand years ago.
The baptismal font, regularly used, is 1,100 years old.
Splendid life-sized effigies, marking important graves, are everywhere. Over the centuries various outraged religious armies have knocked off the noses of these marbled dead -- knights and clergy, moneyed husbands and wives. Still, they retain dignity. Just outside, in the walled, grassy cloister, more ancient graves lie underfoot; their inscriptions have faded to inscrutable.
The cathedral's talented boy choristers file in to practice. I love to listen to these gowned, ruffle-necked 7- to 15-year-old cherubs sing, as they have for centuries.
Christmastime in rural England is less flamboyant. Cherished traditions -- Boxing Day, crackers, lucky coins in puddings -- are honored, and ancient, beautiful carols will continue to emanate from Hereford's glorious heart.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
