West Country woods echoed with the sound of folk collecting branches for their ashen faggots this week; young men have been stitching and cobbling together costumes for the seasonal Mummers’ Play; the people of St Ives have polished their clogs in readiness for the annual Christmas Dance; master-bullocks performed their midnight duty, kneeling and bellowing three times to hail the Babe of Bethlehem; and tradesmen all over the region were adding a little extra this or that to the orders of their favourite customers.

Dream on. The modern story of a rural Christmas goes more like this: there’ll have been a last minute panic to order oil for the central heating (no ashen faggot), kids will been gazing into their phone screens (no Mummer’s Play), the Christmas dancers will indeed have danced but in some long-haul holiday night-club, the master-bullock probably had nightmares about veganism taking over the planet and destroying the need for cattle, and as for generous trades-folk handing out free goods, not much chance of the giant online retailers doing that.

Ah well, we can at least dream of Christmas-past. The people of the West Country took the great occasion very seriously indeed in years gone by, and one can’t help thinking it was a more poignant, merry and altogether more human festival than the commercial nonsense we endure today.

Take that ashen faggot for instance. This was the West Country’s version of the traditional Yule-log – and what could be merrier than toasting away the evil spirits of midwinter to the sound of an ashen-faggot’s crackle? I have written about this custom before, but I now learn that the practice of faggot burning was widespread across the peninsula and that people performed all sorts of variations on the drunken theme.

Basically you throw a bundle of ash sticks on the fire and stand ready with your glass. As the bindings of the faggot burn (they can be made of anything supple from withies to honeysuckle) so they crackle and pop. And, each time they do, you must take a swig and make a toast that will banish the dark midwinter spirits from your home. The thing is that the bindings can crackle and pop quite a lot, so it’s best to have your turkey all stuffed and ready to go, because you might not feel like preparing the beast in the morning.

More drinking and merriment used to go on during the Mummers’ Play which was a widespread Westcountry tradition at Christmas. Here’s what Exmoor poacher Lordy Holcombe had to say about the custom more than 100 years ago: “The chief character was old Father Christmas. He used to be got up as a venerable old fellow, with a long white beard and big cloak. He had a bad cough, and had to support his tottering footsteps with a staff. He and his party were always welcome visitors at farmhouses, and whilst the inmates sat round a comfortable fire, we actors were introduced one by one and went through our parts.”

Now let’s head west and take a turn around the town of St Ives with the Christmas Dancers. It was known as ‘guise-dancing’ and it went on during the 12-days of Christmas. Apparently youngsters in the town would dress up in all manner of fancy costumes and go about the town with faces covered with masks or whatever. It seems they would call upon friends – or enemies – and speak in high falsetto voices so as not to be recognised.

On Christmas Day the children of St Ives would go down to Porthminster Beach where they’d play games and dance. Alas, the ancient tradition of ‘guise-dancing’ disappeared from the Cornish port sometime between the two world wars.

As for a master bullock kneeling in homage to the Babe of Bethlehem, Exmoor authoress Alice King recorded at the end of the 19th century that it was well known that this would occur in farm mangers across the Westcountry on the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve. The biggest bullock in the herd would low three times before kneeling with all the other animals in the barn.

What about the old Christmas custom of tradesmen putting something a little extra when boxing-up orders for their favourite customers? West Somerset historian, the late Hilary Binding, wrote: “Most tradesmen managed to put a little something extra among the week’s order for the goods supplied for Christmas – usually with an eye to the customer’s spending and his future goodwill. Grocers might give dried fruit, candied peel or spice while ironmongers would provide a cup or a plate. The giving of flour by the bakers seems to be a tradition that goes back over a very long period and it was, of course, like the fruit and spices, intended for the making of the Christmas pudding.”

Another historian working in the region, F. J. Snell, wrote back in 1903: “In connection with Christmas it may be mentioned that in the West Country it is reckoned a crime to kill a robin. This notion is believed to have sprung from a beautiful old legend that, as the Saviour hung on the cross, the little bird toiled to extract the nails from His bleeding hands, and that some drops of sacred blood falling on its breast, left the red stain which we now find.”

And so the customs of a West Country Christmas past go on and on. There are many other traditions I haven’t the space to record here – but just writing about the subject has put me, and I hope you, in a jolly, old-fashioned, Christmas spirit. And, with a sentimental tear, I shall leave you with this merry little verse that the region’s children used to sing a century ago or more:

“Christmas Day in the morning,/

Joesph whistling, Mary singing,/

All the bells of heaven are ringing,/

Christmas Day in the morning.

n.b. The reference to Lordy Holcombe and the Mummer’s Play comes from The Autobiography of a Poacher, reprinted and published by Halsgrove. And the notes from F.J. Snell come from A Book of Exmoor, also reprinted and published by Halsgrove.

TIPPLE

A favourite West Country Christmas tipple was a strange concoction called Lamb’s Wool. This was a great stew of warm ale into which roasted apples and spices had been thrown. On Christmas morning each member of the household was treated to one of the apples, which they ate before drinking back the flavoured ale.

Cracker jokes from times past.

Just over a century ago one local newspaper, the West Somerset Free Press was pleased to carry the following cracker-style jokes…

Q: Who is the oldest lunatic on record? A: Time out of mind.

Q What pudding resembles WG Grace? A: A good batter.

Q Why are ladies like arrows? A: Because they cannot go off without a beau and are always in a quiver until they get one.