And here we are, less than two weeks away from the year’s end, the village quietly passing through the departing days of 2025. It has been a week of reflection in the parish, with the funerals of three locals held at the church. Still raw from burying my father three weeks ago, I attended the second. A parish stalwart since the mid-1970s, a much-loved wife, mother, and grandmother with a beguiling smile and infectious bubbly personality. On an overcast afternoon, standing in the churchyard beneath a rowan tree (I think), grief, support, and love coursed through family and friends gathered by the graveside. A sad loss for the community, a life well-lived, and now beautifully celebrated. Requiescat in pace.

At sundown, Beechin Wood again turned golden, the treeline watching over the fields near Crouch, rustic brown. A buzzard, flying high over Stonehouse, encircled by crows, while below, a solitary song thrush soundtracks the remains of the day. Tiny yellow lights strung around Sotts Hole Cottage, a giant inflatable Santa on Long Mill Lane, a small festive tribute left for young Violet Lovell, who died in 1911. Platt Woods, where, over a hundred years ago, a girl and her dog played with fairies, stoic, dark, and strangely comforting.

This is Platt on 19 December 2025.