It was a truly handsome cat. Whether it was a tom or a queen we couldn’t quite make out as it was somewhat loth to be approached let alone be picked up. That’s why for the time being the moggy remained an ‘it’. Otherwise, the first thing our cats get, sometimes even before a name, is an indication of their gender. Tom or queen? Anyway this one was truly handsome. A little on the chubby side perhaps, but with a resilient physique covered with longish hairs and a colouring which almost made it out to be a Siamese.

The cat remained as yet unnamed. For naming a cat – although a certain poet affirmed that every cat has it secret, primordial name which none but the elect have knowledge of – domesticates it – or rather those who name it – and  intimates friendship of a special kind, eventually turning it into a pet. Anyway, the nameless one very soon with the pluck and piquancy of born leaders weaved its way into our house and in particular to our own cats’ dining area just in front of the former, now blocked kitchen fire.

‘Don’t give it anything,’ I pleaded with my wife. ‘I am just not ready to feed another feline mouth!’

But with a questioning look from its dark green eyes and an assuredness of purpose I just couldn’t refuse to give the slinky one something from a supermarket tin.

Having enjoyed its elevenses the cat left our house and, finding a path leading to the woods surrounding us, soon disappeared from view.

‘I wonder if it’s going to return’ queried my wife. ‘I also wonder if it belongs to anyone,’ I added.

Sure enough the large and furry pseudo-siamese returned a couple of days later expecting a mid-morning repast before returning to its arcane home in the chestnuts woods.

‘I’m sure it must belong to someone. Or rather someone belongs to it,’ we concurred.

The radiance of autumn harvest-laden colours led to a surprisingly mild winter with little trace of bleakness as yet. ‘Our’ cat would return at indeterminate intervals to our house. He/she would have a little feed and then set off again.

Our own trio of cats sat silent in Egyptian Bastet awe of the visitor. He was certainly fatter and larger than any of them and his fur coat to us seemed as luxurious and warm as those once purchased in expensive department stores in Kensington or charity shops in Hackney. He was also clearly stronger and more domineering than any of the domestic trio as the youngest found out when he was chased down the very steep slope fronting our garden.

Every year when Christmas approaches one of our surrounding villages hosts a living crib where locals dress up as characters in the Nativity scene. Some may be shepherds, others will be crafts people weaving baskets, smelting scythes, embroidering festal dresses, turning lathes, or making toys. A young family will be specially chosen, especially if it has a new-born, to represent the raison d’etre of Christmas: the humble birth of the Saviour in a stable’s manger.

The village presented a most picturesque scene. So much preparation had gone into making the place look like a scene out a mythical Bethlehem. The old stone houses, the smell of wood-smoke, the mists arising from the river, the church bells, added to the enticing atmosphere. The artisans were out in force in all their traditional finery. The village, decked with holly and ferns, had its denizens showing off their family heirlooms and bringing out their grandmothers’ dresses and their grandfathers’ tools for display. Even the old village school, shut down so many years previously, was opened up for business with its scholars dressed in pinafores and smocks.

The winter sun at midday was surprisingly warm and welcoming as we approached a girl sitting at a small table and holding a pen in her hand. Was she another one representing traditional crafts? Was it writing letters for some illiterate love-lorn youth? Perhaps a transcription of a legal document? They might have had Christmas cards in a previous century. For most of these villages, however, the sending of the season’s greetings had to wait until this Second World War when Allied invading forces of American soldiers spread the custom. Unless, of course, they had a rich uncle in ‘Nuova York’ who would send them one complete with a cover displaying a Coca-Cola Santa.

We approached the girl who was wearing a fine white linen dress dazzled silvery by the midwinter sun’s rays to see what she was doing.

Christmas cards, indeed they were! Each one individually designed and beautifully painted with images so familiar to those celebrating the Season: pert red robins, the purest snowdrops and the greenest of fir trees among them.

The girl showed us what she’d created so far.

‘All the proceeds from the sale go to our village fund to make our little community more amenable and attractive and to help those in need.’ she explained.  I looked through the selection.

Yes, skilfully produced. But what do we have here? What now familiar sight meets my eyes I pondered?

A cat? Why the cat! The fat Siamese-like cat befriending us, or at least our pantry.

‘Why that’s the cat that comes to our house.’ I told her.

‘I’m not surprised,’ the girl answered. That’s Furia my cat and he loves to go wandering down from our village all the way to the bottom of the valley a few miles away. People tell me they have seen him by the river there. They too feed him. I think his favourite place, however, is the local restaurant.’

Somewhat astonished at seeing this furry explorer on one of the Christmas cards produced by her owner we complimented the lass on her attractive art work.

 ‘Thank you! I love making my own Christmas cards and knowing that they will sell well and provide some funds for our village makes me rather happy’ she responded-

The Christmas card we bought from her will not be sent to anyone but ourselves. But at least we now know Furia’s ‘public’ name and his village. Most significantly, we have discovered who he owns and has immortalised him in a Christmas card and perhaps may even know his secret name.