Curled up in front of the fire in a small Scottish cottage in a place called Lundin Links. Christmas without family but welcoming strangers.
Christmas Eve is a special time. Music is resonating in the rafters along with laughter. The twelve days of Christmas, starting tomorrow. A festive time since Elizabethan days. Mulled wine in hand I stared into the fire. I had been dreaming of the stories that my hosts had shared with me. Slowly a Yule log appeared on the hearth. The room turned into the foyer of a large old house. The fire crackled even more vigorously. The laughter became raucous. The room was filled with partiers all clad in Elizabethan garb – stiff collars, corseted gowns, capes. All seemed to have silver goblets of mulled wine.
There were garlands of ivy and bay leaves hanging from rafters. Christmas Eve was the time for giving and unwrapping. Piles of gifts were scattered around a Christmas tree. The Lord of Misrule (a clown organizing the entertainment) cavorted around the room. Actors, masqued, mimed the messages of Christmas. Guests clapped their hands in glee. I found myself doing the same although I scarcely made sense of this story of Christmas. Definitely more about festive events than the birth of Christ.
Looking down I realized that I was wearing an embroidered gown, cinched tight at the waist and cut low in the bodice. A man grabbed my hand and spun me around in a wild gavotte (how did I know what steps to do). He pulled me up to him and kissed me full on the lips. His were moist with the mulled wine.
Hunger made me head to the tables loaded with wildfowl – turkey, pheasant, swan – and bread and beer and more wine. It seemed like the partying would go on forever. Dogs wandered around the room stealing tidbits where they could.
Then a hush. The Queen glided into the room. All elegance. Hair piled high. Gown stitched with jewels. Pointed toe slippers. Sparkles on her face and elaborate makeup. Courtiers bowed and then toasted her. Was it really Sir Walter Raleigh who knelt to take her hand and then guided her onto the dance floor? And my childhood idol, Sir Francis Drake, looking every bit the naval officer bowing to me and reaching out…
I started awake, someone gently shaking my shoulder. The space around me shrank back to the small cottage living room, the fire back to smoldering coals. Sir Francis Drake faded and I returned to Christmas 1967.
Great description. I could visualize the scene and almost smell the scents. Really enjoyed it.
Thank you! Good to hear from you. This was a 30-minute prompt writing exercise – kind of fun.