Horns on the Hill

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It’s a traditional thing on Christmas morning to walk through the woods to the top of the highest point on Thurstaston Common, and at the stroke of ten start blowing our Hunting Horns. Then we would wander back to the ancient farmhouse and toast each other with a warm toddy.

Christmas Horns on the Hill

There’s a gathering this day at Benty Farm deep in the Thurstaston wood, A Christmas gathering, an annual event of the ugly, the bad and the good. Up to forty people fortified with a tot of Christmas spirit start walking Along the path where the cunning fox in the night is seen stalking Voles and beetles and even a worm. The group reach the top of the hill And stand there almost silently beneath the leadened grey sky, till At the stroke of ten the air was rent by the horrendous sound of a horn. Five horns this year are blasted towards the sky, and dogs nearby are drawn To the sound, dragging their owners through the gorse and heather, and they Lift their heads and howl with the horns. There’s laughter on this Christmas day. Near the top of Thurstaston hill a blackbird clatters his frightened alarm, And Robins are silenced, while the Buzzard above flies away from harm. Passers by stop and stare and are offered a horn to try, and they blow and blow Till their faces are red. Its a chill winter, the air is cold, cold with winter snow. The horns go silent, the crowd disperse and the forty traipse back through the trees, Big smiles on their faces, the tradition achieved. Through the wood Stirred bare twigs and then disappears again and everything is silent and still, Then a sweet sound from the Christmas bird, A Robin starts singing on the hill. The party gathers at the ancient farmhouse to drink a toast with great cheer, And to wish one and all the best of health and promise to be back

a gentle breeze

next year.