The winter wonderland almost got to me a few times this last month: the sound of Santa's sleighbells bellowing out through the loudspeakers, the sight of that nifty little machine that blows flurries of faux-snow round the display of gaily wrapped parcels in the shop window, the glitter of puce and silver feather boas in the teenage earring shops, the triumphalism of the shopper staggering home under a box larger than herself in which is housed a plastic farmyard with stabling for seven brown plastic ponies. Seven my little ponies! That should keep her small daughter quiet for five minutes at least. Idly, I wonder if I know anyone I could give one to. Or, hang on, wait a minute. What about the electric tongue scraper ("Get rid of all that unpleasant fur") which I saw for sale in a Manhattan shop last week? There must be someone I know who'd whoop with joy at such a gift. Then I remember I'm not doing Christmas this year and I relax. Carefree, I walk up and down aisles loaded with tree decorations and holly wreaths. Disdainfully, I brush aside the street seller's offer of wrapping paper - ten sheets for 99p, all top quality. Nonchalantly, I breeze past the Christmas cakes made with real butter, the white chocolate yule logs, the satin bed canopies, the aromatherapy candles that rejuvenate mind, body and spirit, the sequinned sandals, the velvet skirts, the manly chukka boots - happy in the knowledge that none of them is anything to do with me for, this year, I am spending Christmas away from it all, in Donegal, four miles up a bog road, without telephone or television and only the driving rain for company. Well, the rain and a few other things like a bottle of duty-free, a bumper copy of the RTE Guide, oodles of pizzas with mozzarella cheese on top - and my laptop. For this, I tell myself severely, is a working break. No interruptions, no distractions, no hangovers.
The chance of a million presented itself when I realised that, this year, with my immediate family scattered across two continents and myself on a third, I was absolutely free to do whatever I wanted. Would it be a longed-for visit to Sri Lanka? A touch of cross-country skiing in Finland? Or maybe another run at gaining entry into Syria? After due consideration, however - plus a cursory glance at the bank balance - I realised it was going to be Donegal. The idea of someone choosing to spend Christmas on their own has produced a variety of reactions ranging from disbelief, through pity to downright envy. To be on your own at Christmas means no one loves you. You are an embarrassment, an adult orphan, someone with nowhere to go. While families gather round the tree to sing carols, drink mulled wine, eat the turkey, open the presents and engage in all manner of communal activities - we'll conveniently ignore the annual rows - the solitary celebrant is seen as a sad, lonely figure the contemplation of which spoils the whole goddam convivial thing. But in fact I shall be having the time of Reilly. My day will start late, in peaceful and leisurely fashion, with a cup of herbal tea carried back to bed, the radio keeping me in touch with the real world where babies continue to be born and people to die; where wars are fought, peace sought after, bells rung, resolutions passed, pacts made and vows broken despite the carry-on of Santa and his elves. The day proper will start with a look out across the valley at the mountain opposite. Squalls come in from the Atlantic as regular as clockwork and once the mountain has disappeared in a rain cloud, it is exactly ten minutes until it hits the roof. If it's not actually raining, I'll go out to the turf pile and fill up the creel. The birds, used to having the place to themselves, make a terrible racket while this is going on, complaining furiously for the first day or so until they get used to my being around. Some days may be busier than others. The postman may wave as he drives past. A tractor may rumble up the lane. A neighbour coming with a bale of hay for his animals may toot his horn. This Christmas will be a particularly exciting one as a new couple has moved in to one of the three houses in the townland and a baby is now due.
In the afternoon, I may take a walk down to the bridge to visit a neighbouring widow woman. Then, having paid my respects to her, I am free the following day to walk past her house to visit another neighbour in the next townland. In winter time, visitors are few and far between. Doors are shut, lights switched on around 4 pm and people are left on their own till next morning, with only the television for company. If I'm feeling very energetic, I may set out to walk the four miles to the main road - though more often than not, a car will stop and pick me up. At the main road I can get the bus to Killybegs and live it up in the hotel there, indulging in a Full Irish Breakfast while reading the court reports of riotous behaviour in the Donegal Democrat. By 1 pm, I am back home again, ready for an afternoon's work. The evenings, of course, are the best. With the turf fire burning well, glass of hot whiskey to hand, I'll search for a play or a talk on the radio. If there's neither, I'll reach for the pile of books - eight in all - which I have chosen for this Christmas: a book of short stories by Annie Proulx, another book of stories by A. M. Holmes - an author new to me - and Ian McEwan's Enduring Love. I shall also have T.E. Lawrence's The Seven Pillars of Wisdom because since joining the Royal Dublin Fusiliers' Association last year, I've wanted to find out as much as I can about the desert war.
AND finally, in deference to the time of year that's in it, I shall have four books of the recently-published Canongate Bible (the authorised King James version) to choose from: Genesis, Job, Revelation and, sweetest of all, The Song of Solomon. Each little book is pocketsized and has its own introduction written by a different author, some erudite, others irreverent, all entertaining. The eighth book is a present (unopened) from my son in Australia: a big thick paperback that I've been staring at like a cat eyeing a bowl of cream.
Of course, it's not as if I will have missed out on Christmas entirely. I've already sung in a carol concert in Oxford, dressed like an ageing choirboy in a long red frock and a white lace shirt - in a church where John Wesley once preached. And in Manhattan I had an early Christmas last week with my daughter with whom I share a birthday. Together, we gazed in wonder at the Rockfeller Christmas tree, had our picture taken with Babar the elephant and ate a Christmas meal al fresco in the December heat wave. At Birmingham Airport, I treated myself to a couple of delicious hot mince pies. Back home, I went to a party where children and adults played all manner of instruments and we sang everything from Away in a Manger to Hey, Jude. In a Dublin restaurant, the other day, I had a big slice of vegetarian Christmas pudding with lashings of cream. Cards and presents have been sent and received, letters written, phone calls made. Now all that lies ahead is lungfuls of fresh Donegal air, the chance for a bit of quiet contemplation, a lot of writing, a great deal of reading and the knowledge that when I get back down to Dublin it'll be time to celebrate Nodlaig na mBan.
