Christmas spirit is still strong on the farm on the M62 - Jo Thorp

I’ve driven past countless houses lit up with festive, twinkling lights, beautifully decorated trees proudly filling windows and holly wreaths adorning doors.

With all the renovation work still in full swing, workmen coming and going and all our worldly goods boxed up, it seems daft to put a Christmas tree up for it to be in the way.

The minute the builders down tools, however, and head home for the festive break, the decorations will be up and a last minute tree sought.

Whilst the Grinch couldn’t care less about trees, tinsel and fairy lights, the little guy does, so a tree we will have.

It feels particularly important to me to keep the Christmas spirit alive, especially as our eleven year old son has begun to question Father Christmas.

The subject has surfaced over the last couple of months, a young, enquiring mind desperate to believe but too practical to accept that gifts are flown on a reindeer drawn sleigh half way across the world and delivered via the chimney.

He had, most unfortunately found a present last year, whilst rooting where he shouldn’t have been. He’d kept quiet and after a thorough examination of the item, had hastily replaced it back in the drawer.

To his utter disbelief the exact same present, in the exact same paper had turned up in his sack that Father Christmas had left on Christmas Eve.

Now how could that possibly happen? He stood one evening in front of the fire, arms defiantly folded across his chest, waiting for a response.

“Well?”

I glanced across at Paul who had his face buried in the latest edition of Classic Tractor. A very faint smirk appeared on his face as he briefly looked up at me and mouthed the words “rookie mistake”.

I was stumped and for once lost for words. Eventually, however, I told him Father Christmas would only come if he truly believed and if he no longer believed then it was unlikely that gifts would be left.

And that was that. He assured me wholeheartedly that he absolutely did believe and no more was said on the subject.

Feeding our livestock on the farm takes up a huge amount of time during the winter months. Ring feeders are dotted across the rugged landscape, constantly surrounded by hungry sheep.

Whilst I see to feeding and bedding down the animals in the yard, Paul heads off on the tractor delivering bale after bale of hay to eagerly awaiting sheep.

Like the pied piper, he slowly makes his way over the rough ground that borders the moorland, aptly named the rough piece, with the sheep following in single file along a trod.

The Welsh Mountain ponies happily mingle with the hill sheep, jostling for space at the feeders with only the occasional nip at the woolly backs.

The little guy has broken up from school and enjoying some time with Bess, his sheepdog and thankfully giving us a much needed hand.

He’s growing up fast and the little rosy cheeked tot that used to scoot around the yard on his toy tractor has been replaced by a tall, hardworking lad that for the sake of his Mum, still believes in Christmas.