My brother and I grew up on a self-sufficient farm in Cornwall in the 1970s. Behind our cottage, the yard was busy with pigs, which came in from the fields in the evening to sleep in the pigsty. Ducks sailed the duckpond, geese ruled the homefield and we hand-milked our cows in the byre. We loved our animals. Sick hens or piglets were brought in to convalesce next to the Aga in our kitchen, scattered corn sometimes germinating between the flagstones.
Each Christmas, our tree stood in a bucket wrapped in red crepe paper, a pool of straw lying around its base, with our presents on top. We would decorate the tree with the glass baubles and 1930s celluloid toys that our grandmother bought during her boho life in pre‑war Berlin. So pretty. As darkness fell on Christmas Day, we would light real candles on the tree and bask in the magic.
