11
‘What do you mean you don’t like Christmas?’ I say, bemused.
I’ve heard this claim before, of course. Many times. But I always thought it was posturing, a way of showing how much more depth you have. A kind of, ‘Look, tinsel-brain, some of us see right through that bullshit.’ I mean, I get it. It’s tacky and consumerist. But heavens, what isn’t? In London a few years ago, I even spotted a ‘Meditation Shop’. If they can strew the path to enlightenment with ‘must-have products’, they can commercialise anything.
Plus, in the bigger scheme of things, amid all the truly hideous crimes of capitalism, do we really have time to hate on a few plastic baubles and a bit of fake snow?
Alistair, however, seems to be genuinely offended by the whole concept of Christmas. Not just the forced cheer, unnecessary expense and raft of God-awful romcoms (his opinion, not mine). He’s also had too many miserable Christmasses, he explains, so he’d rather not celebrate it at all, thank you very much.
The problem with arguing for Christmas if you are not religious is that you end up sounding like a materialistic fool.
Yet in our family, Christmas has always been a big deal. Up until a few years ago (sorry girls), my daughters would sleep under the tree on Christmas Eve. They are in their twenties. The tradition of buying them new pyjamas to wear for the occasion has continued even though the girls waking up on Christmas morning covered in pine needles has not. We always have an advent calendar (a wooden one like a house that I place gifts in); we buy the biggest possible tree we can shoe-horn into my tiny Nissan (which has been known to sport reindeer antlers) and I’m a sucker for a bit of yuletide schmaltz of the Love Actually kind.
Growing up in the inclement English north, of course I’m a fan of the festive season. I associate Christmas with the one bright spot in long, bleak winters where even the snow was the colour of old undies. I nurse fond memories of the Morecambe and Wise Christmas Show; carol singers on the doorstep and sculpting fat men with carrot noses from fresh-fallen snow. I recall the satisfaction of getting our arthritic nutcrackers to actually deliver on their promise; the thrill of leafing through the Christmas TV Times (we weren’t posh enough to get it all year round) and eating After Eights in front of a blazing fire. Hell, I even loved midnight Mass. Especially in my teens, when my friends and I would spend the night drinking in the Stanford Arms then head to our school chapel for the late service, offering up Bacardi-and-Coke breath to the new Lord Jesus. And ogling the talent from the local Catholic boys’ school.
After moving to New Zealand, I bleated along with the rest of my fellow UK migrants that ‘Christmas just isn’t the same in summer’. I soon got over that. Rather than resenting our new environment for not being cold, dark and miserable enough, we made other traditions: those that embraced the climate. We strolled along Franklin Road every Christmas Eve, delighting in the late-evening warmth and ever more ambitious lighting displays festooning residents’ homes and gardens. On Christmas Day itself, we swam at Takapuna Beach, no matter the weather, then ate our picnic under the pōhutukawa, reading our brand-new Christmas books. We had dinner late then played board games long into the evening. A family of happy, sated, slightly tipsy nerds.
So the idea of spending my first-ever Christmas away from my daughters in a wintry stone turret devoid of all celebration … well, it’s unthinkable.
Alistair is unwell. Really unwell. My initial diagnosis is Man Flu — but I ask my Nicer Self for a second opinion. Yep, it’s the real thing. Not Man Flu but an equal-opportunity illness, available to both sexes. Fever, snuffles, coughs, the works. It probably doesn’t help that we’ve just attended a Christmas market wearing inadequate clothing for the time of year. The snow swirled around us in little fluffy morsels, and we ooh-ed and ah-ed and froze our butts off. We came home with some locally made Chabichou (cheese made from goat’s milk); a soft woollen mustard-coloured scarf; a green and orange woven shopping basket; and for Alistair, a dose of lurgy.
I feel for Alistair, I really do. And as the moulin’s chief nurse, I take my duties seriously. I make soup, grate fresh ginger into hot lemon drinks, and take care of the house while he stays under the duvet for a full week, building his own snowman of tissues next to the bed.
