Countdown to Christmas Calendar Day 24

December 24, 2025 – Christmas Eve

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships during Life Transitions

Today’s Story: The Novel Unwritten

Louise sat at her desk on December 19th, staring at a blank document titled “Chapter One—Draft 47” while her cursor blinked with what felt like instant judgment. Outside her window, Labastide d’Armagnac’s medieval square was strung with Christmas lights, the stone arcades decorated with garlands, the village doing its annual Christmas market preparation that she’d been ignoring for two years.

Two years. Two years since she’d fled Paris—her law firm, her corner office, her miserable seventy-hour weeks—to write the historical novel she’d dreamed about since university. Two years living in this perfect medieval bastide village with its 13th-century architecture and rich Armagnac history, and absolutely ideal writing conditions.

She’d written exactly zero words that weren’t immediately deleted.

Her phone buzzed. Solange: Arriving in 20 minutes. Made cassoulet. Bringing wine. Don’t pretend you’re not home, I can see your car on Google Maps.

Louise looked around her cottage—dishes in the sink, laundry on every surface, manuscript pages scattered like evidence of a crime, the specific chaos of someone who’d given up.

Twenty minutes wasn’t enough time to hide two years of failure.

Solange arrived exactly on time because she was a literary agent and punctuality was apparently a professional disease. She took one look at Louise’s cottage and said, “Oh, merde.”

“It’s not that bad—”

“Louise, there’s a coffee cup growing mould that might achieve sentience. Also, you’re wearing the same sweater you wore in your last video call three weeks ago. Also—” she picked up a manuscript page, read it, made a face “—this is terrible. Not ‘needs editing’ terrible. ‘Written by someone having a breakdown’ terrible.”

“Thank you. Very supportive.”

“I’m not here to be supportive. I’m here because you stopped answering my ‘how’s the novel going’ texts, which means either you’re dead or you haven’t written anything.” Solange unpacked cassoulet and wine with the efficiency of someone conducting a professional intervention. “So. How many words?”

“I’ve been revising—”

“How many NEW words in the last six months?”

Louise stared at her hands. “Zero.”

Solange poured wine into two relatively clean glasses. “You moved here to write your great French historical novel about Armagnac production in the Hundred Years’ War. You researched for six months. You have forty-three history books. You have a perfect medieval village literally outside your window. And you’ve written nothing.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Because—” Louise’s voice cracked. “Because I don’t care about Armagnac production in the Hundred Years’ War. I thought I did. I thought escaping Paris meant I’d become this literary person who writes important historical fiction. Instead, I’m just a failed lawyer who can’t write, living alone in a village where I know no one, slowly going insane while pretending to work.”

Solange ate cassoulet thoughtfully. “You know everyone in this village is preparing for a medieval Christmas market?”

“Yes. Very authentic. People will dress in period costume, sell medieval crafts, there’s a storytelling competition for children about village history—”

“And you’re not participating.”

“I don’t know anyone. I came here to write, not socialise—”

“You came here to escape. Different thing.” Solange stood, walked to Louise’s window, pointed at the square. “That. That’s your novel.”

“What?”

“The village. Not historical Armagnac production—actual Labastide d’Armagnac. Now. The people preparing the market. The woman arguing with her husband about medieval costume accuracy. The baker who makes croustade the way his grandmother did. The actual living history you’ve been ignoring because you thought ‘important novels’ had to be about the past.”

“That’s not a historical novel—”

“So write contemporary fiction. Or creative nonfiction. Or a collection of village stories. Who cares? The point is you’re blocked because you’re trying to write about a past you researched instead of a present you’re living in but refusing to see.” Solange pulled out her phone. “When’s the market?”

“December 23rd. Four days.”

“You’re going to help organise it.”

“Solange, I can’t just—”

“You can and you will. They need help with the storytelling competition—I saw a notice at the mairie. You’re a lawyer. You can organise things. Also, you’ll meet people, hear their stories, remember why you moved to a medieval village instead of staying in Paris, making everyone miserable, including yourself.”

“I don’t know anything about medieval storytelling—”

“Neither do the children. That’s the point. Come on.” Solange was already texting someone. “Marguerite—she runs the bakery—her daughter is organising the children’s component. I’m telling her you’re volunteering. Done. You’re meeting her tomorrow at the mairie at 10 AM. Wear clean clothes. Shower first. Possibly burn that sweater.”

