A Rustic Christmas

The ubiquitous Canterbury norwester is blowing with fury this afternoon, I have closed the large wooden doors upstairs here at work as they were banging and thrashing with an ominous intensity that was more than a little unsettling. It is stifling hot and the air inside is now still and close, claustrophobic like a tomb. I glance out the window and see the swallows who have been nesting in the porch below clinging defiantly to the power lines as the wind whips around them. Their wings are pointed like the tips of a star and flashes of blue and red are visible as their feathers ruffle and they take flight. Their beauty interrupts the grim concrete backdrop of the buildings that surround us and it occurs to me that the swallows are like early Christmas decorations - a flutter of festivity in a mundane world.
A memory of a glacial Christmas spent in Paris crosses my mind, perhaps to counteract this unbearable heat or simply a welcome visit from the ghost of a Christmas past. When I think of that Christmas I remember the cold - the stark, bone cracking chill of the exhaust laden air as we walked around Paris. On Christmas morning we walked from our apartment in the 18th arrondissement through the quiet streets to Montmartre, ducking into the odd cafe that remained open along the way for a coffee and some much needed warmth. We arrived at Montmartre and found the carousel at the bottom of the steps still operating, the brightly coloured horses spinning around and the fairground music percolating out into the abandoned streetscape, somewhat muffled by the cold. It seemed like the perfect Christmas activity to ride this normally crowded carousel alone. We chose our horses and climbed aboard, our hands stinging as we clasped the cold metal rods and we whirled around with the tears streaming from our eyes forming icy trails down our cheeks. The windows of the old apartment building across the street would reveal a glimpse of a Christmas scene with each rotation like a living nativity calendar. Christmas tree lights were glowing in the depths of shady interiors and people were preparing or eating lunch, their window panes obscured by the condensation of heat and activity. We kept walking to stay warm and continued on past the spectacular Christmas windows at Galeries Lafayette, the delicate layer of ice on the pavement crunching delicately under our feet like caramelised sugar.
The day ended with an impeccable dinner at Boffinger. The comforting clatter of cutlery on plates and hum of conversation greeted us as we entered, brass gleamed and the elaborate Belle Epoque sky light sparkled. A gaggle of white shirted waiters surrounded us like a snow flurry, we were seated and proceeded to enjoy our Christmas dinner par excellence with the precious memories of our perfect Christmas Day continuing to embed in our psyches as the day unfolded.
Most Christmases since have been much less of a fairytale, often unremarkable or cobbled together in haste but always joyful nonetheless. I think some of the charm of Christmas is allowing yourself to revisit that unfettered childhood wonder - it wasn’t really necessary to understand the nuts and bolts of Christmas when were children it was only relevant that it was a day unlike any other for whatever reason and it was simply magic. We didn’t need everything to be perfect, the decorations didn’t need to be exceptional, there was no need for excess - Christmas Day was just not like yesterday, it was a shift in perspective - the magic was in the air. As an adult the magic of Christmas is at times elusive depending on circumstance but I have found that if you allow yourself to tap into the Christmas mood, Christmas is a day when even the most ordinary can seem festive.
This rustic 19th century Scandinavian table and set of Ercol dining chairs celebrate the beauty of a simple Christmas - the perfect setting for a day of fun, frivolity and festivity.