The joys of an open fire

We always had an open fire,in my childhood home.
It was the main source of warmth and we would sit round it, toasting crumpets and listening to my Mum telling stories. She would say that the sparks on the chimney, were in fact messages from Father Christmas and she could read what they said.
When we had coughs and colds, she would rub camphorated oil on our chests in front of the fire. She would sing a song about it, to the tune of "Glory, glory, alleluia".
We had a fire guard, and we would hang our pyjamas over it, to warm.
For years, my Dad would fill up the coal scuttle and have logs to hand, for the daily ritual of lighting the fire.
When it got too much for him, he had a real-effect gas fire installed. At the flick of a switch, we could still enjoy the cheerfulness of the hearth.
The open fire was such a focal part of our home, that I thought I would miss it in Italy. But, luckily, I don't.
Here, the light is brighter, there are more hours of sunshine and the days never feel short and gloomy like they can in Britain. I don't feel the need for an open fire, but when I happen to be near one, in a trattoria (tavern) or a rifugio (mountain hut), it brings back all the joy of the warmth and the delight in the hypnotic effect of the flames.

This is one of my favourite poems about winter, and I especially love the last two lines. It conjures up memories of feeling safe at home. It is by Robert Louis Stevenson.


In rigorous hours, when down the iron lane
The redbreast looks in vain
For hips and haws,
Lo, shining flowers upon my window-pane
The silver pencil of the winter draws.

When all the snowy hill
And the bare woods are still;
When snipes are silent in the frozen bogs,
And all the garden garth is whelmed in mire,
Lo, by the hearth, the laughter of the logs --
More fair than roses, lo, the flowers of fire!

(Winter, from Songs of Travel)

Just writing that, I can close my eyes and be 10 again, coming home from school, on a dark winter's afternoon, and sit by the fire with my Mum, having tea and jam tarts, and watching children's television.

So evocative, is this poem, that while saying it, to myself, I soar over the Woods and fields in the Hills where I grew up, totally at one with the countryside. I can see every leaf and tree, hedgerow and stile, every lane and woodland copse.