The next morning, Louise stood in the mairie—the medieval town hall, all stone and timber and centuries of bureaucratic authority—meeting Marguerite’s daughter Élodie, who was twenty-eight and terrifically organised and clearly sceptical that a random Parisian lawyer could help with a children’s storytelling competition.

“The concept,” Élodie explained, “is that children research a real historical figure or event from Labastide’s history and present it as a story. Five minutes each. We have twelve children registered. I need someone to help them structure their narratives and practice delivery. Can you do that?”

“I was a litigator. I can do narrative structure and delivery.”

“Good. They’re meeting here after school today. 4 PM. Don’t be late—they’re children, they have limited attention spans and strong opinions about historical accuracy.”

Louise spent the day reading everything she could find about Labastide d’Armagnac: founded in 1291, a bastide (fortified town) built on a grid pattern, famous for Armagnac production, occupied during the Hundred Years’ War, survived plague and revolution and modernisation while maintaining its medieval architecture.

At 4 PM, twelve children arrived with their parents, all looking at Louise with the particular scepticism children reserve for unfamiliar adults claiming to have useful knowledge.

“Bonjour,” Louise said, suddenly nervous in a way she’d never been in a courtroom. “I’m Louise. I’m helping with storytelling. Who wants to go first?”

A boy—maybe ten—raised his hand. “I’m researching Henri IV, who stayed here in 1583. But my story is boring. He just stayed in a house and probably ate food. How do I make that interesting?”

“What food?”

“What?”

“What did he eat? Was it different from what we eat now? Did someone cook it? Was it a feast or just dinner? Who else was there?”

The boy’s face lit up. “I didn’t think about that.”

“Historical events aren’t just dates and names. They’re people eating meals, having conversations, making decisions that seemed commonplace at the time but turned out to matter. Your job is to make 1583 feel real. What did the house smell like? What was the weather? Did Henri IV like the food or complain about it?”

They worked for two hours. Louise helped a girl researching a medieval plague doctor make her story less terrifying and more entertaining. Helped a boy transform his dry research about Armagnac distillation into a story about a distiller’s apprentice learning the craft. Helped twins arguing over whether Eleanor of Aquitaine had visited Labastide (inconclusive historical evidence) structure their debate as a dramatic dialogue.

By 6 PM, all twelve children had narratives that worked. Their parents looked impressed. Élodie looked stunned.

“You’re good at this,” she said as everyone left.

“I used to explain complex legal arguments to juries. Similar skill set, smaller audience, higher stakes in terms of historical accuracy.”

“Will you come to the rehearsal tomorrow? They’ll need more help.”

Louise found herself saying yes.

That night, for the first time in two years, she wrote. Not about Armagnac in the Hundred Years’ War. About the boy researching Henri IV. About the plague doctor girl. About what it felt like to help twelve children make history real through storytelling.

Five hundred words. Then a thousand. Then she looked up and it was 2 AM, and she’d written three thousand words about Labastide d’Armagnac—not historical, not researched, just observed. The baker who made croustade like his grandmother. The woman who was arguing about costume accuracy because her family had lived here for nine generations. The children who were connecting to their village’s past by making it present through stories.

December 23rd. The medieval Christmas market filled Labastide’s square with period costumes, craft stalls, the smell of roasting chestnuts and mulled wine. The storytelling competition happened in the arcades—twelve children presenting their research as stories, their parents watching, the whole village turning out to hear its own history told by its youngest residents.

Louise stood at the back, watching a ten-year-old boy describe Henri IV eating garbure (vegetable soup) in a house that still stood three streets away, making 1583 feel immediate and real and connected to now.

Solange appeared beside her. “You’re crying.”

“I’m not—these are just—it’s cold—”

“You’re crying because you’re proud of them. Also, because you finally remembered why you wanted to write.” Solange handed her a handkerchief. “So. The novel about medieval Armagnac production?”

“Abandoned. I’m writing something else.”

“About?”

“This village. These people. The children who make history real. The baker’s croustade. What it means to live in a place with nine hundred years of history and make it present instead of past.” Louise looked at the square, at the lights, at the medieval architecture filled with contemporary life. “I don’t know if it’s important literature. But it’s true. And I care about it.”

