Widecombe-in-the-Moor in Devon blanketed in snow. Photo / Getty Images
Devon in wintertime is cold and cosy, which is Jane Luscombe's kind of Noel - but only for a few days.
I'm a heat-seeking creature.
I wasn't designed for the winter. By rights, I should have emerged on a balmy island in the Pacific. Yet, by some terrible quirk of fate, I was born in the UK, where the winters are long, cold and grey.
So, many years ago I escaped to Auckland, lovely, temperate Auckland.
And yet there is one time of year when I crave a blizzard, when only winter will do.
Christmas.
No matter how much you love the idea of barbecues on the beach, some things - such as Christmas carols and rosy-cheeked Santa - simply don't make sense until you have experienced them at the bleakest time of the year.
Which is why everyone should try a winter Christmas at least once in their lives.
I hail from Devon, in the southwest of England, where the beaches have soft golden sand and the summers are the finest in the country.
The winters, though, are far from fine. On the days it is not heaving with rain, it is drizzling. For hour after hour.
Not that the days last long: it gets dark around 4pm. Sometimes it feels like it never really got light.
However, in the run-up to Christmas, that is what helps to make it so magical, and that is partly what drew me home one December.
As we drove the three hours from Heathrow to Devon, we deliberately avoided motorways. Instead, we meandered through the towns and villages of rural England. At every turn the streets and homes positively beamed out at us, festooned with fairy lights. Old country pubs and rural post offices, corner shops and village squares twinkled; even my family's local garden centre looked like a winter wonderland.
A life-size Father Christmas (not Santa, if you want to blend in with the Brits) was taking a nap in a room so full of festive cheer it almost hurt. You could tell he was asleep because his chest rose and fell evenly and his mouth opened and closed each time he snored.
Christmas trees make more sense in winter, too. The Germans claim much of the credit for spreading the custom, choosing evergreens to bring a splash of life into homes at a time when the countryside is hibernating.
Fir trees inside Kiwi homes in the summer, when everyone is outside enjoying their gardens, seem rather pointless.
Desperate not to miss out on a single aspect of celebrating Christmas, I had asked my dad to put off getting a tree until we arrived in Devon.
Shrugging off jetlag, we duly set off for Marldon Farm, near Totnes, where you could be forgiven for thinking you're in Lapland. Before we got anywhere near the trees, we had to run the gauntlet of reindeer merrily chomping away at a mangerful of hay.
The farmer assured us he was feeding them up in time for Christmas Eve. Presumably to help the big fella out with his deliveries, not for the oven.
The wind was searingly cold and I eyed up the reindeers' thick coats with a hankering for some fur-lined gloves and a hat.
Tree chosen and placed ceremoniously in the car, we focused on the log cabin Christmas shop with its handcrafted decorations.
Next door was the Mistletoe Cafe and another joy of winter Christmases: the opportunity to gorge with impunity.
Scoffing yuletide treats is a double-edged sword in summer. But in winter you could argue it is essential, to insulate yourself from the inclement weather. And so we committed ourselves to the task and what a joyful experience it was.
There is no better food in Devon, and neighbouring Cornwall, than a homemade pasty. They were beloved of tin miners back in the day and the best can survive being dropped down a mineshaft.
We tucked into them fresh from the oven of a family-run bakery in Ivybridge; in the middle of Christmas shopping on a rain-lashed day in Plymouth city centre; and, magnificently, while watching Plymouth Argyle triumph against Bury at Home Park. Dreams are made of less.
But no man, nor woman, not even Devonians, can live on pasties alone.
With the abundance of country pubs it would be a shame to miss all the other delights.
So we arranged a mini family reunion in the oddly-named California Country Inn, at Modbury.
The place dates back to the 14th century and its ancient stone walls and hefty oak beams have seen a few shenanigans.
On the day we visited, to sample their famed steak and ale pie, there were flood and gale warnings. Sure enough, as we finished our meal the power went off and remained that way for the next 10 hours.
That could have been inconvenient, but Christmas is meant for huddling around log fires bathed in candlelight, with a good bottle of red.
Then there are the other traditions and we did them all: Christmas panto at Plymouth's Theatre Royal with the double entendres of comedian Bobby Davro and handsome baddie Nigel Havers, he of Chariots of Fire and, more recently, Coronation Street, fame. On Christmas Eve, a midnight carol service at Buckfast Abbey, where monks have been praying for a thousand years.
Earlier, we'd gone for a romp on Dartmoor, hunting the hound of the Baskervilles in gale force winds; a stroll on Bantham Beach to walk off a bit of Christmas pudding, in the driving rain. Once Christmas is done, January isn't so much fun in the UK; after you've indulged in high street sales there isn't much reason to linger. Not when the sun beckons back on the other side of the world.
But give it a try at least once, even if it is only to reassure yourself that you are a summer Christmas sort of person.
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