It’s a Wonderful Life
WRAPPED in down jackets and woolly hats, the crowd gathered for the parade lets out a hoot of laughter as the inaugural performer trots into view. A Shetland pony with a Rudolph nose and antlers fixed to her harness, she moves skittishly down Woodstock’s main street.
She is led on reins past shop windows strewn with baubles and fairy lights, and red-brick houses with lacquered front doors hung with wreaths of holly. Also among the seasonal cavalry are mighty shire horses towing cartloads of elves, girls dressed as Christmas trees perched on ponies, and older ladies riding side-saddle in full skirts and fake-fur hand muffs. Weaving among them on rollerblades is a woman wearing a top hat, who shovels up the occasional pile of manure left in the merry conga’s wake.
The parade is the highpoint of annual Wassail weekend, and, although the light is fading fast, the crowd’s exuberance is slow to dissipate. Seeking respite from below-zero temperatures, some retreat into the historic for cups of hot cider and mulled wine. I gather with others around a huge bonfire that has been lit on the green. A father and daughter, both wearing Victorian-inspired costumes, stand warming their hands at the blaze. “The key
