From a commercial point of view, if Christmas did not exist, it would be necessary to invent it.
Katharine Whitehorn
Christmas markets are now commonplace. Indeed, I’ve been to two over the past week or so. In Durham and Newcastle. Although we associate such markets with Germany, many consider the 'first' to be the Vienna December Market, a record of which exists from 1298. It wasn't until nearly a century later, in 1384 came the recording of the first German ‘Christkindlmarkt’ in Bautzen. These early markets sold only meat, evolving to offer other everyday purchases and eventually seasonal treats, decorations and crafts.
One might think Martin Luther an unlikely figure to give Christmas markets a boost. However, in the 16th century, it was he who suggested that the birth of Christ was a more proper gift-giving day than other saints’ days, causing the practice of Christmas gift-buying within the protestant congregation. Thus, Christmas markets increased in popularity.
I’ve been to many Christmas markets over the years, both in the UK and abroad. My most memorable experience from overseas was in Munich, especially as it included a Krampus parade of that Christmas demon that dates back centuries throughout much of Europe. Krampus is the bad cop to the good cop, St Nicholas. Whereas St. Nicholas rewards good children with presents left in shoes and stockings, Krampus beat naughty children with birch sticks and carries away the worst offenders in a woven basket worn on the back. The Feast of St. Nicholas is on December 6; children put out shoes that night, hoping St Nicholas will fill them with toys. But the night of December 5 belongs to Krampus.
Krampus comes from 'krampen', the German word for claw, and while his traditional image varies from region to region, standard features are goat-like legs, a hairy body, clawed hands, two long horns and a long tongue sticking out through a mouthful of fangs. The Krampus I saw who accompanied St Nicholas lived up to that horrific sight with grotesque faces from which forked tongues stuck out of fanged mouths. Curling ram horns jutting from demonic foreheads. However, in the parade I watched, the Krampus were more interested in causing smiles than raising fear. They comically hit each other with their birch bundles. They posed for selfies with us spectators from whom they also stole hats to wear on their horns before returning the headwear to their owners.
While the markets I've attended in such places as Munich, Amsterdam, Brussels, London and Bath were wonderful. The visit that will stay longest in my memory is that to Lincoln’s some 20 years ago, a few months after the separation of my second wife, Veronica, and me.
For those who read last week's meander, this was when I was living in an ’interesting’ part of Luton in a ‘one up-one down.’ I was trying to get into the festive mood, so I decided I would take myself to what was then the UK’s biggest Christmas market.
The people who run the Northern Belle train company were offering 'luxury' trips to the market, so I decided to treat myself. The train journey 'package' offered a 'sumptuous brunch,' then time in Lincoln to browse the market, followed by a 'lavish dinner' on the return trip. All while travelling in carriages that recaptured the decor and service of first-class Edwardian train travel.
Alas, things went awry with my booking. Two weeks before the trip, I received a very apologetic email explaining that my booking had gone astray because of a ‘mix-up,' and sadly, the train was full. I should have seen that as an omen for the trip.
Nevertheless, I swallowed my disappointment and decided to make the journey but travel first class on scheduled trains. It was not quite the planned glamour, but it was still a treat, and I’d get to visit the much-acclaimed market.
The first part of the journey from Luton went smoothly as I sat nestled in the comfort of my first-class carriage and much looking forward to the day. All was uneventful for the first hour and a half until we reached Nottingham. At that station, it was necessary to change for the connection to Lincoln onto another promised ‘high-speed train’ to take me the rest of the way in what I assumed would be a continuation of first-class comfort. My doubts arose when I disembarked into a sea of people stretching along the platform.
However, once the train to Lincoln arrived, I put those doubts behind me and, clutching my first-class ticket, I boarded the relevant carriage and sought my designated seat. Despite the melee on the platform, few other passengers entered my carriage.
However, within moments of leaving Nottingham station came an announcement of the lifting of seating restrictions to alleviate the pressure on the mass of people crammed into the second-class carriages. Within a moment, a crowd of people entered my carriage, sitting, perching and standing wherever they could. At one point, I feared I might have to have someone sitting on my knee; there were so many people.
The train progressed and not at what I would call high speed. There was no announcement as to why, but it may have been because of the sheer weight of the number of people on board. Yes, we moved faster than someone could cycle, but the train certainly wouldn't have picked up a speeding ticket in a 40MPH zone. Stately is how I'd describe our progress, although, with such cramped conditions, all onboard would have offered a warm welcome to more speed.
We eventually crawled into Lincoln station, which sits at the foot of the city with the magisterial cathedral towering on a hill high above. The market was in and around the streets atop that hill. The road that led up to the market had the apt name of High St. given the steepness of the climb.
Those who have seen the start of the London marathon on TV will be familiar with the sight of thousands of bobbing heads. That sight met my eye as I gazed up High St. A vast multitude of bobbing heads slowly making their way to the market. A one-way system was in place, as trying to walk against that torrent of people would be impossible.
