Some of you might have been unlucky enough to have read my article in TPN last year where I whinged about Christmas, grinch-like. I don't intend a reprise this time but I do want to mention that the local radio stations which I listen to while I potter around are now in full festive mood and are extolling the virtues of the Christmas fairs, ice rinks and bright Christmassy lights in the big cities hereabouts. This means I have adopted Operation Humbug, my defensive position for the season, whereby trips to the urban centres mentioned will only be undertaken if that's where the ambulance takes me, otherwise they are now off limits until after the season of goodwill. The reason is that I want to maintain my sense of goodwill to all people and the safest way to do that is to avoid the bling and the blarney.

Crass commercialisation

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not actually a Scrooge or a Grinch, even if some members of the family will tell you otherwise. I really do like Christmas. What I don't like is the crass commercialisation of it all. What I do like is a period of time that brings together family and a few friends for a brief moment of peace and calm. It should be something that embraces the season, the dark days and long nights - a time when we need a bit of reassurance and a bit of love. I genuinely don't think we get these things from the glitz and glamour that fill the streets. I'd go as far as to say that they tend towards having the opposite effect: they obscure and conceal reality and, for many, create a new level of worry, that of falling short of the demands made by the demons of commerce. Peace? Goodwill? Not to be found in the shopping centres at any price.

Getting ready for the celebrations

In my positive state of mind, I am getting ready for the celebrations. Nothing elaborate. Nothing flashy. My greatest contribution so far has been the production of some home-made mincemeat. I mean, what is Christmas without mince pies? I don't go as far as my mother did, who rather overdid the whole thing, bless her, by having a mince pie every day during December leading up to the Big Day – her version of an advent calendar. My plan is more cunning. I am hoping to convert entire communities to the delights of the wee things, though so far the reach of my empire hasn't gone much beyond the tuga family, members of the local church choir and staff at the physio centre way over in Fafe – but I'm working on it. Problem is, am I setting myself up for making annual deliveries to a slowly widening circle of aficionados? Oops.


Naturally, I can't make the mince pies until I've made the mincemeat and I need to do that a week or two before baking the pastries; after all, the brandy needs time to soak through all that fruit. This is another positive from living in Portugal. If I'd remained in Blighty, I wouldn't have thought twice about popping down to Sainsbury's and buying a jar or three of mincemeat but here the only realistic option is to make your own and once I'd got over the shock of realising that you can use butter instead of suet it has been a joy.

The Christmas Tree

The next on the list is the tree, a small living thing that I can replant in the woods later. A few gentle decorations: nothing gaudy and certainly nothing that flashes. I leave that to the perverts in raincoats. I know just the place to get a little pinheiro and I'll be off to fetch it in the morning. What else? Making sure that we have the necessary ingredients for a steamed sticky date and cranberry pudding, that's what. I've always liked the idea of Christmas pudding but I've never really liked the taste so the discovery a few years back of this lighter but oh-so-seasonal version was very welcome.

Credits: Unsplash; Author: gaby-dyson;

Bacalhau for Consoada?

The best news is that this year we probably won't be having bacalhau for consoada. I can't tell you how happy that makes me. I like bacalhau in all its variations with the exception of the way it is done for Christmas Eve. But now, external events are assisting the slow course of cultural change. I'm all for change, especially if it means polvo instead of bacalhau.

Meanwhile, I have a solemn duty to perform. While the sad creatures in the cities down in the valleys and plains below our hills suffer the humiliating ritual of Christmas bling and razzmatazz for weeks on end, I shall be keeping an eye out in our little village to check that any decs peeping from front windows into the dark of the evening are discreet and tasteful. Should they be otherwise, I shall tut loudly to myself. So far, all I've noticed are some rather sad Santas hanging from balconies in the rain, like felons left on the gibbet for the crows, but they don't intrude upon the general ambience of the scene so I simply shake my head and pass on. All is looking well.