The morning of the last day of the year had started wet and we had not held out much for a good evening but over the course of the afternoon the weather improved greatly.It was, after all, December but then again the strange climatic conditions which now seemed to produce mild winters and damp summers had perhaps led us to expect a balmy, sultry evening in which to celebrate the arrival of 2015.
It was in fact the best we could have hoped for. Dry, sharply cold but not freezing and completely devoid of any intrusive breeze or wind.
This made it easier to push the wheelbarrow up the street laden with kindling, fire lighters and an old foil barbecue tray which would hopefully host the small celebratory bonfire.
There were nine of us making our way out from the comfort of a warm hearth into the chill.
Mother forged ahead up the gentle incline of Westwood Road for what was about the third time in the last 16 hours but this time holding in her hands a flask of hot mulled wine rather than the retractable lead with Maisie the dog on the other end.
Our three children, now adults, formed a tight cluster against the darkness between the old Victorian streetlamps laughing and joking although secretly trying to spook and scare one another. It was nice to see that they continued to embrace the family tradition of trailing up to the old Black Mill Tower to see in the New Year although truth be told they had been more regular participants than both myself and the wife whose presence, in the interests of communing with respective family and friends, had been required elsewhere in previous years.
My younger brother and his wife shared the carrying of a pack of large firework rockets and a bag containing plastic drinking cups which would soon be steaming and pliable in frozen hands when filled with servings of the spicy seasonal drink. The ninth person was our good friend from Iran who had taken on board the symbolism and ritual of the midnight excursion although must have been somewhat confused by an almost pagan approach to the event after the much more spiritual festivities of Christmas.
We, as a group, struggled in the no-mans land between the end of the tarmac pavement and the start of the Westwood common pasture. This was a muddy patch, the surface churned up by vehicles carrying shoppers seeking that elusive unrestricted and free parking which was prohibited or exhorbitant in the confines of the town. Clear of the wheel ruts and standing puddles we struck up on the newly established footpath up the left hand side of the metalled road which formed one of the four main approaches to Beverley from the west.
The sky was lightened by the glow above the main population areas but with every step away there was a noticeable darkening and with it the emergence of the star-scape so familiar in the Northern Hemisphere. For the first time I noticed that there was a full moon high up to the south west, it's silvery platinum glow perfect by which to navigate towards the looming conical mass of the old mill.
We were in good spirits after a great meal had been provided by Mother and a couple of hours of playing board games and general larking about. The theme of "Downton Abbey" had been embraced by us all and we were attired in all manner of home sourced outfits inspired by the period drama. Elegant ladies, 20's flappers, a maid in service, Persian Prince, kilt clad Scottish Laird, khaki- clad Soldier and young buck.
Of course a change of clothes was essential in order to undertake the trek over the mile or so of the bleak, rough grassland of the Westwood Pasture and our former roles were disguised under warm jackets, leggings, walking or welly boots and sensible bobble hats.
Unlike other years ours were the only footfalls and voices in that open space which was sad as the prospect of perpetuating the tradition could be in jeopardy in the future but not if the Thomson's had anything to do with it.
The Black Mill stands, obviously and intentionally at the highest point for miles around.
In archive photographs, grainy and faded it had been a grand building when in full sail and supported a family occupying a large double fronted house although the bricks and mortar had long since been demolished and cleared. Periodically the mill was surveyed by the Local Authority for any potential instabilities. Its ramparts loomed overhead and seemed to waver and wobble as clouds moved to the east but as an optical illusion only. Any windows and doors had been firmly stopped up and the whole structure had been saturated in a thick, gloopy black bitumastic- a bit like a wet suit to protect against the ravages of wind, rain and snow.
We stepped onto the cast concrete bases which circled the tower now cracked and fractured and with a covering of grass and soil. These were all that remained to indicate the ground floors of the old dwelling and its outbuildings.
In the shelter afforded by the lee of the mill the sticks and fuel were ignited and with five minutes to spare before midnight we had a nice blaze to stand around and get some warmth back into our bones.
Some of our party were busy setting up the launch site for the rockets, serving the drinks and keeping watch over the broad panorama of East Yorkshire for bursts of fireworks or an illegal drifting Chinese lantern.
Watches were turned to the flickering firelight in readiness for a countdown and our Iranian friend offered the courtesy of a check from his audible atomic calibrated timepiece.
10, 9, 8 ........3,2,1
Happy New Year we shouted in unison and in at least two languages embracing and welcoming in 2015.
The distant skyline was a mass of colours from exploding cascades of lights and cacophonous sounds as revellers acted out their own traditions across the county.
On the way back down to the house we realised that in our shared exhilaration we had actually forgotten to sing Auld Lang Syne but it did not seem to matter at all.
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