December has crept in quietly at Gamekeeper’s Cottage, bringing with it short, crisp days and the smell of woodsmoke on the air. There’s a hush over the garden now, a sense of waiting, as though everything is holding its breath for the turn of the year.
Last weekend, I took advantage of a rare bright afternoon to gather some greenery for the house. There’s something deeply satisfying about heading out with secateurs in hand, foraging for holly, ivy, and the stray sprays of hawthorn that still cling to the hedgerows.
I don’t go in for anything too fussy — a simple ring of ivy and holly hung on the door, and a few bundles of greenery tucked along the mantels are more than enough to bring a bit of life indoors. It’s a tradition that feels as old as the land itself, a way of celebrating the resilience of green things in the darkest part of the year.
While I was out there, I also dug out the box of Christmas lights ready to string up along the stable roof and on the end wall of the stable. It’s become a bit of a tradition now – nothing flashy, just a warm, gentle glow to welcome you home on those dark December evenings. Before anything goes up, I always plug the lights in and check for any blown bulbs or broken wires. (There’s nothing worse than wrestling with a tangle of dead lights on a freezing cold ladder.)
It’s small preparations like these that make the season feel real. No rush, no big spectacle — just a slow gathering of light and greenery against the gathering dark.
As Christmas draws closer, I find I value these quieter traditions more and more: the wreath on the door, the soft twinkle of lights against the black wood of the stables, the crackle of a burning log in the hearth. A simple sort of Christmas, but the best kind, I think.