Friendship Day

Our resident foraging fanatic, Pete Compston shares his views on a particular midwinter festival and offers an alternative.

For those who find Christmas a little too bright or too loud, Friendship Day offers a quieter way to gather. No gifts or glitter – just warmth, soup, and honest company beside the fire.

When NorthernLife asked if I’d be writing something Christmassy for this issue, I hesitated. Not because I’m against Christmas. I’ve seen how it lights up dark nights, how it brings families together, and how it reminds people to care. I love that part of it.

But I also know there are many of us, quietly and respectfully, who just don’t quite fit there. Not out of bitterness or “bah humbug,” but because something in us feels calmer, healthier, when we’re not tangled in the pressure of it all: the cost, the noise, the lists, the smiling through when you’re tired to the bone. Yet we often feel we can’t say that aloud, for fear of sounding ungrateful when we allow ourselves the space to exist just outside of it all.

So I said, “I’d like to write about something a little different. Not against Christmas, just beside it.”

Here in Pendle, between marshland, hedgerows, and the old stone of Clarion House, a quiet tradition has grown. A kind of refuge we call Friendship Day. It happens every year on the 25th of December. No tinsel. No expectations. Just soup on the stove, a fire burning steadily, and a place for anyone who needs company without performance.

“A day where love wasn’t measured in presents or perfection, but in hot tea, open hands, and the quiet act of turning up.”

When Pendle Plant Craft first started, it was simply a group of friends walking the woods and fields. Learning plants, sharing stories, finding peace in mud and laughter. Through my work with the Pendle Hill Landscape Partnership, we met the good folk at Clarion House, who offered us their space for free. And so on the 25th of December, we wrote on a scrap of paper: 25 December Gathering. That was it.

It was in the second year that Barbara, the most magical person who brings incredible joy into everything she does, smiled and said, “Let’s call it Friendship Day.” Somehow, in that moment, it became something real.

A day where no one had to pretend, where love wasn’t measured in presents or perfection, but in hot tea, open hands, and the quiet act of turning up.

This year will be our fifth. Five winters around the fire. Five years of permitting people to breathe and not replacing Christmas, just making room for those who can’t always celebrate it the way the world expects.

Because Christmas can be beautiful, but it can also be painful. It can stir grief, loneliness, exhaustion, the quiet ache of not belonging. It’s no one’s fault. It’s simply that when one way of celebrating becomes everywhere, it leaves little room for those whose hearts move differently.

Long before Christianity shaped Christmas, midwinter was marked by people gathering around fire, food, nature and story, not around perfection or expectation. Those older celebrations were spacious. You didn’t have to be happy to be welcomed. You just had to arrive as yourself.

Perhaps the most Christmassy thing we can do now is return to that spirit—kindness, compassion, inclusion. Not cancelling Christmas and not criticising it and just widening the table.

I once lived with someone who adored Christmas. We were best friends the rest of the year, but something in her changed each November. The pressure to make it magical, perfect. It weighed on her like a coat two sizes too heavy. Loving Christmas through gritted teeth because not loving it felt like failing. I see that in many people, trying their best to sparkle while something inside them burns out.

And the gift-giving… I still struggle with it. If someone distant, like Auntie Neggie, sends me a present in December, I don’t always feel as touched as I feel guilty. She has enough to worry about. But if she sent the same gift on a random Tuesday in June because it reminded her of me, I’d be over the moon. That would be love, not obligation.

Maybe that’s the trouble. Gifts become deadlines. Joy becomes performance. Even kindness can start to feel scripted. None of us really wants that.

“It’s a celebration of presence – of choosing kindness over perfection – of allowing midwinter to be gentle.”

Friendship Day offers something simpler. No one arrives with armfuls of presents. Some bring stew or cake. Others bring themselves. Tired, hopeful, but full of love. Human. And somehow, that’s enough.

There’s no schedule. I make a pot of soup or a stew that sits on the stove all day. People come and go. Some stay till stars come out, others just for a brew and a quiet moment. We share food, stories, a film on the projector, and a wander in the marsh. No pressure. No expectation to sparkle or explain.

It’s not a traditional celebration, but it is a celebration of presence—of choosing kindness over perfection—of allowing midwinter to be gentle.

Friendship Day isn’t a protest against Christmas. It simply proves there’s more than one way to honour this time of year. A space outside of it, even if only for temporary respite.

Even the most joyous thing loses grandeur when saturated. If anything, it protects the heart of what Christmas was meant to be: care, generosity, light in the dark.

So if Christmas fills you with joy, it’s beautiful. Don’t dim it. But if you breathe easier when the noise softens, know this: You are not alone. And there are fires you can sit beside.

Maybe that’s the real spirit of midwinter. Not how we celebrate, but whether we make room for one another while we do.

‘Friendship Day’ – Winter Brew

Makes 1 pot or 2–3 mugs

A grounding, heart-settling herbal tea to serve at the cabin — or at any quiet doorstep of winter.

Ingredients:

• 1 tsp dried Mugwort – for soothing nerves, gentle dreaminess, and the old tradition of midwinter reflection
• 1 tsp Hawthorn berries or leaf & flower – heart-supportive, calming
• 1 tsp Meadowsweet – softening tension, calming the stomach
• 1 tsp Rose hips – seasonal vitamin C, hints of warmth and colour
• A pinch of Cinnamon or dried apple peel (optional)
• Honey to taste

Method:

1. Add herbs to a teapot, cafetière or pan. Pour over hot (not boiling) water – around 90–95°C.
2. Cover and steep for 10–12 minutes.
3. Strain, sweeten if desired, and serve by the fire or in a flask and mittens on a walk.

Note: Mugwort isn’t recommended for pregnancy. As always, listen to your body.

At Pendle Plant Craft, we believe every wild meal is an opportunity to connect—with the land, with each other, and with the richness already around us. And the best way to stay safe when foraging is to learn how best to care for nature.

Find us at Pendle Plant Craft, join one of our walks, or pick up a copy of our new book, Thirteen Cycles Toward Nature’s Wisdom. Let’s keep learning from the land and from the plants who know how to give without taking.

Read Pete’s previous piece on autumn foraging here.

NorthernLife Dec/Jan/Feb 26