HELLO, NEW ZEALAND

CIARAN BRUDER

Whose Christmas is it anyway?

To Kiwis and Aussies, the day means beaches, barbecues and brews. Disgruntled Brits and northern hemisphere-ites here will grumble about how the “real Christmas” means snow, roaring fires, mulled wine, carols, fairy lights and tacky jumpers.

The last Christmas I spent at home in Dublin, I wandered the city wrapped in wool, sleety rain wetting my face. It wasn’t what Bing Crosby had in mind for a white Christmas, but the lights twinkled, the baubles glinted and everyone was cheery. I returned to those streets a lot that week, attending to a hallowed Irish tradition at Christmas time – holing up in a warm pub with a hot whiskey in hand. I caught up with friends I hadn’t seen in years, and family I don’t see enough.

Picking out a tree from a farm in the mountains was a raw, cold experience that evoked the spirit of a frosty Hans Christian Andersen story – yet the driving wind that stabbed icicles into my bones couldn’t dampen my festive glow. The spirit of the season really hit home when we went carolling on Christmas Eve.

This year I’ll spend the holidays with my partner’s family in Hawke’s Bay, drinking cool beers in the sun and strolling around barefoot. Not the same, but not bad at all. So may everyone’s holidays be merry and bright, but not all your Christmases be white. Read and share this story on stuff.co.nz