Girding my proverbial loins, I entered that morass and began the climb. One or two shops caught my interest as I climbed, but they were impossible to reach through the unrelenting tide of people. And that was true once I got into the market. If you wished to muse over some items on a stall, the only way to stop the crowd from dragging you away was to wrap an arm around some part of that stall. Even then, there was the fear that the tsunami of the people would carry away the whole stall.
That tsunami inexorably carried me through the market, although I did make some vain attempts to return to one or two stalls that caught my interest as I passed them by. I surrendered to the situation. Even if the one-way system was not in force, pushing back through the crowd was folly. I had two options: return to the foot of the hill via the one-way system and try again or get out of the maelstrom of people and find a quiet hostelry. I chose the latter.
Refreshed from my beer, I had to decide whether to try again or put the whole escapade down to experience and return home. Again, I chose the latter and went to the railway station.
There, I found many like me who decided to give up on the market, so many in fact that, as with Nottingham station earlier, they lined the platform two deep. It was a long platform, too and as I had no idea of the length of the train back to Nottingham or where the first-class section might be, I opted to stand in the middle.
An excellent choice, given the train that arrived, was all of two carriages long and came to a halt where I stood. Those carriages were empty, but not for long, for as the doors opened, the surge of people made it unnecessary for me to take a step. One minute, I was facing the opening doors of a carriage. Then, with the momentum of those behind me pushing me forward, I found my nose pressed against the, fortunately, closed doors across that carriage. At least I was aboard.
With some effort, the station staff managed to hold back those still on the platform to allow the doors of my train to close. Then, we were off at an even slower pace than the journey to Lincoln. I suspect a reasonably fit cyclist could have overtaken us this time.
We stopped at many stations between Lincoln and Nottingham. I suspect the reason was to allow a fresh bolt of air to enter the carriage and save its occupants from asphyxiation. After all, no one could get on at any of the stations, and no one appeared to get off.
Eventually, we arrived at Nottingham station, and we occupants of the train burst onto the platform like the proverbial cork out of the bottle.
Gathering myself together, I Asked a platform attendant from which platform the London train left - it was that which would carry me back to Luton. "Platform three", sir, can the answer, "and you've got about a 15-minute wait." I decided to use the time to buy a newspaper and a couple of beers for the journey.
Platform 3 was just around the corner from the station shop. As I rounded that corner, I came across a crowd of generally young men loudly extolling the virtues of their support for Arsenal Football Club. At the top of their voices, they were running through a gamut of short recitals of songs celebrating the victory over one of the local teams, Nottingham Forest. I felt my hope of a quiet journey back while browsing the paper and supping a beer now shattered.
And then I remembered my first-class ticket, and guessing correctly that none of these fine body of fellows would have such tickets, I headed for that section of the train. I was correct. No one was near those carriages. Except for the half-dozen Metropolitan police officers congregating near one of the carriage doors. As I passed through them and entered the train, I was very aware of their enquiring looks. Anger all, I now appeared somewhat dishevelled after my Christmas market ordeal and carrying a plastic bag from which I could not disguise the clanking of two cans of beer. At first glance, I was hardly first-class customer material.
Not surprisingly, within moments of my sitting down, a polite but earnest train guard, no doubt encouraged by the officers, was at my side enquiring whether he could check my ticket; I offered it with something of a flourish. Giving it a long hard luck (I’m not aware of a market for forged first-class train tickets, but you never know), he eventually nodded, offered a weak smile and wished me a pleasant journey. I noticed as he moved away his nod to the police officers who were now taking up seats in the carriage,
Two of them sat across the aisle from me, and we nodded a greeting to each other. I opened my first can of beer and took out my newspaper. It was a Saturday paper with many sections. Not long after we set off, one of the officers asked whether he might borrow a section to read. No problem, I said and added I would offer you a drink, but I guess you are on duty. "Yes," the officer replied, "we are shepherding the Arsenal supporters back to London". I’d noticed by now that occasionally, a couple of the officers would stroll down into the other carriages to do a bit of 'shepherding'.
I finally alighted from the train in Luton, feeling drawn, careworn and buffeted, and so came the end of my visit to the Lincoln Christmas market. It was a day that began with excitement and anticipation and ended with a police 'escort'. And now I must report that the market is no more. After my experience, I can’t say I’m heartbroken.
FUNNY THAT YOU SHOULD MENTION THE KRAMPUS !!! A number of movies have been made about him, from darkly humourous ( I'm sure that the Grinch is some variation or relative of his ) to several that are more in line with vampires, werewolves & psycho killers.
If I were a cryptid - hunter, I think that I'd be preparing some traps for the strange being about now.....
We have Christmas markets in the States, too, mostly around farmer's markets, etc.
Loved this! Found you on Nordic Lens! Cheers 🍻