Daughter of Claus: Day XVIII

Christmas at the gateway to the Alps

On the jukebox: Christmas and Glasgow by Deacon Blue

This post has been written by my brother, Alexander. You can find Alexander on Substack here.

Crow Family Christmases are full of joy, full of food, of laughter, of dark circles around eyes, stifled and unstifled yawns, and some of us just needing to ‘rest our eyes’ for a time whilst others busy themselves with flicking through new books, a game or two of table football, eating even more of the legendary breakfast spread, perhaps a chocolate or seven, or drinking one of Clem’s potently delicious Irish coffees.
Tired joy is perhaps the best way to describe how I remember all the winters I’ve had the pleasure of sharing Christmas with my parents and either all, or some, of my sisters.

Back in 2017, on the literal eve of my 40th birthday (my birthday was my self-set deadline, and I have a bad habit of cutting deadlines extremely fine), I flew out of Scotland to begin to see more of this world of ours, on an adventure I deemed never-ending.

This will be my seventh Christmas since leaving and the adventure continues still, if nothing like I imagined it might be.

My plan, when I left Scotland, was to travel more or less permanently, seeing as much of this remarkable world of ours as I could. I had decided I was going to skip winter for at least two or three years, get some more sun, enjoy Christmas in other cultures where the weather was warm and the skies were clear.

Of course, fate had other ideas.

At a time when I was pushing myself to try new things, to be an open and honest version of myself, a version who could be brave—in this case, via online dating—I went on a date in Chiang Mai, a city in northern Thailand. I met a French woman, Aurélie, and things went well. Very well. Some months later, I found myself on a plane en route to Aurélie’s family near Grenoble.

So much for warmer winters.

This year will be the fourth Christmas I shall spend with Aurélie and her family here, at the gateway to the Alps.

We have also shared two Christmases with my family in the north of Scotland—one of which I was ill, having picked up something on the flight from Bangkok, something which, looking back, seems very much like Proto-Covid—and another which was just the two of us, in Vietnam—where I ended up working for much of the actual day itself, for a client who deemed the work urgent. The payment itself, however, did not seem as urgent. (NOTE TO SELF: Don’t work Christmas Day, for anyone.)

My plan of skipping winter weather really didn’t work, did it?

We currently live in France—our daughter, Ailsa, was born here in 2021 and Aurélie and I married in 2022.

At this darker time of the year, one big difference to Scotland (other than the lower latitude and longer days) is that if we want to see snow it is usually possible to drive up the mountains to find it. Climate change is, however, ensuring this is no longer a given.

Our home is at the bottom of a switchback road heading up to a ski station, that legend amongst cyclists, L'Alpe d'Huez, is 25km (15 ½ miles) away. ‘Our’ mountain, harbouring old silver mines and a pack of wolves, is currently streaked with gullies and crevices full of stubborn, early-fallen snow, and it is by no means the tallest in the area.
Being able to see and go to the snow also often means seeing the sun, having it reflect and bounce into my brain by way of my eyes, skin slathered in factor 50. As someone who suffers from Seasonal Affective Disorder this is a very good thing and, even when it is overcast, the snow makes me feel better, more seasonal without the downsides. Not to mention that, when those big lazy flakes begin to fall I still run around shouting and telling all and sundry that it is snowing, all those chemicals in the brain, reacting to light and happiness, fizzing here, fizzing there.

This year, the first we will be in France since moving into our current home, we are going to head up the mountain to find and harvest our Christmas tree. This is probably technically not allowed but, to be honest, there are hundreds of thousands of pines, spruce, and fir trees up there, and a little thinning of the forest won’t hurt. I am looking forward to this.

Christmas celebrations in this corner of France, as everywhere, follow a family recipe, ideas repeated and polished with every celebratory turn of the calendar until they are simply how it is. And it is very different to the Crow Family Christmas, especially in that the bigger celebration is on Christmas Eve.

The family congregates at Aurélie’s parents’ home, with her brother and his family in attendance, along with her sister and her family over from Thailand, if they are having a French Christmas that year. Then there is also her cousin Francois and his family. It is good to have a younger generation of children present, it feels more like Christmas with them—and I am very much looking forward to seeing what Ailsa thinks of proceedings this year.

Presents are opened on Christmas Eve, not on Christmas Day itself (if Père Noël has visited, of course). There can be champagne, there is Clairette, there are mojitos. The food is a grand apéro, with the usual suspects—olives, dips, tomatoes, nuts, crisps, etcetera—and also the special—foie gras and oysters, for example. Lots of different dishes, all with bursts of flavour.

Everyone helps with a dish or two, under the careful marshalling of Aurélie’s mum and, crucially, everyone is happy.

By the end of the night, everyone is tired. Everyone is joyful.

It might not be what I grew up with, but tired joy French style feels familiar nevertheless—it feels right.

I would love to hear about your own Christmas folklore and memories. What have been the biggest changes to your Christmases over the years?