I’ve always been a bit of a Christmas traditionalist. Not full-on Victorian, but I do like my festive season to follow a certain rhythm: twinkly lights going up the first weekend of December, dodgy school nativity performances, a panicked hunt for sellotape on Christmas Eve, and a solid stretch of lounging about in elasticated waistbands between the big day and New Year. You know, the classics.
So when my brother-in-law told us last year that he and his family were going to spend Christmas abroad, I’ll admit my first reaction was somewhere between confusion and mild horror. Christmas—but with palm trees? Or possibly snow, depending on the destination, which I suppose would actually be more fitting, but anyway they went to Tenerife. Regardless, it would definitely be a Christmas without the full-fat roast dinner and falling asleep to the Strictly special.
It wasn’t something I’d ever really considered. But as the weeks went by and we kept in touch with them—mainly through a string of increasingly chaotic WhatsApp video calls—I started to see it differently. Not necessarily as something I’d rush to book myself, but as something that maybe, just maybe, didn’t ruin the magic at all. In fact, it might even have added a new kind of magic of its own.
A Letter to Santa
Their kids, for a start, were buzzing.
They’d written a letter to Santa early in December explaining that they’d be spending Christmas somewhere different this year, and asking if he could deliver to a different address. (Apparently, Santa has a pretty robust logistics team.)
The idea of Santa flying across international borders to find them added a whole new level of excitement—and, in fairness, it also gave them a solid reason to double-check their hotel details and postcode. Educational and festive.
My in-laws explained to me that they didn’t try to re-create a full home-style Christmas abroad. No dragging a tree through an airport, no sneaking crackers into suitcases. They leaned into the idea that this Christmas would be different—and that was okay.
Instead of the usual build-up filled with school plays and endless last-minute errands, they had a slower, more exploratory December. Days spent out in the sun, and evenings watching Christmas films on an iPad in a hotel room with matching pyjamas. Not quite the Coca-Cola ad, but still full of shared moments.
Mid-Holiday Video Calls
We called them a few times in the run-up to the big day. The first time was from our own kitchen, where glitter, wrapping paper and mild chaos reigned. They, meanwhile, were sitting on a balcony somewhere, eating ice cream and looking suspiciously relaxed.
Their kids gave us a virtual tour of their little apartment, complete with tinsel stuck to the air con unit and some hand-drawn decorations they’d made the night before.
To their credit, they didn’t boast. There was no smugness, just a lot of excitement and the occasional “we miss you lot” thrown in for good measure. And on Christmas Day itself, we had a longer video call—part gift show-and-tell, part grandparent catch-up, part general festive noise.
It felt different, of course. There was no chance of them nipping round for leftovers or forgetting to take their crackers home. But the connection was still there. It wasn’t the same, but it wasn’t worse. We usually end up video calling half the family anyway as lots of us are spread out across the country – so what was the difference?
Meanwhile, Back at Ours
Back at our place, Christmas unfolded in its usual way. Our youngest got up at an unholy hour to check if Santa had been. There was wrapping paper absolutely everywhere within minutes. I burned the pigs in blankets slightly – deliberately of course, because that’s how I like them. All was right with the world.
But I kept thinking about my brother-in-law’s lot. About how they’d made the most of the time together, how they’d stepped outside the traditional script and still managed to make it feel meaningful.
Their Christmas didn’t involve mince pies or rainy walks, but it was still unmistakably theirs—and that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?
Maybe It’s Not So Unthinkable After All
There are, of course, practical reasons some families decide to take Christmas abroad. For some, it’s the only chance to visit relatives overseas. For others, it’s about escaping the stress, or creating a once-in-a-lifetime memory while the kids are still young enough to believe in magic. And then there are those who simply want to spend the day without peeling a single parsnip. Fair enough.
Would I do it myself? Honestly, I’m not sure. I like being at home. I like the mess, the routine, the weird traditions we’ve built up over the years—like the very specific Christmas Eve film we always end up watching, or the fact that one of the kids insists on eating chocolate coins for breakfast and nobody stops him.
But I can also see the appeal. I think I’d be more open to it now. Especially if we could plan it in a way that didn’t try to carbon-copy the usual day, but instead created something new. A simpler version, maybe. Less about the to-do list and more about being present.
I suppose the bigger realisation for me was this: the magic of Christmas doesn’t live in one location. It’s not stored in the attic with the baubles or baked into a homemade stuffing recipe. It lives in the time we carve out for each other, in the stories we tell, the games we play, the dodgy jokes we tolerate.
And whether that happens in a UK living room or a hotel room halfway around the world… well, it still counts. Spanish people have Christmas in Spain, so why can’t we?
So, no. Spending Christmas abroad with kids doesn’t ruin the magic. It changes it. Sometimes in unexpected ways. But then again, so does having children in the first place—and we all survived that.
Just don’t expect me to give up my Boxing Day bubble and squeak tradition without a fight. Some things really are sacred.