“Good. Important literature is overrated. True stories about people you care about? That sells.” Solange smiled. “Send me pages in January. Real pages, not research notes. I’ll get you a publisher.”

“You haven’t read it—”

“Don’t need to. You’re writing again. You know these people now. You care. That’s enough.”

Later, after the market closed, after the children had won their prizes (the Henri IV boy took first place), after Louise had been invited to help organise next year’s competition, she walked back to her cottage through Labastide’s medieval streets.

The blank document was still on her computer. “Chapter One—Draft 47.”

She deleted it. Started new: “Chapter One—The Storytellers.”

And wrote: The children of Labastide d’Armagnac were preparing to make history come alive, which was harder than it sounded because history, as Margaux explained to her classmates, was mostly just people eating food and making decisions that seemed boring at the time but turned out to matter later.

One thousand words. Then two thousand. Then dawn breaking over the medieval square and Louise realising she’d written through the night, that her novel wasn’t about the past she’d researched but the present she’d finally stopped running from.

Sometimes the story you need to write is the one you’re already living.

You just have to show up long enough to realise that.

At my retreats, storytelling creates a bridge between where you have been and where you’re going. It helps us make sense of our lives in a way that facts and advice alone never can. When we share stories—our own and each other’s—we begin to see meaning in what we’ve lived through, not just the hardship but also the resulting growth. Stories create connection, incite deep reflection, and allow us to gently reframe life transitions, allowing us to step out of who we’ve been and imagine who we’re becoming.

Wishing you a joyful Christmas and a happy and healthy 2026!

The Make Friends and Maintain Friendships Masterplan

During challenging times, friends often serve as our guiding lights. They may not have all the answers, but their presence helps us find our way. This holiday season, take a moment to honour the friends who’ve been a source of light in your life.

Think about the friend who calls just to check in, the one who sends a random text that makes you smile, or the person who’s always willing to listen. These acts, no matter how small, are profound reminders that you are not alone.

Just as your friends light your path, you have the power to brighten theirs. Even if life feels uncertain right now, trust that the light you share will always be enough.

When you want to give up, reach out to the friend who’ll tell you hard truths—and say yes when they volunteer you for community projects you’ve been avoiding. Stop hiding. Engage with the present instead of researching the past. Let people and their stories in.

Worst case scenario: You spend a few days helping with a children’s event, meet some neighbours, and still struggle with your original project.

Best case scenario: Your literary agent best friend shows up, finds you in crisis, and realises you’re blocked not because you can’t write but because you’re trying to write about a researched past instead of the lived present you’ve been ignoring. She volunteers you to help with a children’s storytelling competition that forces you to engage with your village, meet actual people with actual stories, and remember that the best writing comes from caring about real humans in real places, not from researching centuries-old Armagnac production in isolation. You discover your novel was always about this village—not its medieval past but its living present, the baker’s grandmother’s recipe, the children making history real, the nine-hundred-year-old architecture filled with contemporary life. You learn that writer’s block isn’t about lack of discipline—it’s about trying to write stories you don’t actually care about, and that sometimes the cure is just showing up for your community until you care enough about real people to make them real on the page.

Who has been a source of light in your life this year? How can you express your gratitude to them this holiday season? Reach out to a friend who’s been there for you and let them know how much they mean to you.

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I’m still collecting subscriptions to my news letter with these post, so if you haven’t subscribed already and would you like to find out what type of friend you are, how well you know your friends or if you and a new friend really are compatible, subscribe my filling in your email address in the box below and I’ll send you a set of light-hearted quizzes, quotes and questions to help you do just that. Just fill in the form below and you’ll get immediate access to them all. You can unsubscribe from this list effortlessly and at any time. Included:

–How well do you know your Friends? Quiz
– What is Your Friendship Style? and Are your Friendship Styles compatible? Quiz
– 20 of the Most Inspiring Friends and Friendship Quotes and
– 20 lighthearted Questions you can ask to get to know a new Friend

Discover how to build meaningful, lasting friendships and create a support system that truly has your back—delivered straight to your inbox!

Designed for those navigating a life transition, the Radical Renaissance Protocol guides you through an identity reset, helping you reconnect with your purpose, realign your values, and reclaim the clarity you thought you’d lost. This isn’t about fixing what’s broken: through reflection, strategic reinvention, and soul-anchored mentoring, you’ll transform uncertainty into direction and dormant potential into meaningful impact.

