A Dull Woman's Van Life

I’ve gone early this year—Stir-up Sunday has arrived a week ahead of schedule in my kitchen. I hadn’t planned to make a Christmas pudding at all; the leftover one from last year, steeped and “fed” faithfully throughout the months, is now approximately 30% brandy and could probably power a small engine—or burn the house down. That was my plan: reheat, serve, done.

But when I mentioned it in passing, Mark looked at me in absolute horror. Apparently, “that will not do at all.” With six around the table for Christmas dinner, he reminded me that everyone expects leftover pudding in their doggy bags. Cue a panicked Saturday trawl through the local supermarket in search of dried blueberries, figs and dark brown sugar (I follow Nigella Lawton’s “non-conformist” recipe which is truly delightful).

Meanwhile, I’ve had the house to myself this weekend—Mark’s been away mountain biking, so Pepper and I indulged in a rare spell of quiet. Just us two, with good food, mellow music, and long walks to fill the hours.

After Friday’s storm and Saturday’s gloom, this morning dawned bright, dry, and delicately crisp. No frost yet, but the air had that delicious hint that winter is about to make its entrance. We lingered in bed a while, Pepper tucked up close with one paw draped over me. It’s always a battle for space—she expands at night into something resembling a small horse—but the cuddles are worth it.

By nine we were out, heading up Musbury Tor to catch the morning light. I strapped her into our shared harness—part safety device, part act of faith—and jogged behind her for sections of the climb. The harness frees up both hands for the camera, but it’s not without peril. The moment she catches a scent, she transforms into a tiny rocket with zero regard for my survival. I’m sure she loves me really.

From the top, the view across the valley was breathtaking.

Along the eastern ridge of the Rossendale Way, a murder of crows wheeled overhead, their quarrels echoing across the moor before they vanished into the distance.

A pair of stonechats flitted along the fence line, their sharp tack-tack call as bright as the morning.

We paused at “Jack’s Tree,” a grand old oak that my former dog Jack and I used to rest beneath. Its branches are bare now, but it still commands the hillside with quiet dignity. It’s usually a good spot for Little Owls, though none showed today.

I had planned to carry on towards the quarry and down to the reservoir, but a sudden commotion below caught my attention—a buzzard being dive-bombed by what looked like a barn owl. Too far for my eyes and my lens, but too intriguing to ignore, so we took the “secret path” down into the lower valley. It’s well hidden, a narrow gap in the undergrowth known only to locals.

Whilst I wandered down the path, a by now tired Pepper wanted to take many stops, which allowed me to keep scanning the skies for the action. A pair of Kestrels soared over head, occasionally hovering before wheeling off as they searched for  their prey hiding in the grass. The sun was now above the tor and the bright light caught their wings giving the feathers a rosy glow against the bright blue sky. I watched for a while whist continuously glancing back for the buzzard/ barn owl combination but sadly they did not appear again. 

As we alighted in the lower valley, I spotted a fellow birder-photographer, and we spent a pleasant few minutes comparing lenses, morning “captures,” and local wildlife sightings before parting ways. I paused at the junction where a smaller, unnamed watercourse joins Musbury Brook, which winds its way through the valley towards the River Ogden. The bare trees above were alive with small birds flitting between branches in search of breakfast.

A flash of blue revealed a fine blue tit, soon joined by a pair of goldfinches and a busy little crowd of sparrows. I love watching sparrows—they’re so chatty, full of life, constantly bickering and bustling around like a feathery village market.

Another kestrel gave me an aerial show, hovering and swooping with perfect grace, and one of the buzzards drifted lazily overhead, wings catching the thermals as if flying took no effort at all.

Still, it was one of those walks that fills the lungs and quiets the mind—a reminder that even in November’s half-light, the valley still hums with life.

By the time we returned home, we’d been out nearly three hours and Pepper was flagging. She made it back with a heroic effort, then promptly collapsed on the sofa while I set to work on the pudding and prepared a côte de boeuf for Sunday dinner. After a weekend of cycling with the boys and a long drive home, I thought Mark deserved a proper treat.

So this afternoon, the annual ritual commenced. Mark arrived home just in time for the final and most important part of the ritual—the stirring. Tradition dictates that each member of the family takes a turn to stir the pudding and make a wish, so he took up the spoon, gave it a hearty turn, and made his secret Christmas wish. 

Then I had to do the next part!

It’s never the mixing that’s the challenge—it’s the steaming. The pudding is so large it needs a specialist pan, one that lives on top of the cupboard for 363 days a year and is summoned twice: once for its inaugural four-hour steam, and again on Christmas Day for a final hour before serving. The kitchen turns into a tropical rainforest, and I spend the afternoon playing lifeguard to the saucepan, constantly topping up the boiling water.

Still, it’s done, and I even had enough mixture left over to make a “test pudding” for a pre-Christmas trial run. It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it.

The rest of the evening was quiet and content. The fire crackled, alongside the copious steam, the kitchen was filled with the scent of roasting beef and Yorkshire pudding, and Pepper snored softly beside us. After a weekend apart, it was a simple, perfect reunion—the kind that makes home feel exactly as it should.

At last, after a mammoth 4 hours of pudding baby sitting, it was complete. I removed it from the pan, unwrapped the foil and poured on the first feeding; a mixture of French brandy and a splash of gingerbread liqueur. When it’s cooled, it will be stashed away in the cupboard and fed weekly until the big day. I can’t wait 😀

There’s a certain magic in these November Sundays—the in-between space where autumn’s colour has faded but winter hasn’t quite taken hold. The days are shorter now, the air cooler, and the valley seems to move at a gentler pace. As I watched the firelight dance across the room and listened to Pepper’s soft snores, I felt that familiar contentment that comes from simple things done well: a good walk, a hearty meal, and a pudding waiting patiently for Christmas. In its own quiet way, it felt like the season had truly begun.