The Rising of the Sun. . . .

In a café, so this will be short and possibly incoherent, if that isn't assuming too much . . . .

One of the best Christmas moments: walking in a Devon lane with a collie on a lead, past holly and ivy with the sun rising—and starting a roe deer . . . .

Another: listening to the Bach Sonatas and Partitas for solo violin played by the astonishing Viktoria Mullova on Christmas night in front of a blazing fire in the sitting room, surrounded by cards, greens, soft light, with my friend, the collie and the cat . . . .

On Boxing day walking towards Wool Fardy (pronounced Woolsery—both are abbreviations of a much longer name), at a T intersection, whose name I forget, watching three parallel rainbows (single, double, triple) to the right over the hills, while to the left, storms pounded Dartmoor.

One of the worst, nauseating moments: passing a lovely medieval church in Plough Hill (pronounced Poil) with this notice on its board: "Remember the birthday boy and enjoy the full Christmas ['Christ' was underlined] festivities." I wished I'd had a permanent marker so I could have written at the bottom: "Bring on the holly, the ivy, the mistletoe, wassail, the mummers and the hobby, and up yours." Hasn't the idiot who wrote this read the Gospel of John? "ALL things were created through him. . . ."

Pray for my conversion in the New Year.

And may 2010 bring you peace and joy, Gentle Readers.