I put the essence of who I am, and everything I have experienced that makes me who I am, with great enthusiasm, into my retreats, courses and books. – Dr Margaretha Montagu (MBChB, MRCGP, NLP master pract (cert,) Transformational Life Coach (dip,) Life Story Coach (cert) Counselling (cert,) Med Hypnotherapy (dip) and EAGALA (cert)

#christmascountdown #friends #friendsforever #friendsforlife #friendship

23/12/202523/12/2025

Countdown to Christmas Calendar Day 23

December 23, 2025 – 2 days to Christmas and before-last post in this series

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships during Life Transitions

Today’s Story: The Lighthouse

Elise sat on her living room floor on December 23rd, surrounded by thirty-seven years of teaching materials in cardboard boxes that smelled like dust and institutional failure. She’d been sitting there for two hours, holding a paper turkey a student named Antoine had made in 2003, trying to decide if keeping it made her a sentimental hoarder.

The retirement community brochure sat on the coffee table, glossy but uninspiring: Résidence Les Jardins Dorés—The Golden Gardens Residence—which sounded like either a euphemism for heaven or a very expensive place to wait for death. Clean rooms. Organised activities. No ocean. No memories. No boxes of paper turkeys made by children who were now in their thirties with children of their own.

Her cottage—small, drafty, clinging to the Gironde coast like a barnacle that had developed architectural aspirations—was too much. Too many memories. Too much maintenance. Too much empty space where her purpose used to be.

She’d been a teacher. Now she was… nothing much. A person who sat around on floors all day, crying over paper turkeys.

Her doorbell rang.

She ignored it. Probably her nosy neighbour wanting to discuss the retirement community again, armed with more brochures and quasi-concern that felt like pious pity.

The ringing continued. Then someone started hammering on the door. Then a familiar voice: “Elise! I know you’re in there! I can see your car! All your lights are on! I’m freezing, and if you don’t open this door, I’m breaking a window!”

Elise scrambled up, boxes scattering, and whipped open the door.

Jean-Luc stood there grinning, wearing a photographer’s vest over a sweater that had clearly visited multiple continents, his grey hair wild from wind, a camera bag slung over his shoulder, and the expression of someone who’d just decided to show up unannounced because plans were for people with less interesting lives.

“You don’t look too bright,” he announced cheerfully. “And your garden is a disaster. When did you last weed anything? Never mind, don’t answer. I’m here for Christmas. Surprise. Are you crying? Why are you crying? Is someone dead?”

“I’m not—it’s just—” Elise gestured helplessly at the chaos behind her. “I’m packing. I’m selling the cottage.”

Jean-Luc’s smile vanished. “You’re what?”

“Selling. Moving to a retirement community. It’s really the most sensible thing to do. The cottage is too much work, I’m alone, I don’t teach anymore, I don’t—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know what I’m living for anymore.”

Jean-Luc walked past her without invitation, the privilege of fifty years of friendship, and surveyed the disaster of her living room: boxes everywhere, teaching materials scattered, the retirement brochure gleaming like an accusation.

“Right,” he said. “We’re fixing this.”

“Jean-Luc, you can’t just—”

“I can, and I am. You’re having an identity crisis because you retired and forgot you’re a person beyond your job. Extremely common reaction, these days. Easily fixable. Also, you’re not moving to that place—” he picked up the brochure, made a face, dropped it in the recycling box “—because it looks like where joy goes to die slowly while playing organised bingo.”

“It’s a very nice facility—”

“It’s a beige prison with meal plans. You’re not going. We’re finding you a new purpose.” He started opening boxes with the confidence of someone who’d made executive decisions about other people’s lives across six continents. “What’s all this?”

“Teaching materials. Nature walks I used to do with students. Local ecology, coastal birds, tide pools—” She stopped. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not teaching anymore.”

“Not children, no. Do you think adults aren’t interested in learning about tide pools? They are. They go on Christmas breaks to do exactly that.” He pulled out a laminated guide to coastal birds, beautifully illustrated, clearly handmade. “This is excellent. You made this?”

“Twenty years ago. For a unit on migration—”

“You’re starting a business.”

