Postcards from the sledge

Reindeer, huskies and a jolly big fat man dressed in red. It could only be Lapland. For the day. With a seven-year-old wavering on the Santa question ...

IT'S half-past six in the morning, the lights of Glasgow are receding a few thousand feet beneath us while freakishly cheerful trolley dollies prance up and down the cabin wearing antlers on their heads. It's all just a bit too weird. But when I glance down at the excited little face of seven-year-old Zoe next to me and listen to the rising crescendo of animated chatter going right back to the tail of the plane, I begin to get into the spirit of things.

The captain comes on, burbling in that clipped, posh, reassuringly nasal way that pilots do, telling us that in two hours' time we will be landing in Rovaniemi, on the very edge of Arctic Circle in Lapland, home of Father Christmas and all his little helpers. Zoe can hardly keep still.

"So I'm going to see the real Santa Claus?"

"The real deal."

"Not like the ones in the shops?"

"Not like the ones in the shops. They're just helping Santa out because he's so busy."

"And I'm going to see Rudolph?"

"Rudolph too."

"And there's going to be lots of snow where Santa lives?"

"Er, probably."

This part is worrying me. The Big Man I can guarantee, but the fluffy white stuff may be a little more difficult. Two weeks ago there was no snow in the Arctic Circle which seems inconceivable. But global warming, an exceptionally mild winter, whatever, has conspired to leave snow a little thin on the ground. I offer a silent prayer. Lapland just won't be Lapland without snow. And that's why we're here.

Well, that and the fact that Zoe has been wavering on the Santa question and it's all my fault. Last August, through me, she met an eight-year-old little stinker who told her that Santa Claus didn't exist. Witnessing the devastation this caused, I resolved to reaffirm the faith of my best friend's firstborn by taking her to meet the jolly old geezer in person. And everyone knows that Santa lives in Lapland. So here we are winging our way across the North Sea.

After breakfast, an ear-splitting carol competition in the centre of the plane where an assortment of reticent children murder Jingle Bells in central belt accents, I drift off to sleep while Zoe is glued to the video screen watching a cartoon of Caspar The Friendly Ghost.

I wake about an hour later with my ears popping, to discover to my delight, that out of the window as far as the eye can see is pure, white, unadulterated snow. Relief.

Crunching across the snow-covered tarmac we are met by cheerful Transun elves who welcome us to Lapland. A ten-minute bus ride later, past picturesque forests bending under the weight of snow, we finally arrive at Santa's Village. It's a curious mix of film-set kitsch and rustic country village, but it's pretty and tasteful and devoid of the kind garishness that taints Christmas here. It's around midday Santatime, and it is only just light. Flickering candles set on the ground in tins light the way to various activities and places: snowmobile safari this way; husky sledding up ahead; reindeer rides to the right; Lapland storytelling by the fire; and Santa's house this way. We hardly know where to start.

It's quite quiet, still early in terms of the Christmas season and a few families mill around, boggle-eyed children gawping delightedly around them. There's a delicious smell of woodsmoke in the air and fresh-faced elves, who are presumably local children, welcome us wherever we go, smiling broadly and bidding us hello in Finnish.

Zoe's face is shining in anticipation and she looks appropriately Nordic and cute in her little pointy woollen hat with earflaps. It has to be Santa first, so we head for the solid log-cabin house with the towering pitched roof and fairy lights.

There's no queue so we walk straight in and suddenly, there he is in front of us, sitting in a huge chair by his fireplace. Zoe is immediately overcome with nerves.

"Will you come with me?" she whispers, "I don't want to go up by myself."

"OK," I say.

"Is that really really Santa Claus?" she whispers again, turning her face up to me. I am filled with love at the sight of her anxious little expression.

"That's him," I reply seriously, "and he's waiting to talk to you. Don't be shy. Remember, he knows that we've come all this way specially."

She smiles, unfurrowing her brow and I take her hand. Santa Claus beams at us and I have to admit, he looks terrific, all twinkly-eyed and reassuringly portly with a huge long beard down to his waistband. To cap it all he has a wonderful Nordic accent, which is exactly the way I'd always imagined he'd talk.

"For heaven's sake don't tell him you asked for 57 presents on your list," I hiss to Zoe.

She looks at me as though I'm stupid. "But he knows already, doesn't he?" she replies, rolling her eyes. I think Santa's got his groove back.

