A tale of two Christmases: 1918 and 2011

All of us on the beach

We had a really lovely family Christmas this year. Eighteen of us gathered together in a large welcoming house, with log fires, warm comfortable beds and lots of good food. We had a lovely time just being together: going for walks, playing games, cooking in teams, and taking turns looking after baby Thomas. We aren't together all that often, and now that the children are older it is a lot of fun seeing them all getting along and contributing so much to the family in different ways.

When we got back from our week away, I had an urge to tidy up the attic. I came across some letters and diaries written by my French great-grandfather, Docteur Athanase Linard. He was called up to serve as a doctor in the First World War, and spent the best part of 4 years away from home, traveling from one place to another, setting up field hospitals, or following troops into battle. In the Somme, he was on horseback, at other times and places he traveled by train. He wrote letters - often daily, though we don't have them all - back to his wife Marie, and his three teenage daughters: Genevieve (my grandmother), Jeanne, and Madeleine.
 

Interrupted letter

I noticed some of the letters were written in December 1918 and I was curious why he was still away from  home (since the war was over), and how he spent his Christmas.

Postcard of Kreuznach

He seems to have been sent here and there - moving on at an hour's notice - in the weeks before Christmas 1918. He keeps referring in his letters to the fact that he hopes to be home on leave for Christmas, though he has given up hope of being 'liberated' (demobbed) because of what he refers to as the Germans 'causing trouble'. In the week before Christmas he is in Western Germany, in the Rhine valley - drinking Rhineland wine - in Mainz, , Langenlonsheim, Kreuznach, St Wendel.

As he says on the 19th Dec from Mainz: "Je fais de l’occupation et j’ai franchi le Rhin en vainqueur comme nos ancêtres il y a cent ans." (Just like our ancestors a hundred years ago, I've crossed the Rhine as a victor and now I'm part of the occupying forces.)

In every letter he refers to his hope of getting leave for Christmas and how much he's looking forward to seeing his daughters. It's not till the 21st that he gives up hope and tells them that he is to be serving at Mainz hospital for Christmas and until he gets demobbed.

On the 26th he writes a long letter home describing how he spent Christmas. This was his day:

Letter describing Christmas day

• 10am mass in the cathedral
• 1pm present distribution around the Christmas tree at the hospital for 100 wounded soldiers and 700 liberated french POWs with Mrs Rothschild (pearls the size of cherries in her ears) very busily involved in everything
• lunch for the above in two sittings of 400 each
• 2pm Generals Mangin ("petit, noiraud") and Marchand arrive
• Marseillaise is played
• Film show for everyone 

Despite being surrounded by so many people, I think Dr Linard felt alone - missing his wife and daughters, and not being home for Christmas. He enjoyed the day, but was no doubt making mental notes of things to write home about.  Writing on the morning of the 26th he even promises his girls a second letter in the afternoon. I am so thankful that in 2011 we are in peacetime, in plenty, and we could be all together as a family.

Norfolk in winter

Christmas in Norfolk. Inside: warmth, noise, plenty. Outside: nature back to its bare bones. The fields are empty, just a few birds wheeling overhead, the distinctive skeletons of different trees standing out against the grim sky. In churchyards, dark yew trees seem to bend protectively over the grave stones.
 

fields around Langley Grange

Langley Street at sunset

reed beds at Reedham ferry

Out on the marshes, it's a different kind of  simplicity. Just the water and the reeds for miles around. The only sounds are the rustling reeds and the water gently lapping at the bank. There are no trees for the wind to whistle through. When the sun comes out the light is gentle and golden, and the clouds skim lightly along.

Reedham ferry

But when the sky goes grey with a bank of thick low clouds, it's like a great lid has come down. The abandoned windmills loom reproachfully across the water at us. In the distance, smoke from the sugar beet factory chimney highlights the contrast between the two technologies.

Hadley marshes with the sugar beet factory at Cantley in the background

Water is everywhere: even at the beach there are marshy areas, standing water, low grasses reclaiming land that was once on top of the nearby cliffs.



There are no distractions here. Just the bare elements of Norfolk: sky, sun, water.

Carol Singing

We've been carol singing twice this year: once at a candlelight service at Trumpington church, and then a few days later, the Newnham carol singing in the streets round our neighbourhood.

The snow around the church was still quite fresh and undistrubed. It was dark but the moonlight reflected off the snow gave plenty of light to see by as we walked up the icy path to the church door. I wondered why there was already singing in the church even though we were 20 minutes early - was the choir practicing?

Unfortunately we'd got the time wrong by an hour and the service was in full swing. Three car-fulls of us came, about 10 minutes apart, so we kept disturbing the service as each time the lady ushers had to find carol sheets and candles for the next lot of us to arrive. I got the giggles every time the door opened again for another load of Squires to trail in... But we were made welcome, and we sang heartily. I got there in time for 'In the bleak midwinter' which is one of my favourites, and the reading about the shepherds coming to the stable - so there was plenty more to go. At the end we had mince pies and mulled wine and were very glad we'd come.  There were a few people there that I knew - I'm always surprised at that even though I've been here nearly 8 years so it's not really extraordinary.

The Newnham carols were fun too - numbers swelled by various visiting in-laws (or in my case, Emma). We met at the Co-op at 5pm and sang around our three violins. No money collection - just pure pleasure. It was very cold and dark with snow and ice still making the road treacherous. Lois had put up the sheet music at our 'stations': starting at the Co-op, then the butcher's, down to the bend on Grantchester Meadows and then the tree at the end of Marlowe Road. Two or three carols at each stop - just enough for the fiddlers' finger not to get too cold. We got carried away at the end and sang 'We wish you a Merry Christmas' a few extra time just for fun.  Idefix the dog was there too and paid me the compliment of not attacking my ankles. The brazier, mince pies, flapjacks, and mulled wine were waiting for us at the other end of Marlowe Road - but even that wasn't enough to keep Emma warm in her London coat and thin shoes so we had to make an early escape back to the fire side at 11A.

There was one more carol singing - a short story I read by Laurie Lee about his childhood. He tells  the story of the boys in his village traipsing through miles of snow to the houses of the neighbouring gentry: it's true and unsentimental.