The Great Christmas Knit Off. Alexandra Brown

      

      But where’s the taxi rank?

      Basil and I are standing underneath an old-fashioned Dickensian-looking streetlight! And I don’t believe it – we’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by snow-dappled trees and standing on a postage-stamp-size patch of tarmac that I’m assuming must count as a car park around here. And it’s deserted, apart from what looks like half of a dilapidated two-berth caravan. It’s hard to tell as the top has been cut off and the rest ‘left to nature’; brambles, ten feet high with an intricate crocheted maze of snow-dusted spider webs weaving between the leaves, are sprouting from it at jaunty angles. Basil and I are the only ones here and the tiny ticket office, aka a converted Portakabin, is all locked up; we had to exit the platform via a rickety wooden side gate. So now what? There isn’t even a bus stop or a phone box that I can see, and the snow is falling thicker and faster.

      We start walking.

      Well, I’m walking, trudging like a Sherpa really, dragging my wheelie suitcase behind me, whereas Basil is bouncing along up front, biting the snow as if it’s a real thing and generally having a good time.

      We’ve been walking for at least ten minutes when we come to a fork in the road. There’s one of those traditional white wooden country signposts, so I stop walking and, after catching my breath, I reach up and wipe the snow away to see if we’re even going in the right direction.

       Tindledale 2¼

      Two and a quarter miles! Sweet Jesus, when was the last time I walked that far? From what I can see, it’s uphill all the way and my backside still aches from the Zumba class. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea after all. On the numerous occasions when the Clio has conked out, I’ve just taken the tube or jumped on a bus. Getting around is easy in London, but not here it seems. I scan the narrow, twisting country lane, hopeful for a bus stop, but there’s nothing, just trees and hedges and darkness and silence. I never knew the countryside could be this quiet. No car alarms. No shouting. No TV. No belting Dubstep from next door at 3 a.m. on a school night. No nothing. Just nature at night-time, I suppose. It’s peaceful. And I never noticed it before when camping with the Brownies as a child, but then there were ten giggling girls in sleeping bags right beside me.

      There aren’t even any streetlights now. Only a pretty pearlescent hue from the full moon high up in the inky, twinkly starry night sky. Oh well. It could be fun, in a Dorothy-following-the-yellow-brick-road kind of way; only my road is glistening snow-white to light the way. I click the heels of my (fittingly) red Converse trainers together and try to ignore the fact that they’re already soaked through. Right on cue, Basil, thinking it’s some kind of new game, leaps up at me. Catching him with my gloved hands, I laugh and pull him in close, letting him nuzzle into my face, his whiskery nose tickling my cheeks and making me smile. He can be my Toto.

      ‘Come on. We better get on with it then,’ I say, placing him back on the snowy ground, and making a mental note to buy a new mobile first thing in the morning.

      Figuring it will be easier to push the suitcase up the hill, I lengthen the strap on my handbag and swing it over my head, cross-body style, before pulling the bobble hat and hood down over my forehead to act as a kind of snow shield, then I manoeuvre the suitcase into position like a mini snowplough, and start trudging. And trudge some more. And more again. Past a quaint, brick-built school with a tiny playground and an impressive clock tower at one end of the roof, a row of the cutest chocolate-box cottages I’ve ever seen, with wrought-iron gates leading into long front gardens surrounded by mature hedges and dotted with wooden bird feeders and wind chimes. One of the cottages has a pile of wellies and muddy boots stacked up in the porch by the front door and I can’t help thinking how lovely it is, that they can leave stuff like that outside without the fear of somebody nicking it. That would never happen in London – I put a herb planter on my windowsill once and it lasted exactly a day before it disappeared. I keep trudging until, eventually, I spot a hazy glow in the distance. A flicker.

      As we get closer, I see a single white column candle in a glass-covered storm lamp at the foot of a stone war memorial set in the middle of a very tiny village square. There’s a festive holly wreath lying next to the candle, its crimson red berries a vivid contrast in the white of the snow, and for some reason it takes my breath away. It’s poignant and magical and I stand mesmerised for a few minutes at the significance of the sight before me. Even Basil stops bounding and stands completely still, instinctively sensing the reverence of the moment.

      The snow stops and I notice a bus shelter to my left with a wooden bench inside. Hurrah! I stagger in and sit down, grateful for the breather. Two and a quarter miles, uphill, in deep snow, is very hard work.

      ‘Evening!’ a man’s voice says in the dark, and I almost jump right off the bench. I didn’t see him there, huddled up in the corner. ‘Sorry to startle you. Just waiting for the good lady wife,’ he explains, before rubbing his gloved hands together and stamping his welly-clad feet in an attempt to keep warm. ‘Nippy one tonight. Where are you heading? There won’t be a bus along until tomorrow, you know. First one is at eight so you’ll have a bit of a wait.’

      ‘Oh, um, hello,’ I start, awkwardly. I’m not used to complete strangers making eye contact in public, let alone talking to me. It isn’t the done thing in London. What if they have a knife? But he looks harmless in the candlelight, wizened but friendly, jovial even, and Basil likes him; he has his front paws up on the man’s knees and his tail is wagging from side to side. ‘Basil! Stop that. Sorry, he’s still learning,’ I say, grabbing Basil’s collar in an attempt to pull him away from the man.

      ‘Ah, he’s OK. Can probably smell my dogs. Got six of them at home. Not Scotties, mind. Working Collies – for the sheep.’ The man treats Basil to a vigorous rub behind his ears.

      ‘That’s nice. Are you a shepherd?’ I say, and then instantly wish I could push the words back into my mouth. I sound ridiculous – from what I’ve already seen of Tindledale, it’s obviously a bit behind the times but hardly biblical. Then the man surprises me.

      ‘Yes, I guess so. Ah, those were the days!’ He chuckles. Wow! I’ve just met my first shepherd. ‘It’s all changed now, but I’ve still got sheep, hundreds of the bleaters. So where have you come from?’

      ‘Um, London,’ I reply, a little taken aback by his directness. ‘I’ve just walked from the station,’ I add, to clarify.

      ‘Well, that’s certainly a trek.’ He lets out a long whistle. ‘Oh, here she is.’ The man stands up as a mud-splattered old tank of a Land Rover judders to a halt in front of us, its diesel engine still chugging as the window is cranked down a few inches, gets stuck and a woolly-mittened (definitely homemade) hand appears over the top to force it down the rest of the way.

      ‘Been bothering you, has he?’ A blowsy woman in a floral silk headscarf pops her head out.

      ‘Oh, no, not at all.’ I shake my head vehemently and smile to assure her.

      ‘Well, that makes a change – fancies himself as a ladies’ man when he’s got his drinking goggles on, don’t you, dear?’ She chuckles as he plants a big kiss on her plump cheek before heading round to the passenger seat. ‘Do you need a lift?’

      ‘I don’t actually know,’ I say, feeling ever so slightly displaced, a bit parallel universe, even. It’s surreal. I’m standing in Narnia with the shepherd and his wife chatting like they’ve known me my whole life.

      ‘Where are you heading to?’

      ‘The Duck & Puddle pub, do you know it?’

      The woman roars with laughter like I’ve just cracked the funniest joke ever.

      ‘Indeed, I do! Very well, in fact. It’s my husband’s second home. End of the High Street,