“I’m seventy-two—”

“So? I’m seventy-one, and I just spent three months photographing migratory patterns in Patagonia. Age is irrelevant. You know this coast better than anyone. You know the ecology, the birds, the history. You have teaching skills. You have materials.” He gestured at the boxes. “You have a cottage on the Atlantic coast near the Cordouan lighthouse, which tourists pay stupid money to visit. You’re starting a coast walking business.”

Elise stared at him. “That’s crazy.”

“That’s your next chapter. You think I travelled the world with a grand plan? I have a camera, and I’m curious. You have knowledge and a cottage right on the coast.” He pulled out his phone, already typing. “We’re making a website. What are you calling it?”

“Jean-Luc, I can’t just start a business—”

“‘Coastal Walks with Elise.’ No, too boring. ‘Atlantic Coast Ecology Tours.’ Better. Professional. We’ll use your teaching materials as marketing—show people you’re the expert. Charge thirty euros pp for a two-hour walk. Do three walks a week, April to October, that’s—” he calculated quickly “—over six thousand euros a season, if you have at least two people per walk, enough to maintain the cottage and prove you’re not useless.”

“I never said I was useless—”

“You’re sitting on the floor crying over a paper turkey and planning to move to a place where they organise your MEALS!” He sat beside her among the boxes. “Elise. You spent forty years teaching children. Just because you retired doesn’t mean the knowledge is now useless. It means you finally have time to share it with people who’ll actually appreciate it instead of constantly asking when lunch is.”

Elise looked at the boxes. At the guides she’d made. At the photographs of students on coastal walks, all of them now adults, many with children of their own.

“I don’t know if anyone would come.”

“Then we’re doing a trial walk. Me, you, the coast. We’ll photograph it, I’ll write copy, we’ll launch your business in January.” He stood, offering his hand. “Come on. We’re going to the beach. I haven’t seen the Cordouan lighthouse in two years, and I’m told they’ve installed new lights.”

“Jean-Luc, it’s freezing—”

“So? Get your coat. The sensible one, not the fashionable one. We’re walking to Pointe de Grave, and you’re going to remember why you love this coast.”

They walked along the shore as afternoon turned to evening, the wind brutal off the Atlantic, salt spray in their faces, sand hard-packed and cold underfoot. The Cordouan lighthouse stood offshore—six kilometres out in the estuary, its white tower stark against the grey sky, the oldest lighthouse in France still functioning, built in the 1600s and somehow still standing despite everything the ocean threw at it.

Jean-Luc photographed everything: the lighthouse, the winter birds, Elise herself gesturing at something in a tide pool, animated in a way she hadn’t been in months.

“Tell me about that,” he said, camera raised, as she crouched near the water.

“Anemones. They close up between tides to retain moisture. When the water returns, they open—see the tentacles? They’re waiting for plankton.” She looked up, realised she was lecturing, and stopped. “Sorry. Teacher habit.”

“Don’t apologise. That’s your product. That’s what people will pay for.” He took another photo. “Keep talking. Tell me about the lighthouse.”

So she did. About the Cordouan lighthouse—called the Versailles of the Sea, designed by Louis de Foix, its chapel, its royal apartment, the 301 steps to the top, the keepers who’d lived there for months at a time tending the light. About how it had guided ships through the Gironde estuary for four hundred years, how it had survived storms and wars and changing technology.

“It’s still working,” she said. “After everything. Still lighting the way.”

“Like you,” Jean-Luc said. “Still working. Still lighting the way. Just for different people now.”

They walked back as stars appeared—rare, given the cloud cover, but there, faint, persistent. The cottage lights were visible from the beach, small and warm against the dark.

“Tomorrow,” Jean-Luc said as they reached her door. “Christmas morning. Nine AM. We’re walking to the best view of the lighthouse—the promontory near the fort. Bring your bird guide. I’m bringing my camera. We’re making your promotional materials whether you like it or not.”

“Jean-Luc—”

“Nine AM. Be ready. Wear layers.”

Christmas morning arrived cold and bright. Elise stood at her door at 8:52 AM wearing three layers and holding the bird guide she’d made twenty years ago, wondering if she was about to make an enormous mistake – or the first positive decision since her retirement.

Jean-Luc appeared at exactly nine, carrying coffee in a thermos and the kind of determined energy that suggested he’d planned this entire intervention weeks ago.

