I remember Christmas in Wiltshire–I was quite small–maybe twelve years old. A beautiful cottage for the Christmas holiday. Snow so thick and high when we went into the mountains, Daddy driving. Snow had been piled aside in one lane, we called it meringues, high, curly and crusty. We could not see the countryside it was so high.
I remember a rook fell down the chimney with the twigs of his nest.
I had a painting project for school. We looked and hunted everywhere for the correct size and strength of the drawing paper. Where we found it, I do not know. So many years ago.
I remember Christmas in Scotland at my brother’s. A dance after the party. Holly and the scent of burning logs. Whisky and ginger served after dinner.
Then later, in Dorset, a family Christmas, a tree and presents, tales of my voyages in America and my brother’s exploits in his London bank.
Later a magnificent Christmas in Rome, Italy. The snow falling like icing, coating the palm trees in the Piazza de Spagna, a very rare occurrence. Lots of laughter and wine and beautiful clothes. Merry making on the old palazzo on the Tiber River. Chestnuts, a goose. Instead of the English Christmas pudding always stuffed with tiny silver charms passed down from generations and set alight by my father with brandy flaming, there was a cool delicious Zabaglione.
So in love. My boyfriend was there and we shared excitement of what was to happen that weekend.