It wasn't made as a place in which the young Charles Darwin could grow up to become one of the most important people on the planet. (Although it turned out to be this as well).
And it wasn't made as a place in which a wealth of beautiful and historic buildings can be enjoyed within the horseshoe bend of the River Severn. (Although it turned out to be this as well).
And it wasn't made, in the late nineteenth century, as one of Britain's great railway centres. (Although it was certainly this as well).
No. Not a bit of it! First and foremost, above and beyond everything else, it was made for Christmas.
It you don't believe me, just ask Santa.
For me this fact is emphasised every December.
“So, Phil,” I hear you ask. “Just exactly what has made you so Christmassy all of a sudden?”
Well, it's like this.
Our weekend began with a trip to see my Kidderminster-dwelling younger brother and his wife and family.
“But just hang on a minute, Phil. I thought this column was supposed to be about Shrewsbury, not Kidderminster,” I hear you say.
Well, yes, dear reader, that's true, but you did want to know why I'm feeling Christmassy and I'm just trying to answer your question.
“Oh, all right then,” I hear you concede.
So anyway. Our wives and my niece went off and did some Christmas shopping, leaving my brother and I to join up with a bunch of his drinking pals and we set off from Kidderminster railway station to have a leisurely afternoon/early evening pub crawl in Worcester.
“Hang on a minute, Phil,” I hear you interrupt again. “I thought this column was supposed to be about Shrewsbury, not Worcester.”
Look, I'll never get this story finished if you don't pipe down.
A goodly number of pubs (and a goodly number of pints later) and we were definitely full of the Christmas spirit - although (younger generation please take note), not for one minute did any of us become loud or raucous or anti-social. Rather, we remained the same good-mannered, softly spoken and courteous middle-aged gentlemen who had first boarded the train in Kidderminster some hours before.
My wife and I returned to Shrewsbury the following day. (“Ah, Shrewsbury at last,” I hear you say. “We thought for a moment we were reading Kidderminster Matters!”
Oh, do be quiet, dear reader.
Anyway, we wrapped a few presents, wrote a few cards, and then joined my mother-in-law for a Christingle service at the United Reformed Church in Abbey Foregate.
When they dimmed the lights and all the little children stood in candlelight singing Away in a Manger, I knew Christmas had arrived.
It would have been nice to have little children of our own with us, but our three are all grown up and they would have just looked silly queuing up for their Christingles.
But, you know what? Let it get a little colder. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Because this is what it's all about.
You don't have to be religious in any conventional sense (or in any sense at all) to be moved by the spirit of Christmas. You may well have decided that, intellectually, you cannot disagree with a single sentence of Professor Richard Dawkins' 'The God Delusion'. You might think that Christianity (or any faith, come to that) is daft. But let me put in a word here for magic. Feel the magic. Allow yourself to drink in the wonder of it all.
This is how it is for me:
Walking across the English Bridge on a cold, star-spangled Saturday night, the moonlight reflected in the waters of the Severn, I hear the incoming Aberystwyth train slowing upon its approach into Shrewsbury Station, I see families hurrying home - mums, dads, children - carrying their bags full of goodies.
And I think, at Christmas time, there is nowhere else I'd rather be.
Because Shrewsbury was made for Christmas.
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