Valley New Year

3 o’clock on a rainy New Year’s Day. Already the light has taken on a darkness, that deepens the dolorous winter colours of the fields and fell side but throws the whitewashed farm and the long-braided spate of Sour Milk Gill behind into glowering pale relief. The year on the turn sits like a black-robed judge, stern, justice without mercy.


But in the chapel window an electric light shows, indicating gathering and perhaps warmth. The porch gate stands open, its metal sheep and shepherd safe and dry under the eaves. On this day, at this time there is a tradition, understated and local, of a few folk coming together to sing the last carols of the season and bringing readings to share. I join the winter-wrapped group inside, sliding along a pew, ready to sing. Bethlehem sheets are quickly passed around and glasses are perched on noses, although for the majority, over half a century, we are all word perfect.


 ‘No 8,’ says someone from in front, but no, the organist chooses first, ‘An easy one to get me going,’ she says, and we swing into ‘God Rest You Merry Gentlemen’. All the verses. Indeed, we sing all the verses of every carol as a praise for life and birth and respect for the words of beauty created by a long dead author and a stand against the cold of the world outside.


Between the carols individuals jump out to the front clasping a book or a much-folded paper eager to read and share their bit. Most, though not all, are well known; Betjeman’s ‘Christmas’, Eliot’s ‘Journey of the Magi’, ‘Little Grey Rabbit’s Christmas’, Tennyson’s ‘Ring out Wild Bells’ and their familiarity does not stop them from invoking reactions of the human heart, quiet tears, smiles and nods of recognition, ‘Yes that speaks to me.’


At last, as the windows frame true darkness, we sing ‘Joy to the World’, the last carol, all stops out for the organist, and as I stand the backs of my legs feel the first baby breath of the under-seat heater, working overtime. I think it might be the only one. But that doesn’t matter because somehow the ladies at the back have fettled up hot mince pies and glasses of sherry. I join up with Sue and her new neighbours, and there is chatter, arrangements for future functions, catch-ups about grown-up children and constant good will wishes for the New Year.


Leaving, down the flight of steep stone steps, we find it is not raining much at all, the road-wide puddles will recede, the sodden-fleeced Herdwicks  will have a chance to dry out and the forecast is cold but fine for tomorrow.


Happy New Year!