Christmas Day was cold and crisp here on the Black Isle – one of those days when the air is so box-fresh and still, it feels like there isn’t enough of it.
By two o’clock the five of us had attacked our scrambled eggs and our presents, trashed and half-righted the house after the morning frenzy and made a start on the food prep as, later on, there would be 11 of us round the table for Christmas dinner. None of us had set foot outdoors, but as a Christmas walk is a legal requirement in my house, I grudgingly allocated half an hour – not a minute more – for the purpose.
We wrapped up cosy in new hats and gloves and set off, our kitchen-hot breath swirling into the air, footsteps noisy on the icy tarmac. I was tetchy; so many things remained undone.
Someone had to get logs in. Extra chairs dragged from other rooms. Bread sauce to finish, plates to warm, fires to stoke, sprouts to steam, neeps to mash, roasties to roast, nibbles to assemble, candles to find, cheese board to set out, shower to have, hair to wash, make-up to apply, festive clothes to dig out, lights, napkins, crisps, pigs, blankets. Another run round with the hoover.
The stubble fields on either side sparkled with frost as we trudged down the single-track road towards the sewage works at the head of the firth. I wished I’d put the dishwasher on.
You’re never too old to play
As we neared the bottom of the hill, we spotted our neighbours in the distance, accompanied by a young child, so we crossed the stile into the field to wish them the proverbials of the season.
The little boy was visiting with his granny, and my neighbours had taken him for a walk while she enjoyed a bath. His face was alive with fresh air and Christmas excitement.
“Would you like to see some heilan’ coos?” He asked me, pointing back up the hill.
“Definitely!” I replied, even though said heilan’ coos have lived in the field just over the road from my house for years and I’ve never paid them much heed before.
‘Do it with me!’ He cried, springing to his feet and running back up to me. I stared at him. But my heart kind of leapt
We ran up the brae and Leo pointed out the beasts who stood heavily in the distance, their woolly back ends facing us, unconcerned by our attention.
“Aren’t they gorgeous?” I enthused, because they did look rather magnificent, but Leo had moved on.
“Do you want to watch me roll down the hill?” He asked. Of course I did. We all cheered as he threw himself onto the stubbly ground and roly-polied all the way down the little hill, coming to rest at the feet of the others.
“Do it with me!” He cried, springing to his feet and running back up to me. I stared at him. But my heart kind of leapt.
Who made whose day, really?
I looked down at the dark, clean earth, with its sprinkling of vivid green weeds and its thatch of icy stubble, and wondered about the crackling noise the straw might make if it was rolled over by a puffy anorak. My puffy anorak. I wondered if frosted straw still had that strawy smell, or was it masked by its icy crust?
It wasn’t that steep a hill and there was a doctor present… so I carefully lay down in the field, a few feet away from Leo.
“Three… two… one… gooooo!” We pushed off, roly-polying down the brae, crunching the lovely stubble, towards cheering friends and family. I’d forgotten that roly-polies build their own momentum as gravity takes over and you just roll and roll like a herring barrel on a slipway.
Down we tumbled – sky, straw, sky, straw, sky, straw, sky, straw – before clattering to rest at the bottom, breathless, disoriented, giggling.
Leo leapt to his feet and I was dragged upright by my boys. Dizzily, I gazed around until the see-sawing horizon slowed and stilled. Leo and I beamed at one another. Children have the best ideas.
“You’ve made his day,” Sheila whispered to me as we made to go our separate ways.
“Well he’s definitely made mine,” I replied.
Walking home in the clear air with my husband and three wonderful young adults who’d come home to spend the festive season with their old mum and dad, I was in love with the moment. Everything felt special and precious.
There were a couple of bits and bobs to finish off back at the house, but they’d take no time at all.
Erica Munro is a novelist, playwright, screenwriter and freelance editor