To the Commandery of the Knights Hospitaller of Jerusalem, as is my custom, to celebrate the habits of my tribe, as they have done since 1211. The church itself is closed for repairs, including the tiled floor, which looked alright to me, but which apparently needs specialist attention to restore it to former glories.

The Commandery is the larger building, built in 1230, a village cathedral, though the picky commissars of the heritage authorities decreed that the iron winches of the blacksmith be kept on the wall, and that the floor must remain bare trodden earth, to reveal its exile as a workshop, when it had a corrugated tin roof. They did well to require the beautiful oak beams under the new tiled roof, but demanded that the narrow arrow slit windows should not be glassed in. The then Lord of the Manor, (who was paying personally for the whole restoration) said: “pigeon droppings on oak beams?” and the matter was dropped.

Two large candlestands brought from the church flickered welcome, and the chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, so our vicar was no more than two yards away, and we could see him and each other easily. The building was otherwise rather dark, and cold, the floor even more so. This gave a certain briskness to the proceedings. We did not hang about in our observances. Closer together, we belted out the carols. The lessons were well read. Eliot’s “The Journey of the Magi” was one of the readings. (“Much better than my giving a sermon” said the vicar to me later).

In an hour we were done, and as per ancient tradition had wine and mince pies. Stalwarts had done days of work to prepare for us. My ninety two winters old friend could not attend, confined to bed at home. There was the chatter of congregants in the usual way.

But something had changed. The bare agricultural setting had made us feel that we were the Magi, coming into the manger, finding it rough, inhospitable, and barely a shelter. We were no longer a congregation at a carol service, but forty miscreants gathered in sedition, worshiping their new God furtively, and if found by roaming enemies, would be put to the sword.

“The best ever” was the general judgment.

Then into the dark, cold and very windy night, past the still pond, past distant long barrows and Iron age forts, past the down on which the Saxon Princess was buried in her ironwork bed, past houses with lit windows and fields with gloomy trees, past the ghosts of villagers who worshipped here, and farmed, tilled strip lynchets and kept sheep, past the Maypole and the battened hedges, past ponds and streams, stone walls and gates, all these spread out beneath the silent discant of the twinkling stars.
Merry Christmas to you all.