They walked the coastal path to the promontory—rocky, exposed, the wind constant and cold, the ocean churning grey-green below. The sun rose slowly, catching the lighthouse offshore, turning it gold against the dark water. The light was still rotating—automated now, but still there, still working, still doing what it had done for four hundred years.

“There,” Jean-Luc said, photographing. “That’s your money shot. Join Elise for guided walks along the Gironde coast, exploring tide pools, coastal birds, and the history of the Cordouan lighthouse. Learn from a former teacher with forty years’ experience. See the coast through the eyes of someone who loves it.”

“That’s too much—”

“That’s marketing. You’re an expert. Stop pretending you’re not.” He lowered his camera. “You know what that lighthouse teaches us?”

“What?”

“That purpose isn’t something you lose when you retire. It’s something you redirect. The lighthouse still lights the way—it just does it differently now. Automated instead of manned. Still working. Still valuable. Still there.” He gestured at the coast, the birds, the path they’d walked. “You’re still here. You still know everything worth knowing about this place. You’re just doing it for people who choose to come, instead of children who are required to.”

Elise looked at the lighthouse, at the coast she’d lived on her entire life, at the bird guide in her hands—worn, loved, still useful.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll try it.”

“Good. Now come on. We’re going back to your cottage, and we’re launching your website. I already bought the domain name. ‘AtlanticCoastalWalks.fr.’ You’re welcome.”

Later, after launching the website (simple, professional, using Jean-Luc’s magnificent photographs), after the first inquiry came in (a couple from Paris, interested in a spring walk), Elise stood at her window watching the lighthouse blink offshore.

Still working. Still lighting the way.

The Purpose Pivot Protocol – drawing inspiration from the Camino de Santiago, this transformative course guides you through a proven framework to recalibrate your authentic purpose and create a meaningful and fulfilling next act. Get immediate access

The Make Friends and Maintain Friendships Masterplan

In the storms of life, friendships are the shelters that keep us safe and grounded. A good friend doesn’t need to solve your problems; they simply offer a space where you feel seen, heard, and valued.

Think about the friends who’ve been your shelter in tough times. How did their support help you weather the storm? And how can you be that shelter for someone else? Friendship is a mutual exchange of strength and solace, especially during the holidays.

Cherish the friends who stand by you, and remember that your presence can be a refuge for them as well.

When retirement or redundancy makes you feel purposeless, reach out to the friend who sees your expertise as transferable—and actually listen when they tell you that your knowledge didn’t retire just because your job did. Accept that what you know still matters, just to different people now.

Worst case scenario: You try something new, it doesn’t work immediately, but you’ve remembered what it feels like to share what you love with people who want to learn it.

Best case scenario: Your world-travelling photographer friend shows up unannounced, finds you crying over paper turkeys, and refuses to let you move to a retirement community that looks like where joy dies slowly. He systematically dismantles your identity crisis by pointing out that you have forty years of teaching materials about coastal ecology, a cottage near a famous lighthouse, and expertise that adults will actually pay to access. He drags you to the beach on Christmas morning, photographs everything, launches your website without permission, and proves that retirement isn’t about becoming irrelevant—it’s about finally having time to share what you know with people who choose to be there. You discover your teaching materials aren’t nostalgia—they’re assets, that your cottage isn’t too much—it’s your business location, and that purpose isn’t something you lost—it’s something you redirect, like a lighthouse that still lights the way after four hundred years, just differently now, still working, still valuable, still exactly where it needs to be.

Who has been your shelter during challenging times? How can you express gratitude for their support?

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Comment by e-mail: I am grieving already that tomorrow will be my last day of waking up to your words in my mailbox. I loved this story and it really hit a nerve I did not know was exposed. Thank you with all my heart. P.B.F.

#christmascountdown #friends #friendsforever #friendsforlife #friendship

22/12/202522/12/2025

Christmas Calendar Countdown – Day 22

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships

December 22, 2015 – 3 days to Christmas

Today’s Story: Les Dolphins Argentés

Monique stood at her kitchen window on Christmas morning. It was 9:47 AM. The Biarritz Bain de Noël—the traditional Christmas Day Dip in the Atlantic Ocean organised by Les Ours Blancs, would start at 10:30 at the Grande Plage. She has done it every year for twenty-three years, always with Suzanne, her best friend since they were sixteen years old.

This year, Suzanne would be there. Monique would not.

