It was one of the delights of Christmas, gathering the holly in the grove. We often went to the grove for sticks, but the gathering of the holly was special. We left it till a day or two before Christmas which meant that our sense of anticipation was at its keenest. By then the dresser had been varnished. It was an old fashioned dresser with three rows of shelves above and a cupboard below. We knew that the cupboard was made around 1910 but the shelves went back to the century before that again. It was nice to think that the dresser had been part of so many Christmasses. It created a sense of tradition, of continuity too, Christmas piled upon Christmas one by one. The smell of the varnish, sweet and oily was like the incense of Christmas for my father not only varnished the dresser but the doors too. By then the Christmas shopping too was done, though we never referred to it as such. It was always described as 'bringing home the Christmas'. Many of the shops gave a present of a Christmas box in recognition of our custom throughout the year.

There were many treats at Christmas but I think I loved the buying of the candles best of all. They were like tall slim pillars of wax and they came in threes in strang brown paper wrapping. We would have a candle in every room, lit for the very first time on Christmas Eve. I loved their waxy scent almost as much as their light. There was something so festive, so Christmassy about it. Before we set off for the grove, my father found a length of rope in the shed. This would be used to tie the little bundle of holly which he called a 'beart' - the Irish word for bundle - which he would then bring home on his back. The grove was fairly near at hand but we went part of the way along the boreen and then past a lovely old house.

Maurice Harmon was once the gardener at the nearby estate and his house stood at the very edge of the grove. It was deserted then but it might have been the setting for a fairytale. There were still old roses round the door, roses that bloomed in summer, lovely and rich and pink. There was other vegetation too...old apple trees and summer lilacs, the latter's showy spikes of purple faded and gone for another year. There was even a Viburnum, sometimes called the snowball tree, at the back of the house which seemed very appropriate at Christmas. The trees and shrubs were long since overgrown, of course, but this in a way added to the feeling of fairytale about the place.
The main path through the grove was called 'The Long Path'. The grove itself was a mix of broadleaved and evergreen trees, which meant plenty of variety. If the weather was mild the robins were happy to sing among the branches. Not only that but a few blackbirds and thrushes also joined in. Very often these were young birds getting in a bit of practice for Spring.

There were plenty of holly trees in the grove, their deep green gloss adding a richness and a lustre all of their own to the woods. And the herons made their presence known. They flapped and fluttered overhead. Sometimes they squawked for good measure at the top of the tall tall Pines. That was where they had their nests but being fisherfolk they spent a good deal of time in the estuary. They were not the most musical of birds but it was lovely to hear them still. They were part of the wonderful weave of sight and sound and scent that went to make up the grove. And maybe they swopped fishing stories as they sat in their straggly nests over Christmas. Maybe they told tall tales of the ones that got away. We often saw rabbits and hares but I was always on the lookout for foxes. There were so many stories about them, they were very much part of tradition and their coats were a magical red. It was only now and then that we caught sight of one, a fleeting glimpse as he hurried through the trees but being close to Christmas made it more special still.

I remember many of the old people saying that Christmas would not be Christmas 'without a bit of redberry'. The trouble was that very often the best bits, the bits with the finest berries, were quite high up. This meant a good deal of straining and reaching to try and catch hold of a few choice sprigs. My father said that we were almost as bad as Mary. The latter was getting on in years but she loved to go to the grove for kindling. It was one of the small but simple joys of her. She thought nothing of straining after sticks that were halfway up the sky while at the same time trampling more underfoot. It seemed that the harder she came by them the greater satisfaction they gave her.

Gathering the holly was like gathering Christmas and making the most of its colours, green and red. When we had enough, my father made a little bundle and held it in place with the rope. We were not finished yet however. We went to pick some laurel too, spotted laurel that grew in great profusion here and there. It was at its deepest and darkest and greenest around an old garden house. The little house was almost smothered by it, the yellow chimney barely peeping through but this too was part of the magic of the woods. We would trim the dresser with laurel, the pictures and window with holly, saving a bit for the candle. Then as we left the grove, we followed behind my father, the little bundle on his back. Still the robins and the blackbirds sang. They gave us reasons to be happy. We were going home to Christmas.