The great thing about living in a village is that one is connected to the seasons, the yearly cycle of weather, traditions and relationships. Spring changes the world around you, leaves appear on the trees and the mud on the street dries up, much to the regret of the car wash sites in the local town. The rooks appear and for a few weeks they greet the morning with riot, squabbling and wheeling among the sycamore trees behind the cottage. Every May there’s the May Day walk and the visit to the pub en masse.

Summer means sitting in the garden for a pre-dinner starter and a small glass of something  while the Management points out that the grass needed mowing again, and we realise that it’s gone quiet because the rooks have taken their youngsters off into the wide world beyond our parish boundaries. Then suddenly the trees are bare again and dead leaves bury everything. We could really do with a Bonfire Night celebration but what with the horses and the cats and dogs it has never really caught on. Then comes winter and Christmas, not a confected thing of decorations and commerce but the real thing, cold, a time to huddle with the family, a time to meet your neighbours in the pub and the church: it’s traditional carols and lessons in St Mary’s and a more robust bit of singing in The Swan.

It’s always cold in our church and those reading the lessons need to remember to take a torch and wrap up warm – we’ve never had electricity and the gas fires do little to take the chill off the air –but the church is always packed, with the candles lending an atmosphere that must be the same as it has been for hundreds of years.  And after the service there’s mulled wine and gossip, the rosy glow of the herbs and spices – I think that’s what does it – making the walk back up the hill to the village a lot easier. And so to the New Year walk and the traditional round begins again, unchanging, with its feeling of belonging, a sense of the continuity of our lives with those who have gone before and a connection with those who are still unborn.

But not this year. Nothing has been the same. Nothing. Even the carol service was changed.

An edict had came down from above about how many people were allowed to attend. Masks had to be worn, but in a generous and daring decision we had permission to remove them for the readings. There was to be no singing. The rector and the lay reader made a valiant effort but the congregation, cut to less than a third of the usual number, looked thin as we all shivered, bereft of the warmth of the usual crowd. The organist played the hymns and the more rebellious of us sang the words sotto voce behind our masks, while our local folkie fiddler lent a touch of magic to what was a rather grim occasion. Home to mulled wine, the wood burner and the TV. Not the same.

I’m not a particularly resentful person, but sometimes things spark real anger. When the leader of the Labour group on the county council whipped his group to vote against our proposal to ease the housing problems for my residents – Labour voting against social housing! –  I bottled up the anger. He made it to Parliament in the next general election,  but when Mrs May’s administration fell apart I spent as much time as possible campaigning against him. He lost and made a gloriously grudging and generally beaned-off speech at the count, a moment I will cherish. Revenge is a dish best served cold.

I resent what this incompetent government has done with its disastrous approach to Covid. I am appalled  about their new energy policies which promise spectacular electricity failures in the not too distant future. But it’s sometimes little things that matter most. I’m angry, really angry at how they have stolen a year of my life in my village, a year which I should have shared not just with the rooks and the seasons but also with my neighbours and my church.

A dish served cold. We won’t forget.

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