But Christmas is only a few days away and I don’t want to spend it like Bob Cratchit, tending to a sickly child and thinking of all the festive revelry taking place elsewhere. Most of all, I’m honestly scared the homesickness will crank up several notches, that the gloom will take hold and never let go; so I launch my Christmas offensive: gently, of course. I sit on the edge of the bed, pat Alistair’s hot hand, and inquire sweetly: ‘Al, darling, I know it’s not really your thing but how about a small tree?’ He agrees, through coughs, that a bit of festive foliage will do no harm.
I’ve noticed several small pine trees appearing outside shops and cafés, unadorned, just sort of standing there like bushy green security guards. I suggest we nick one, because the store owners don’t even bring them inside after hours. Alistair says that is very un-Christmassy of me (which is confusing from someone who personifies non-Christmas) and that these trees are there for public enjoyment. They’re not really exuding any joy, is my point. Anyway, I don’t pilfer one. I head to the garden centre and purchase the cutest, most perfectly cone-shaped little green beauty and several sets of lights. She may be small, but she’s going to rock more bling than a Kardashian.
The tree ends up being our only Christmas decoration. But she punches above her weight. Even Alistair, now up and about but still a bit wobbly, is smitten. At night, when we switch off all the living-room lamps, she dazzles solo like the Eiffel Tower. And whenever I return to the mill in the dark, she guides me down the driveway towards our moulin-turned-lighthouse — just one small square of window flashing blue, red, yellow and green. Beckoning me home.
With Alistair in bed early of an evening, I binge on all my old favourite seasonal films — The Holiday, Elf, The Apartment and the Christmas episodes of Friends and even The OC. Then I make my bed up on the sofa, and fall asleep contentedly by the soft glow of the dying embers.
Alistair may not love Christmas, but he does love good baking. So we order a cake and mince pies from Carolyn — she of the curtains. Carolyn is English, speaks fluent French, has a full-time job as a carer for the elderly, runs a sewing business on the side, renovated her house with her own hands, and makes the best damn Christmas cake I have ever tasted. It’s moist, boozy, just the right amount of fruit. The mince pies are to die for, too. I’m considering asking Carolyn to marry me but (a) she’s taken, (b) I’m taken, and (c) her brilliance at absolutely everything would start to get annoying.
Next, we turn our thoughts to the day itself. Christmas à deux could be cosy and romantic. Then again, it could be a washout. What with me and the homesickness and Alistair just plain sick. I toss up the probability of magic versus tragic and decide what’s needed is some bonhomie of La Petite Auberge kind.
A welcoming space of red-checked tablecloths, low wood-beamed ceilings and tiled floors, this local family-run bistro is offering a five-course Christmas Day lunch for just 50 euros. The place exudes friendliness and warmth, with genial wait-staff and a chef–owner who makes a point of coming out to chat to customers. If you can’t feel the yuletide spirit here, then God help you. Our friends Marianne and Tony have already booked and want us to join them, assuring us it’s the place to be on Christmas Day. It’s probably also the only place open, but whatever. We’re in.
Christmas morning turns out to be far cheerier than I had anticipated. Alistair and I exchange gifts and he is thrilled with the Peugeot pepper mill I bought for him in Paris. It’s a thing of sleek beauty, a stainless steel and glass cylinder that lights up when you press the top to grind the peppercorns. He’d waxed lyrical to me about these pepper grinders a while back; only an engineer could be so in raptures over the design of a condiment dispenser. Alistair buys me much-needed earbuds, and two pairs of denim dungarees. Now I am truly kitted out for the rural ‘good life’.
My daughters video-call so we can open each other’s gifts ‘live on air’. Lucy has bought me a gorgeously soft jumper the colour of crushed raspberries. Su has gifted me a button-up black velvet dress with a belt that fits perfectly. While I am still half-stupid from sleep, they are lively and refreshed after their day at the beach. In the background the dog is chewing wrapping paper, the cat is hissing at the dog, the girls’ dad is bustling around muttering and clattering pans, and it’s the usual 25 December chaos. Something about the scene reassures me. That sense of continuity. This is the way it always was. It’s not like the minute I left New Zealand everything I cherished simply evaporated into thin air. It will all still be there when I go back.
