Botmas Dinner

A poem about this festive gathering in Horsehouse:

At Deerclose West Farmhouse,  Horsehouse,  
four traveling parties converge,
Matthew on a meat mission,  
merging with Rob, Shoni, and Iain at Masham.  
Three Jacksons journey south from Scotland,  
meeting a London Jackson in Penrith,  
all paths randomly intertwining just before the cottage,  
arriving almost simultaneously.

Two living rooms cradle log fires,  
their warmth seeping into the evening.  
Above, a mezzanine holds  
table football and the quiet buzz  
of “the gentleman’s club.”

A gigantic fridge stands,  
packed with food,  
a testament to abundance.  
Far too much wine and spirits,  
better safe than sorry.

Matthew breathes in the scent of beef,  
Ed capturing him in that moment,  
a photograph within a photograph.  
Strax the pug,  
christmas jumper vibrant,  
eyes fixed on any morsel  
that might fall.

Botmas Eve dinner unfolds,
cheese, cheese, and more cheese,  
“Fromage Friday” echoing in laughter.

Botmas Day morning arrives  
with a spread of bacon, avocado,  
sausage and mushrooms,  
eggs nestled on toasted sourdough.

Outside, two walking parties set off,
one along the river Cover to Gammersgill,  
the other over the top to West Witton.  
Matthew yearns to see the moonrise,  
perhaps his own moon will linger  
later in the night.

The Gaunts arrive,  
followed by Magnus and Francis,  
their presence stirring pandemonium.

Later, Barry arrives,  
a Botmas virgin,  
master of table football,  
bringing new energy to the games.

Charades ignite the room,  
laughter spilling over,  
Iain’s brilliant badness  
earning Ol’s declaration of victory,  
even as the game defies winners.

Baileys flows,  
Ol’s glass never empty,  
a festive drink embraced,  
Orla tastes but doesn’t embrace.

Botmas Dinner takes shape,  
Anne works tirelessly,  
preparing the rib of beef,    
Shoni sorts the veggie option,  
a momentary lapse forgetting the Stilton,,  
recovered her Wellington with grace.  
The rib rests succulent,  
captured in countless photographs.

Secret Botter weaves through the night,  
videoed moments sparking mixed feelings,  
some uneasy with the lens.

Dessert arrives,
Anne’s Black Forest trifle,  
layers blending with Christmas pudding,  
Woodford Reserve to flame the pud,
Voices ring out "we wish you a merry Botmas"
all very full after dessert...

Disco lights eventually flicker to life,  
igniting the final hours,  
though only four remain,  
their presence intimate and enduring.

French martinis shimmer in glasses,  
Rick requests another,  
voices rising together  
to Roger Whittaker’s timeless songs.

Botmas 2024 unfolds  
as a tapestry of moments,  
woven through living rooms and mezzanines,  
held in the spaces between laughter and light,  
cherished in the heart of Coverdale.