The first Christmas I can remember must have been when I was about four, maybe five.

 

We had decamped from our house in the city to a farm my grandfather also kept in the country.

It must have been the first Christmas after his death, for I was sent on my own to the couple who ran it, with the promise of my mother arriving after Midnight Mass.

All was centred on the stone flagged, turf-warmed kitchen, and I can feel the chill on my feet even now as I crept over to the lit tree.

In the Irish tradition a candle was burning on a windowsill to welcome any traveller in through Christmas Eve, so that no soul would ever again be turned away to seek refuge in a stable.

And there, unwrapped and laid over a little mound of wrapped books and other small offerings, was the outfit I'd secretly prayed for.

It was specially made suede Indian suit - fringed trousers, tunic top with leather inserts. The feel of it to my fingers and face was velvet, and the smell - as subtle and luxurious as the touch.

On lifting it up, an almost full-length chief's headdress of feathers, head-banded with lozenge shaped turquoise beads, slithered in slow motion to my feet.

Even more was now visible. Tiny moccasins to match the suit and oh, joy of joys, a weapon; a silver sprayed, hand-carved tomahawk.

I hadn't heard my mother creeping down the stairs behind me but as I whirled in a clutch of feathers and suede, saw her, knees clasped, eyes as excited as mine must have been.

Only Father Christmas knew what I'd whispered up the chimney weeks ago. My mother had no idea that my night prayers ended with the fervent plea to God to have a quiet word for me with St Nickolas and I'd never ask for anything in my whole life again.

That Christmas, and the following one when I got my Dan Dare suit and silver space gun, is as clear in my mind as the table I sit at. (Or maybe the Dan Dare suit was the first memory? Ah well.)

Anyway, for a good few years until I was allowed up for Midnight Mass, the Christmas Day crowd in the cathedral was much entertained by my arrival in that year's passion, always created by books.

Since then so, so, many Christmases in different countries have passed in the blur of time; specific memories only rekindled by a scent or perhaps a forgotten photograph.

Only Christmas itself: the tree, Midnight Mass, the lighting of the candle in the window, and for 42 years, my mother, remained constant.

I'd travel miles to be home - my presents growing increasingly more lavish as did my salary; hers, increasingly more outlandish as she tried to find something she could afford I might want.

Somewhere in my French attic I'm sure I still have several ladies' razors and an electric pedicure set needing a science degree to operate it safely.

In time she joined me in Scotland and our Christmas ritual now encompassed a man and eventually, a child. This time I was the one on the stairs, knees clasped, eyes sparkling, watching the wonder I'd created, unfold.

And two steps behind me, knees clasped too, eyes dancing at the excitement now generated by plastic and battery and TV driven demands, was she.

But the heart of it all, no matter the secular and commercial demands, was still the story, still the candle, even if the Midnight Mass dwindled and stuttered, if not to a halt, then to an occasional excursion dependent on the wine quaffed in the wrapping.

The first Christmas after her death was only the first time I had not spent Christmas at home - ours or mine.

She died in the May but the idea of a Christmas table without her was too awful to contemplate. All the other rituals yes, just, but not the empty chair.

We went, at vast cost, to a hotel 15 minutes away. Exquisitely 'dressed' in its linen and decorations, perfectly served, charmingly welcoming - I understood instantly the appeal.

But all I could see were the tables for one, dotted here and there, with old ladies keeping a fixed smile on beautifully painted faces as they sipped soup with fortitude.

The smiles never faltered even when Santa arrived and presented them with childish trinkets.

I wanted to gather them all up and take them home. Instead we fled and through tears (mine) sang carols all the way back and just carried on the day.

So, now, here I am in yet another country. One still more like my childhood home than others, even though each year the plastic and the greed takes over bit by bit.

My real tree is up. My first bauble and my son's hang proudly. My house is filled with both holly and ivy and fake pine.

A candle waits in the hall window to be lit on Christmas Eve in case a soul is in need of shelter.

And when I do light it - I will remember all.

Joyeux Noel.