Her phone sat on the counter, silent as it had been for three months. Three months since the argument that had started as a political disagreement and exploded into forty years of accumulated grievances. Things said that couldn’t be unsaid. Apologies attempted and rejected. Silence that had hardened into something unpalatable.

Monique had called twice after that terrible night in September. Left messages. Texted. Nothing back. Forty years of friendship—birthdays, weddings, the births of children, the deaths of parents, Christmas Day swims—ended. Just… ended.

Her doorbell rang.

Amélie stood there wearing a wetsuit and a Christmas-themed swim cap with reindeer antlers.

“Non,” Monique said.

“Si,” Amélie replied.

“I can’t—Suzanne will be there—”

“So? The beach is big enough for both of you.”

“I don’t know anyone in your group—”

“You know me. Come. We have extra wetsuits if you need one, though Martine swims in just her swimming costume, she claims it ‘builds character.’ Martine is crackers. You’ll like her.”

On the Grande Plage, fifty people stood shivering on the wet sand, neoprene clinging to their skin, breath puffing white into the salt air, swim caps pulled low over ears already aching from the wind, all of them wearing the same stubborn, faintly unhinged expression of people who had voluntarily chosen to step into freezing water on Christmas morning.

Les Dauphins Argentées—the Silver Dolphins—Amélie’s group of older women who swam year-round, rain or shine, in the Bay of Biscay, gathered together on one side of the beach, heads close, voices low. Amélie, whom Monique had met three months earlier in a bookshop, had somehow sensed the weight of grief Monique was lugging around. Without comment or ceremony, she had invited Monique for coffee and mentioned the swimming group with the offhand ease of someone proposing mild treason.

“This is Monique, everyone,” Amélie announced to the assembled women.

A woman in her seventies wearing a Santa hat over her swim cap waved. “I’m Martine. I’m the crazy one Amélie would have mentioned. And this is Colette, Lucy, Céline, Patricia, Corinne, Nina…etc.”

They gathered at the water’s edge. The ocean was steel-grey, churning, the kind of sea that looked like it had reservations about humans entering it. The beach smelled of salt and seaweed, and it had the biting coldness of December air.

“Ready?” Amélie asked.

“No.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

They walked into the water as a group—fifteen women entering the Atlantic on Christmas morning because they’d decided, individually and collectively, that this was a reasonable thing to do.

The cold hit like a physical blow. Not gradually—immediately, brutally, overwhelmingly. Monique gasped, her body screaming that this was a mistake, that it was not designed for this, that she should get out NOW and never do something this stupid again.

“Keep moving!” Martine shouted from ahead, already waist-deep.

Monique kept moving. The cold became something else—not comfortable, never comfortable, but manageable. Her body adjusting, adrenaline surging, the particular clarity that comes from being so cold you can’t think about anything except being cold.

They swam. Not far—maybe fifty meters out, parallel to the beach—but in water that was actively hostile, waves rolling through, the undertow pulling, the cold seeping into their bones.

Beside her, Amélie swam with the easy confidence of someone who’d been doing this for years. “You’re doing great!”

“I’m freezing!”

Amélie laughed—actually laughed. “How’s your head?”

“What?”

“Your head. Full of thoughts about Suzanne?”

Monique realised it wasn’t. Her brain was entirely occupied with: cold, swim, cold, waves, cold, why did I agree to this, yet again, cold.

“No,” she admitted.

“Exactly. Cold water is very purifying. Empties your head of everything except survival. Very therapeutic. Also possibly dangerous but mostly therapeutic.”

They swam for fifteen minutes—an eternity—then headed back. The exit was harder than the entry, legs shaking, body exhausted, but Monique made it to shore where someone had lit a bonfire (how? when? who brings wood to a beach on Christmas morning?) and other women were appearing with thermoses of vin chaud and blankets and the particular kindness of a community that swims together in hostile water.

Colette handed Monique mulled wine that tasted like cinnamon and bitter orange. “How do you feel?”

“Alive. Terrified. Proud?”

“Good. So you’ll be back next week?”

“I didn’t say—”

“You will. It’s addictive. Also, we’re excellent company.”

Martine appeared, still in just her costume, skin red from the cold, looking delighted. “See? Character building. You’ve more character now than you had this morning. Objective improvement.”

