It’s beginning to look a lot like… barbecue and beach time in Oz
Earlier this week, I walked into a café overlooking the Pacific ocean and a song was playing – “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas..!” Or not. I gazed below, at the swimmers and surfers frolicking on sun-baked Bondi beach.
This is not the first time I’ve spent Christmas in Australia. Not that I’m a “snowbird”, escaping the English winter. I love my Christmases on the windwhistling, snow-drifting Suffolk coast – but my son and his family live in Sydney and my granddaughter Ruby’s, birthday is on Christmas Eve, so every few years, my husband and I brace ourselves for a long flight, and yuletide in the Australian heat.
This year, when I arrived at Sydney airport, the banners read “Welcome to the Summer Festival”. A few days later, I was singing carols on the beach, as Santa arrived on a surfboard, followed by his elves on jetskis, tossing ice lollies to the children. The bikini-clad Sydney-siders, were singing Walking in a Winter Wonderland, as if it was entirely normal. Which, of course, it is, to them.
For many of us Brits, however, a hot, sunny Christmas is a complete contradiction. It should be snowy and cold, with big jumpers, and presents by the fire. How could barbecued Emu on the beach ever replace our traditional Christmas dinner?
Not to mention the fact that this year, there’s a cloud – literally – hanging over the celebrations, as the smoke haze from the bushfires floats over the city. There is a real sadness in the air for the land and native wildlife, and those who’ve lost their homes.
But Sydney is resilient, and full of Christmas spirit, sparkly trees and city centre decorations. Really pretty after dark but when the searing Australian sun hits the tinsel and fairylights, it looks like a nightclub, as the curtains are pulled back on a bright morning – a tacky and oddly inappropriate sight.
As the sun goes down on Christmas Eve, we will join the locals and head to a street of old houses in Bondi, where every resident’s home becomes a Christmas grotto – with Santa and his sleigh on the roof, nodding reindeer and snowmen, flashing lights and festive music tinkling from every door. It’s a Christmas ritual for children and grandchildren to stroll down the street before bedtime. The fact that everyone arrives in shorts and T-shirts, eating ice cream, diminishes none of the magic.
Back at my Suffolk village home, my daughter and family are dog sitting and enjoying a real British Christmas – trudging to the beautifully decorated church in several thermal layers for the candlelit carol service, dipping in and out of neighbours houses for mulled wine and mince pies and heading out for a brisk, frosty walk on Christmas morning. While I tuck into salad and grilled prawns on the big day, they will be feasting on turkey and all the trimmings.
But whether I spend Christmas in the UK or Oz, the day starts the same – with a traditional dip in the sea. The difference is the temperature in the North Sea is about 6 degrees and everyone is shrieking with shock. Here in Sydney, it’s 25 degrees and we’re casually chatting, as we wish each other “Happy Christmas”.
Does it matter where you spend Christmas? Surely the important thing is that you’re with those you love. Plus, in Oz, I can still have a white Christmas – even if it’s with white sand, not snow.
read more at telegraph.co.uk/opinion