“Going to see the lights.”
Not to see the ceremonial switching-on of Glasgow’s Christmas illuminations, but just to witness the multicoloured glare of George Square; we were easily astounded in the monochrome 1960s. But for my parents, survivors of a blacked-out wartime childhood, the profligate use of electricity to turn Scotland’s winter darkness into a glittering, brilliant forest of bulbs was a joy. And I felt it too.
You could smell electricity. Feel it. Not just in the trolley-bus-or-tram buzz and flicker outside in the streets, waiting for your granny who “had a line” for the wholesaler Goldbergs, but in the retail shops. The overlit toy emporia like Babyland on the south side, the overheated department stores, Lewis’s, Frasers. That sharp ozone of sparking Hornby trainsets and Scalextric layouts. Christmas tree baubles flashing, The (even then) tawdry fakery of Santa’s grotto. Elf? That’s no elf?
The trip from Troon to Glasgow was all churning excitement and anticipation. But somehow best of all, most Christmassy was the night journey to Kilmarnock to see the Nativity. The Manger.
There was something solemn and furtive about this, possibly because our Gospel Hall family was going on a pilgrimage to a Roman Catholic display. Though maybe it was even worse, a Church of Scotland thing. I really have no idea.
All I know is that in a dark park somewhere in Kilmarnock was a full-size, illuminated stable. Mary, Joseph, animals, the baby Jesus. Shepherds and Kings. All life, or at least child size.You could see it glowing from afar, and there was never anyone else there but us. Standing in wonder. Awe.
Painted plastic and plaster, probably tawdry and unimpressive in the brief light of day. But for us there was real magic there, and overwhelming beauty.
Kilmarnock then was a powerhouse, wealthy on carpets, coal, shoes, heavy engineering and whisky. Now, in that shrivelled post-industrial community , I expect the glare of that Manger scene has long been extinguished . Or vandalised out of existence.
But I remember it as the very soul of Christmas.
And the light shineth in the darkness. And the darkness comprehendeth it not.
Today, Christmas Eve, at 6.30am I’m walking an Italian bloodhound in the somewhat sinister outer reaches of Linn Park. It’s dark amidst the trees. Even the squirrels are asleep. But the city’s glow reflects off the clouds overhead, an electrical promise of the coming dawn. And the birds have started singing.
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