Dawn Punter

I had arrived in Spain in late September, and somehow Christmas had crept up on me quietly, almost unnoticed.
In our small village on the Almería and Murcia border, there was just one lonely string of Christmas lights hanging at the entrance, probably unwanted and discarded by a larger town nearby. It blinked on and off, hesitantly, as if embarrassed by its own inadequacy.
Most of the foreigners had retreated north for the holidays, back to familiar firesides and crowded family tables, unwanted presents and heated arguments over TV channels and Christmas films. Others had flocked towards Benidorm in search of guaranteed festive cheer, plentiful booze and company to ease the lonliness of the festive season.

What remained was a kind of stillness that felt slightly eerie. Shutters stayed firmly closed. The streets of our 500-house development lay mostly empty, the silence broken only by the occasional car passing through. The village felt abandoned, a little like the calm after a zombie apocalypse.
Back in the UK, Christmas had always meant the same traditions repeated year after year. Routine and expectations. Comforting, yes, but also demanding, even suffocating. There was always too much food, too many plans, and never quite enough time. The ongoing struggle to please family usually involved a lot of frantic driving, a carefully colour-coded mental project plan, and still managing to disappoint someone.

Here, there was none of that. No calendar filling. No obligations beyond the village carol evening and the small local get together, held at the only bar left open in the village, after which, they too closed the doors for the month.
This Christmas, it was to be just us, empty houses, half-built developments, and a pale winter sun promising a hint of warmth and comfort.
So I did the only thing that felt right. I packed a small picnic and drove down to our favourite cove.
It was a chilly day, the kind that tricks you with its brightness. The sky was a flawless blue, but the wind cut straight through our hoodies as soon as we stepped onto the sand. We found a sheltered spot between the rocks and claimed it as our own little paradise. I spread out a blanket, laughing quietly at the absurdity of it all, and then poured two glasses of cava into plastic flutes while the sea lapped gently in front of me, steady and unhurried.
There was crusty bread, cheese, salad and, of course, sausage rolls. Simple food, with just a hint of obligatory tradition.
The beach was almost empty, just the odd dog walker passing by. No music. No chatter. Only the soft crunch of sand beneath my feet, seabirds circling overhead, and the steady rhythm of the tide.

Could this really be Christmas Day? There was no tree. No wrapping paper. Instead, there was salt in the air, sand in my shoes, and the warmth of the sun on my face.
Then came a moment of madness. Let’s swim. I had talked about it before, but never really committed. The shock of the cold water was instant and reviving, stealing my breath before leaving me revived and alive. The winter sun kept me just warm enough as we laughed at ourselves, floating briefly, fully present in the moment.
The afternoon disappeared quickly as dark grey clouds drew in. We packed up sooner than planned, hands a little numb, cheeks pink from the wind and sun.

The drive home felt cocooned, the heater blasting, the windows starting to steam as the Mediterranean gradually faded behind us.
That evening was simple. Easy food. A film on the laptop. Cosy slippers. No fuss or stress. Just the quiet satisfaction of having spent Christmas Day exactly as I had wanted to, with the only person I’d wanted to share it with.
My first Christmas in Spain didn’t look like Christmas at all.
And yet, years later, it is the one I remember most clearly.