The Roundup - Edition 49

A message from 
Rich Jones, Head.

Recently our family had a heated debate about the top five Christmas films of all time (The Muppet Christmas Carol, obviously) and now we are onto the top five Christmas songs…

The song I love, perhaps more than Tim Michin’s White Wine in the Sun, is the 2004 song, When The Thames Froze by Smith and Burrows. 

Always makes me smile, always makes me cry – that’s the point, no?

Like a lot of Christmas songs, its centre is about reflection and connection. 

I’ve always thought that the only things guaranteed to stop London in its tracks are tube strikes, an unexpectedly warm day (causing chaos on any patch of green within the M25), and snow. Light snow in London, especially the mild, wet, sludgy kind, is enough to spark panic, derail trains, close shops and hospitals and give every commuter an added gripe. I was one for years.

So the notion of a time when the River Thames itself froze over – during a proper deep freeze - is miraculous.

Imagine the very lifeblood of the city turning solid, not as a calamity it seems, but as an opportunity for joy, for togetherness, and for something akin to Christmas magic.

It happened during the Little Ice Age of 1684. 

You see the river was shallower and wider then, the old London Bridge, with its narrow arches, slowed the water’s flow and enabled it to freeze. The result was frozen stretches of river thick enough to walk, dance, and even roast an ox on. And that is what people did. 

The Frost Fairs that sprang up on the ice weren’t so much planned as seized—a city collectively deciding that, if their river was going to turn solid, they might as well enjoy it. The fairs weren’t just for the rich, they were for everyone: there are many accounts of hordes of Londoners celebrating on the ice. Stalls selling roasted nuts and spiced wine lined the ice, jugglers and musicians plied their trade, and families skated and slid about (probably without a single Risk Assessment). The following year, they even marched an elephant across the ice - of course they did.

I think there’s something quite Christmassy about the whole idea. A shared moment of joy during the bleakest, coldest months. The kind of spontaneous, unpolished celebration that cuts through the dark, just like the spirit of Christmas tries to today. A proper Dickensian feast of humanity if you will! 

The last great Frost Fair happened in 1814, and after that, the Thames stopped freezing. The new London Bridge let the water flow faster, dredging made the river deeper, and the city grew warmer. It’s hard not to mourn that loss a little. The idea of London pausing for a giant party on a frozen river feels so alien now—a world away from the hurried, distracted lives we lead. But maybe that’s why I like the idea of Frost Fairs so much.

They remind us of something we’re in danger of losing: the ability to stop, to gather, and to just be - even in the harshest of times. At St Chris, we still try to carve out those moments. Time to think, to create, to pause and to wonder. Because life, like the River Thames, is always rushing forward, and it takes a conscious effort to freeze it, if only for a moment.

Perhaps that’s what the Frost Fairs were: a rare and brilliant pause, a gift of stillness, and a reminder that sometimes, in the very coldest of winters, there was warmth.

I will leave you with the last lines from the song When The Thames Froze and I wish you all a restful, careful and joyous time together and I will see you again in 2025.

So tell everyone that there's hope in your heart
Tell everyone or it will tear you apart
At the end of Christmas Day
When there's nothing left to say
The years go by so fast
Let's hope the next beats the last

All the best 
Rich