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CALL ME SCROOGE. It was autumn, 2002, and I was planning the upcoming December issue of BRITISH HERITAGE. Typically, our December issues reflect our conscious effort to stir up a little holiday spirit by means of a Christmas story or two. Last, year, though, I succumbed to an evil temptation. Seduced by the rationalization that Christmas is not a uniquely British celebration, and that we’d pretty thoroughly covered its most distinctively British aspects in the pages of several previous December issues, I rashly decided that the December 2002 issue could get along just fine without an explicit homage to Christmas. No Dickens, no Queen’s Broadcast, no Christmas pudding.

Long before ‘humbug!’ became a familiar Christmastime exclamation, the monks of Glastonbury Abbey gave birth to one of the most charming, enduring and yes, British, of yuletide yarns.

I should have known better. The nasty letter I received from one shocked reader probably expressed the unspoken disappointment of many more. So this year, when contributor Claire Hopley asked whether I’d be interested in a story about Christmas in York, I jumped at the idea.
This passion to impart a British spin on Christmas has been with us for many centuries. Long before “humbug!” became a familiar Christmastime exclamation, the monks of Glastonbury Abbey gave birth to one of the most charming, enduring and yes, British, of yuletide yarns. According to their own interpretation of ancient history—which seems to date from no earlier than the 12th century—Joseph of Arimathea journeyed to England in AD 63 and established a missionary church at Glastonbury. The story first appeared in the works of William of Malmesbury, although as an interpolation inserted into the text a century after William himself put down his pen.
But the portion of this tale that links Joseph and Glastonbury with Christmas dates (rather inconveniently for those of us who would like to consider it historical) from the 18th century. That’s when it was first claimed that Joseph, arriving at Glastonbury worn out from his epic journey, exclaimed to his companions, “Friends, we are weary all!” (Hence the name of the local feature, Wirral Hill.) With this, he supposedly stuck his walking stick into the ground—what else might a weary man be expected to do?—and it miraculously sprouted. Thereafter it bloomed every year at Christmas, at least until it was uprooted in a doomed effort to put an end to crazy talk about miraculous trees. Today, though, a descendant of the original Hawthorne tree still grows in the grounds of the abbey. Each year, a sprig is cut from it and sent to the Queen to adorn her Christmas table.
So there you are; a Christmas story that’s uniquely British.

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