Many of the rows I had previously been able to look over the top of, now practically towered above me. Not a particularly difficult feat given I’m only five foot three, but the change made me very aware of how much had moved on in my absence. Those larger trees, I guessed, were the ones destined to be eventually cut for display for outdoor venues. It was just the ones in pots which were annually rented out and returned, but where were they?

I walked further into the plantation and then stopped, pulled up short by the sight ahead of me. Whereas before there had been a few dozen container grown trees, there were now what looked like hundreds, all neatly arranged in size order and regimented rows.

I wondered what Dad would have made of the spectacle. I knew he would have been proud, but would he have been surprised by just how impressively his vision had taken off? David always sent me lists numbering the rented-out trees, but that didn’t have anything like the same impact as seeing them lined up for myself.

Container-grown trees had been the original inspiration behind Dad’s environmental ethos. He always hated seeing the streets filled with dried out and dead trees throughout the first two weeks of January and had made it his mission to encourage families to rent trees on a yearly basis. I could remember him telling me that Norway spruce were the favourites because of their strong pine scent and that you could happily keep a tree growing in a pot for about twelve years before it needed planting out.

I was surprised I could remember. Even though I had never been interested in the business, I seemed to be able to recall a bit about it. I guessed if you heard something often enough it stuck, and Dad was always repeating the same spiel when waxing lyrical about the virtues of a rented tree to visitors, while our family friend, Sue, smilingly handed around freshly baked reindeer cookies and mugs of marshmallow-topped hot chocolate.

Dad made picking a Wynter’s tree a memorable occasion and it was his in-depth knowledge and special extra seasonal touches which kept folk coming back, right from the first year of trading. I could see for myself now that David and Ned had more than competently carried those traditions on. The number of trees awaiting collection were all the visual proof anyone would need to see that the venture was thriving.

I read a couple of the laminated labels attached to the trees which ensured the right family got the right one every year, but there were no surnames I recognised. I was amused however to read that lots of the trees had names of their own. Belle was a popular choice, as were Elsa and Kristoff. There was even a Clark ‘Sparky’ Griswold. I smiled as I wondered if that particularly impressive specimen was destined to survive the season.