The unbridled joy of a renter’s return home for Christmas

Allow me, dear reader, to break the fourth wall for just a moment. As I write this, I am huddled under my duvet cover, my breath a thick fog in front of me. My housemates and I run a very tight ship with our heating, because if we hear the earth shattering shriek of the PrePay Power electricity metre running low one more time, Christmas could very well be ruined before it’s even begun.

The concept of wintering at home is not one that I associate with my apartment in Galway. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve made an effort in our own little way, tacking up fairy lights around the four corners of our living room, and the inexplicable appearance of a plush Santa Claus toy holding court on the windowsill that no one is claiming.

My boyfriend and I entirely ironically bought matching festive fluffy pyjamas and spent the weekend rotating between watching Christmas specials, and gauging how long the queue is for the Big Wheel at the market (consistently too long, and then shut down entirely due to weather warnings. Perfect). We also went to see Love, Actually and The Muppet Christmas Carol in the cinema, and even that didn’t fill me with the same sense of the holidays that I know my return home will.

Wintering, to me, involves a sense of retreat. It involves listening to Chris Rea’s ‘Driving Home for Christmas’ a bit too earnestly, and smiling conspiratorially at the driver next to me, because he’s just the same. (Except in this case, I can’t drive and am on the bus, but the sentiment is broadly the same.)

It involves arriving in the door and feeling a blast of warmth in every sense of the word. This, I credit entirely to my mother. A true queen of creating an ambience and curating a vibe, it’s only in recent years that I’ve truly realised how special it is to return to that safe space and burrow down into hibernation mode. There’s always a fire in the grate, milk in the fridge, and crisps in the press. The big light is never on, candles are always lit, and the recliners are eternally stretched out.

I used to envy big families for their cinematic homecomings and reunions and three tables pushed together with mismatched chairs to accommodate all their guests. In my house, Christmas is me, my mother, and my sister. Relations and friends dip in and out, but it’s largely just the three of us, doing what we do every time we’re together: rewatching old favourites and rehashing the same discussions. And I love every minute of it.

Wintering at home is about thawing out. Feeling the iciness of the real world melt away and relishing the cosy warmth of being off grid. Work is put to bed until the New Year, time loses all meaning, and I’m finally able to crack into my embarrassingly lengthy to-be-read list.

Being a family of three, we get to make our own rules, which often involves an early exchange of gifts, because why the hell wouldn’t we? It involves starting whatever the ‘series of the moment’ is, and bingeing it in its entirety over two days. Last year, The Traitors was our kryptonite, my sister and I texting our red wine informed thoughts to our mother, who was self-isolating in the room next door.

Over the last number of years, it has become tradition for us to spend Christmas day in our grandparent’s house with our cousins, making sure to take an annual photo by the fireplace. Naturally, there are also annual disasters, like a forgotten ham and some minor fire damage originating from a pile of wrapping paper and a festive scented candle, but it’s mostly just exceedingly wholesome and delicious.

This year will be our eleventh without my dad, our seventh without my grandmother, and our second without my grandad. This year will be our last in the house before it’s sold on to a new family. But it somehow doesn’t feel morbid or bleak or lonely or depressing in any way. It feels peaceful and pleasant and full of love in every corner.

Imagery via Unsplash.