It’s touch and go as to whether we will make it to lunch, with Alistair still feeling iffy and devoid of appetite. It’s ironic that now he is finally embracing Christmas, Alistair looks about as ho-ho-ho as a stale mince pie. Pale, still coughing (it’s not Covid) and moving sluggishly, he nonetheless insists that we keep our date with the auberge. Which is just as well because all we have at home is that Christmas cake, a few mince pies and a cupboard full of booze.
We arrive at twelve to find a restaurant packed with families and kids of all ages. Sharing our table — alongside Marianne and Tony — are a quiet English couple who have kindly brought Christmas crackers, not something the French are familiar with. Also joining us are their 23-year-old son and his girlfriend. The young couple cheerfully announce that they are supremely hungover and close to collapse, having got home at 4 a.m. You wouldn’t know it. She especially looks radiant, and he tucks into all five courses with gusto.
Ah yes, about those five courses. Okay, well slip into something loose because even reading this menu may make your waistband feel uncomfortable.
First, a mise en bouche — literally a ‘pop-in-the-mouth’. It’s not even a starter, but a warm-up for the starter. Here it’s a Velouté de Châtaigne aux St Jacques — a small chestnut dish with a velvety purée texture . Next an entrée double act: Tourte de Canard au Foie-gras avec Terrine de Homard et Langoustines aux Agrumes. I give the duck-in-pastry with foie gras and lobster terrine a miss. Both to conserve my appetite and, while I have become a meat-eater again in France, I draw the line at force-feeding geese and torturing crustaceans. The second entrée I dive into — a Cocotte de la Mer avec Bar, Gambas, Moules, Coques and Lotte. This sublime casserole contains bass, prawns, mussels, cockles and monkfish. Alistair picks at his, driven less by appetite and more by a fear of missing out.
The main course is a mouthful even to say — Filet de Bœuf aux Fruits Secs et Jus de Truffes et Brochettes de Filets de Caille, Sauce Miel et Tomates Confites, Endives Braisées, Écrasé de Pommes de Terre aux Cèpes et Mirepoix de Légumes. In short, a party-in-the-mouth of meltingly soft beef fillet, tender quail, a honey-based tomatoey sauce, braised endives, a creamy potato purée and sautéed mixed vegetables with herbs. A mirepoix, incidentally, involves slowly cooking carrot, onion and celery in oil or butter to deepen and enrich their flavour. Never was a vegetable more luscious; not a sad grey sprout in sight. Hallelujah, hosanna and joy to the world.
But wait. Sit back down. There is more.
The cheese course. And Plateau de Fromages is an understatement if ever there was one. It’s not a tray or board at all but an entire trolley-load — a creamy, pungent fromage-fest on wheels. All the usual suspects are there, plus a luscious white circle of brie the size of a dartboard. We each go up to the trolley and make our selection. I want a tranche of that brie, but when the wait-person cuts into it she gives a little start, accompanied by an ‘Ew’. I lean forward to peer at the cheese, in trepidation, but the source of her alarm is nothing more than a dark seam of truffle running through the creamy centre. Perhaps this young woman needs to re-think her job options. If you like your cheeses tame and predictable, like a smooth slab of Edam, then you’re in no position to be manning a French fromage trolley.
Et finalement — a trio of desserts. Chou Craquelin Mousse Chocolat; Vacherin aux Fruits Rouges; Poire Pochée aux Épices. It’s a tribute to the chef that we polish off our plates, Alistair excluded. I can just about fit in an espresso at the end, then waddle to the car — woozy on wine and stuffed to the earrings. In my new velvet dress, I arrived at the restaurant black and slender as an exclamation mark and now feel rotund as a closing bracket. And this is the upside to a cold-weather Christmas; with no beach parading to be done, all of this extra food is just between me and my loosened belt. Nothing to see here.
In the days following Christmas, Alistair and I are hopping with excitement about our upcoming trip. The trouble is, we are not hopping with excitement about the same upcoming trip.
