It’s lovely to see the first 3 flowers of the snowdrops in fragile
bloom in the basin of the old washstand under the whitethorn tree.

After feeding for the greater part of the day, the finches, robins,
bluetits and sparrows have deserted the bird table and the window sill
and returned to the shelter of the fading light. It’s 4.30 and a
movement draws me back to the window. A bird I have never seen before
is nervously feeding on the seeds the others have scattered. He is the
size of a finch, fawn coloured and has the most beautiful lozenge
shaped, soft brown cap on the crown of his head.

In Galway yesterday, I called into the Franciscans to see the crib.
I’m a little sorry that the dark warm cave, its entrance guarded by
the ox and the ass, is no more and gone too the image of distant
Bethlehem behind the kneeling figures. And where is that reflective
little moon behind the infant’s head which as children mesmerised us
as we watched transfixed the little rivers of light continuously
moving outward from the base of that small head.

But apart from that, what was comforting was the fact that the figures
were the same and today I had an additional bonus. For the first time
ever I was a witness to the arrival of the three wise Kings. The first
two Kings were wheeled out regally on a little trolly and as they were
quite heavy, it took some time to settle them round the already
worshipping figures and the wide eyed infant. He’s is by far the most
contented, tranquil baby I have ever seen but today his cheeks have an
added colour with all this new activity going on around him. The third
wise King then arrives accompanied on his trolly by a headless camel.
I am not at all worried, as the Abbey crib has to have the most
beautifully maintained and cared for figures of all that I have ever
seen. Last to arrive is the camel’s head which is quickly linked to
its body. Placed beside him, the little Ethiopian minder who all my
life was there to attend to his camel and who looks on with great joy
at this blessed scene.

All new arrivals now get a great dusting and polishing and when the
two small lambs that had been moved to accommodate the strangers are
returned to the inner circle, the tableau, on a bed of golden straw,
with three small twigs of holly, is complete.

I sit there for ages, a child again, caught in the loveliness and
wonder of it all. A young girl. sits in the seat in front. She seems a
little sad as she gazes for a long time at the scene before her and I
hope it brings her some solace.

The young girl gets up and leaves. I stay on longer – long enough to
know that if I dash out after her, to return the umbrella she’s left
behind, she will be long gone.

When I open the door to let the dogs out I am taken aback and
delighted to see it has snowed during the night. The landscape of my
garden is covered in the purest mantle of glistening white. The narrow
winding pathway to the top gate, the great boulder outside the window,
the roofs of the bird tables and the spindly arms of winter are all
covered in the purest white softness. Water buckets sport white caps,
pine trees are the perfect festive greeting card and uneven bumps and
craggy hollows, soft gentle slops.
In the enamel basin of the old iron wash stand, the green shoots of
the snowdrops stand out and the tumble of logs cut from the fallen
ash, have inviting soft cushions of white moss.

Jessie’s small footprints make a pathway to the corner of the house
and as unobtrusively as I can I move out and take some photos of this
magical, fleeting landscape.