Twas the night before through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse’ – except maybe me, creeping up and down the stairs, placing presents beneath the tree, then tiptoeing into bedrooms with bulging stockings and wondering, not for the first time, if this would be the year I finally got caught.
Eventually, I settle by the fire to enjoy what’s been left out for Santa. The sherry and mince pie are delicious, but the hay and carrots will be devoured by the guinea pigs. My husband, Colin, will join me once he’s finished bedding down the animals for the night. For a few quiet moments, we sit together in the flickering glow of the fire before climbing the stairs and turning in for a silent night.
- Guide to the farming calendar: a year in the life of a British farmer
- 'No presents until all the cows have been milked' – the harsh reality of being a farmer at Christmas
We have an upland livestock farm in Cumbria, about 384 hectares in total. At the heart of it all are 1,100 breeding ewes, 350 replacements (currently grazing off-farm in Yorkshire), and around 50 beef suckler cows with their calves. The females are kept for breeding; the rest head to a finishing farm supplying Waitrose. By the time Christmas rolls around, winter is in full swing.
All the sheep are on silage or hay by then; there’s no grass growth at this time of year, so they rely entirely on what we stored during the summer. It’s a delicate balancing act. Much of the best grazing land must be rested over winter so there’s enough cover come spring lambing. This allows us to lamb outdoors, keeping labour demands low.
So from December onwards, we start to rotate and restrict grazing, shifting sheep into confinement areas where they’re fed Colin just rides through the stock on the quad bike, checking for issues. It shortens the morning routine and gives him a better chance of catching those moments by the tree.
There’s something timeless about being up and out early on Christmas Day. Colin says “I used to feel invigorated, like you were the only soul awake in the valley. There’s a stillness. Feeling like the first human that day to walk the earth and it’s quite liberating.
The roads are quiet, maybe you’ll see the odd flashing light acros the valley from a tractor working, harbouring a sense of community – you know that the farming community is getting on with its work, quietly getting on with the job. There’s a sense of community in that. I don’t think we appreciate it enough.”
That said, Colin’s relationship with Christmas has changed over the years. “I used to enjoy the solitude more,” he admits. “Now I feel more torn. I want to be inside with the family – but I still want to do the job right. That balance is hard"
And then there’s the weather. While snow looks magical, no farmer dreams of a white Christmas. Snow and ice make everything harder – more feeding, more danger, more stress.
These days, heavy snow is rare here in Cumbria. But back in 2010, snow lay on the ground for four solid weeks. Our twin girls were newborn then, and truthfully, we don’t remember much ofthat Christmas at all.
We stick to our skill sets on the day itself. If Colin cooked Christmas dinner it wouldn’t go well. And if I did the outdoor jobs the animals might go hungry. So yes, it’s a bit of a traditional scene, indoors versus outdoors.
The girls pitch in where they can: feeding the chickens, checking for eggs, doling out festive carrots to the guinea pigs and the rabbit. Then they help prep dinner, peel veg, and lay the table ready for the grandparents’ arrival.
We also run a few farm diversifications. If guests are staying in the glamping pods, the hot tub still needs its daily clean and check. My photography website gets a last- minute flurry too; gift vouchers are a popular panic buy.
It’s important to us that Colin doesn’t feel he’s missing out. We try to keep busy in parallel. And truth be told, he’d rather be out feeding cows than stuck peeling potatoes anyway.
One of my favourite Christmas memories is from the year Colin and I announced our engagement over Christmas dinner. The love and joy in the room was unforgettable. That same year, my father-in-law gave me a shepherd’s crook he’d made by hand – a gift that symbolised something more: his acceptance of me into the family and the farming life.
We have a belt of Christmas trees planted up on the fell, and each year we head up there, wrapped up against the wind, to choose one. Colin cuts it down and brings it home on the quad bike.
Living so close to the Lake District, we also make time for a festive walk. The girls’ pockets are full of sweets from their stockings, and there’s always the promise of hot chocolate at the end.
Later in the day, Colin will head out again to check the cows and feed the dogs. No lounging about or a second lass of wine – someone still needs to tend to the livestock. The cows will have been mucked out the day before, giving us a brief reprieve, but they still require twice-daily checks to maintain our farm assurance standards. British farmers operate under some of the highest animal welfare regulations in the world and that doesn’t stop for Christmas.
We’re not alone, of course. Across the country, thousands of farmers are doing the same: getting up early, braving the cold, tending to animals and land so that others can celebrate with abundance.
Agriculture exists to meet the most fundamental human need: food. The very idea of city life depends on rural surplus. That surplus doesn’t happen by accident – it’s powered by people, working through the holidays, in the mud, wind and frost.
So, from our family – and farm – to yours: Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.