They have a little conversation and I move away slightly so that she can enjoy the magic of the moment on her own. Santa is very patient and sweet with her, and doesn't seem to mind at all that she's asked for 57 things. Then one of his elves takes their picture and we move into the front shop where the photograph zips out of a colour printer and is framed. Another smiling elf hands Zoe a little Lap bell strung on a piece of brightly coloured embroidered felt. "That is to remind you of your day in Santa's village," he laughs jollily.

When we get outside it's almost completely dark and there are fairly lights strung overhead from building to building. The candles flicker all around us and suddenly the magic of Santa's Village is apparent even to a jaded old adult like me. Zoe is walking on air after the big Santa experience. Now is the perfect time for a reindeer sleigh ride.

Behind the village we follow a candlelit path into the forest ducking under branches, until, in a clearing, by a tall teepee with smoke coming out the top, we come across five reindeer harnessed to old-fashioned sleighs. The temperature is dropping rapidly, so we snuggle under some reindeer skins listening to the bells clanging around the necks of the gentle brown-eyed creatures.

Off we plod through the darkening woods at a disappointingly slow pace. The ride is fun, but it doesn't last long and the reindeer do seem to be a bit miserable and resigned. Afterwards we gratefully accept hot berry juice from a nice lady in the teepee and warm ourselves at the fire while she tells us of her plans to come and study at Stirling University next year. "What should I bring for the Scottish weather?" she asks me.

"The biggest umbrella you can find," I tell her.

We decide it's time for a change of pace and head off down a snowy track towards the husky enclosure where we can hear them howling like wolves. As a teenager who was captivated by Angela Carter's Company Of Wolves, the sound is enough to send a shiver down my spine.

Again we hunker down under reindeer skins, but this time the pace knocks the breath out of us. We're off before we know it, eight huskies tearing through the forest like the Devil is behind us. We're both shrieking and laughing and being thrown all over the place, but it's great fun. A couple of minutes and it's all over, but we take time to walk round all the enclosures looking at these wild-looking creatures with their pale piercing eyes.

Lunch is a revolting sludge burger in a pretty rustic restaurant, but Zoe thinks it's all marvellously delicious. I'm beginning to flag by now, but we still have our Lappish ceremony to go. This takes place in a conical-roofed wooden hut with an open fire in the middle belching out smoke into a hole in the rafters. It's very smoky and mysterious and we all sit in silence while a very serene Lap lady in traditional blue and red embroidered costume moves around the room, stoking the fire and watching us carefully.

Eventually as we draw nearer round the fire, she begins her stories. First we hear the tale of the four winds hat, so called because a very cold shaman living in the far north grew sick of all four winds blowing at the same time. He decided to invite them into his house, tricked them with food and drink and made them sleepy. Once they were asleep, the shaman trapped them all inside his four- cornered hat and refused to free them until they promised that they would only blow one at a time. Which they did.

Next, the Lap lady passes round a little bowl of reindeer milk which she bids us to drink. Zoe is reluctant, but I try it and it tastes quite nutty and sweet. Once those of us who want to have tasted it, the storyteller tells us this guarantees our return to Lapland one day. As reindeer. Next she comes round making two marks on our foreheads with the soot from a burning log to show where our antlers will spring from. Zoe is very agitated. "I don't want to become a reindeer," she says plaintively.

"But you won't," I say. "Only the people who drank the reindeer milk will return as reindeer, so you're OK, aren't you?"

"But I don't want you to become a reindeer either. You won't will you?" She seems to be on the verge of tears and I realise it's been a very long day.

"It's just a story, I promise," I say smiling.

As we walk back through the village, Zoe's bell tinkling round her neck, it starts to snow lightly, making a perfect ending to our day. We wander through the shops buying souvenirs and drinking hot chocolate. Then we stop at Santa's post office where we get special stamps for our postcards. Through the back, yet more elves are sorting out sackfuls of mail from all over the world. After Japan and Poland, British children send and email Santa more letters than any other country.

I think I'm more exhausted than Zoe is and I'm looking forward to getting on the plane home, but it's difficult not to feel a shiver of childlike delight in the magic of it all. The snow is seductive, the surroundings are charming and the whole experience, whether your under or over ten, is quite unforgettable.

In a cynical world, that's quite a feat. Merry Christmas

Copyright 2000
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