Unable to resist the urge any longer, I have booked a flight to New Zealand for February. Just a visit, mind. Alistair has kindly loaned me the money because I am all yearning and no liquid assets. It’s all I can think about. Actually hugging my beautiful children, squeezing their cheeks (yes I still do that), scratching the dog behind his ears, returning to my favourite beaches — both exhilarated and apprehensive about dipping beneath the chilly waves for the first time. Tides of discomfort and joy; there’s almost a carol in there.
Alistair meanwhile is feverishly leafing through road guides to Spain, planning an itinerary for our New Year roadie. We will be heading down through south-eastern France — stopping in Carcassonne, then Collioure just shy of the Spanish border — and on down the east coast of Spain. I’m looking forward to this trip too, but not quite as effervescently as Alistair would like. In hindsight, I can see his disappointment. This is THE point of living in France: access to the wonders of Europe. Back in Auckland I had talked with misty eyes of my connection to Spain. My South American mum lived in Andalucia, in the south, for 30 years after my dad died, and I spent many a happy summer with her. In my twenties, I spent an entire year teaching English in Málaga.
Alistair is planning and booking and poring over maps, and I should be cheerleading his efforts more. But I can’t.
It’s not that I am ungrateful. But my enthusiasm is considerably corseted by the fact I have no money to contribute to this odyssey. I am earning very little by this point. My regular freelance work from New Zealand has slowed to a trickle, and it’s hard to summon up any zeal about a trip where you feel like a financial leper. Because that’s how I feel. Alistair is kindly paying for the accommodation, and it sucks. It’s not like being a student, travelling on a shoestring with your mates. There, you are all in the same boat. Or rather the same flea-infested hostel. It’s a laugh, it’s your last go at slumming it before you become a proper Grown Up. But now I am a proper Grown Up. A vintage one at that. One of the things I love about Alistair is his enthusiasm, and right now I wish I could offer up an equally hearty ‘Let’s go halves!’ or even ‘Why don’t we stay here — my treat!’ But I can’t, and my powerlessness translates into passivity. Which Alistair takes as ungratefulness.
When the day itself arrives and the Range Rover is stuffed like a post-Christmas turkey with bags, hats, shoes, books, baskets and suitcases, I am still not doing cartwheels around the lawn. But now the lukewarm response is for another reason: I can hardly believe this is happening. That we are leaving the cold and the grey and in just a week, will be in Nerja, on Spain’s beautiful southern coast.
As we head out of the moulin gates, it seems crazy that our rock-strewn, muddy stretch of driveway is what connects us — albeit with thousands of miles in between — to Barcelona, Valencia, Málaga, Granada, Córdoba, the Basque Country.
I take a last look at the river. ‘Bye bye Vienne — see you in three weeks.’
In an attempt to detox from the excesses of Christmas, a few days before our trip Alistair and I have started fasting. Not drastically so, just leaving a wider window between eating times. I mention this because after a couple of hours on the road, we spy an aire — one of the French autoroute service stations. Aire is a deceptive word. It suggests a patch of grass with picnic tables, a place of wholesomeness and simplicity. Some are indeed just that — the aires de repos are snippets of nature, often with toilets, where you can pull over so the kids can pee and fight in the fresh air rather than the car. But aires de service are full-on service stations with restaurants, gas pumps, toilets and shops full of merch.
The one we enter is of the latter sort. ‘Are we still fasting?’ I ask Alistair, wondering what the road-trip rules are. Fasting is a team sport — no sneaking off and wolfing a handful of peanuts while your partner is lying, listless as a wilted endive, on the sofa. You have to have each other’s backs. Now, however, Alistair answers not by replying, but by heading sleepwalker-like to the hot-food counter. It’s as if he’s being lured by cartoon-style tendrils of aroma, leading him by the nose to the fragrant casseroles and glossy sausages. It’s just after 11 a.m., and now Alistair has on the tray in front of him a plate of thick, tomatoey beef bourguignon. No wine, although there is plenty on offer, and others are tucking in.
The sight makes me happy. This is holiday spirit at its finest.
Back in the car, after a good strong coffee and a pain au chocolat, I lean back and let the excitement belatedly take hold. The sun is out, we’re heading south to Carcassonne, and even Alistair’s on-rotation playing of Van Morrison cannot burst my bubble. We’re on a road trip, baby!!