As the year draws to a close, I hold my tiny daughter, marvelling at the blonde hair which has suddenly appeared, and attempting (futilely) to avoid her newly-arrived chomping teeth. We wander through the quiet house, the lights down low and the woodstove throwing a gentle glow across the floor; I note with satisfaction the forms of two cats, reclining and resplendent, drunk on warmth, too lazy to reach for the knitting which lies tantalisingly out of easy clawing. (Leg warmers for the tiny daughter, since you ask – my first attempt at double-pointed needles, and, thus far, a success, I am amazed to discover.) In the kitchen Quercus cooks dinner – tonight, root veg mash with sausages and my favourite, sprouts – while the ancient radio offers a comfortable selection of carols. ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’, ‘Gabriel’s Message’. That sort of thing. A large and rather ungainly Christmas tree leans, at a jaunty angle, against the dark red of the cob wall, which, once an external wall, has yet to be rendered. There is a solstice cake in the oven, and a large bowl of mincemeat on the windowsill. Outside it is raining lightly, and the chickens are in bed for the night, still squabbling amongst themselves over who is queen of the roost. (What that says about the sexuality of our rooster I dread to think.)

Tomorrow there are presents to be wrapped (I wish I could post photos of two things, but it would ruin the surprise; also, our camera, with seasonal good will, has died – the shutter won’t open: is this terminal, I wonder?), and pies to be made. A tree to be decorated, and a wreath to finish. General clawing to avoid, and, of course, those tiny teeth to be stared at in amazement.

I love midwinter.