By: Blonde Two
On Sunday Blonde One and I took our annual pilgrimage up to Dartmoor to visit and adorn The Dartmoor Christmas Tree (Tree to his many friends). We have been doing this for so long now that neither of us could work out when we first started.
There was Tree’s year of the snow.
There was Tree’s year of the terrible chopping.
There was Tree’s year of the bauble
There was Tree’s year of the umbrella
And there was Tree’s year of the story
I’m not sure how many times you have to do something before it becomes a tradition, the concept seems to be a complicated one and Google is no help whatsoever. Seven seems like a good number to me, nice and round and with all sorts of natural and supernatural connotations. It is a good number for peas, roast potatoes, pairs of walking boots, camping stoves, packets of crisps and dwarves (but maybe not angels).
You will be pleased to hear that I am going to christen this year Tree’s year of the growing because he has done such excellent growing this year that there is now no sign of any tree stump induced chopping whatsoever. He is, in fact, in better shape than he was before the chopping.
There is a personal metaphor there I am sure.
On my final section of the Wyre Way a few days ago with BC we saw another baubled tree on the footpath down the western estuary of the Wyre, and I have seen the odd one here and there over the years, so maybe you started something.
Maybe, there are other Christmas trees that are decorated on Dartmoor. Blonde One can remember walking with her Granddad and seeing our Tree (the Tree) adorned with baubles.