They stood around the bonfire, fifteen women in various states of wetsuit removal, drinking wine that was too hot and too spiced but perfect, watching the waves. The smell of wood smoke mixed with salt air. Someone started singing—”Petit Papa Noël“—and everyone joined in, voices rough from cold but sincere.

Monique looked down the beach. Could see another group gathering around their own bonfire. Les Ours Blancs. Suzanne would be there. Warming up. Maybe thinking about Monique. Maybe not.

The grief hit suddenly—unexpected, overwhelming. Forty years. Gone. The friend who’d known her since she was sixteen. Who’d been at her wedding. Who’d helped raise her children. Who’d swum beside her every Christmas morning for two decades. Gone.

Amélie appeared beside her, following her gaze.

“She’s there. Suzanne. Swimming with her group.”

“I know.” Amélie didn’t offer platitudes. Didn’t say it would heal, or time would help, or they’d reconcile. Just stood there, present. “Some friendships end. Even forty-year-old ones. It’s awful, but it’s real, so you’re allowed to grieve your loss.”

“I don’t know how to do Christmas without her.”

“You do it like you just did—badly, scared, supported by people who barely know you but who care anyway.” Amélie gestured at the Dolphins. “We’re not her. We won’t replace her. But we’re here. Every week, every Christmas, every Tuesday morning at dawn. You in?”

Monique thought about the cold water. The clarity of it. The way it had emptied her head of everything except immediate survival. The women around the fire who’d welcomed her without question, who’d handed her wine and blankets and acceptance.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m in.”

“Good. Next week, 7 AM. Bring your own wetsuit if you have one.”

Her phone buzzed. For one wild moment, she thought: Suzanne.

It wasn’t. It was Colette: Welcome to Les Dauphins Argentés. See you Tuesday, 7 AM. Bring coffee.

Then Martine: You survived! See you Tuesday. Don’t be late!

Then three other women she’d barely spoken to, all welcoming her, all assuming she’d return, all treating her like she already belonged.

Amélie sat beside her on the sand. “You okay?”

“No. But I will be.”

Monique looked at the beach where Suzanne was, where a Christmas tradition had died.

Her phone stayed silent. Suzanne didn’t call. Maybe never would again.

Some friendships end.

Other friendships begin. In bookshops. Around bonfires. In freezing water on Christmas mornings.

The Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships Masterplan

In a world filled with distractions, one of the most meaningful gifts you can offer a friend is your full presence. Being present isn’t about doing or saying the “right” thing—it’s about showing up fully, with an open heart and undivided attention.

When you’re truly present, you create a safe space for your friend to share their thoughts, fears, and joys. It’s in these moments of deep connection that friendships grow stronger. This holiday season, give the gift of your presence. Turn off your phone, silence the noise, and simply be there.

Presence is also a gift you can give yourself. When you slow down and embrace the moment, you’ll find clarity and peace, even amid life’s transitions.

When a long friendship ends catastrophically, reach out to new connections instead of isolating in your grief—and say yes when someone invites you to do something uncomfortable and community-based. Join the swimming group, the book club, the thing that requires showing up physically and repeatedly among people who aren’t your ex-friend.

Worst case scenario: You’re uncomfortable around strangers while grieving, the ocean is terrible, and you still miss the friend you lost.

Best case scenario: Your new friend refuses to let you spend Christmas alone crying, drags you to a cold water swimming group of older women who voluntarily enter hostile Atlantic water on Christmas morning, and you discover that while some friendships end forever and it’s awful and you’re allowed to grieve, other friendships begin in their place—different friendships, ones built on showing up week after week in neoprene among women who hand you mulled wine and belonging without requiring you to explain your loss. You learn that grief doesn’t disappear but it becomes manageable when you’re too cold to think about anything except survival, that community isn’t a replacement for what you lost but it’s what keeps you alive anyway, and that sometimes the only way to survive the end of one chapter is to literally swim into the next one, badly and scared and supported by Silver Dolphins who decided you were worth keeping warm.

What does being present mean to you? How can you practice presence in your friendships this season?

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18/12/202518/12/2025

Countdown to Christmas Calendar – Day 18

18 December 2025 – only 7 days to Christmas!

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships in Difficult Times

Today’s Story: Walking Wednesdays

Harold stood in the car park of the Plage de Messanges, watching a group of men mill about near the wooden walkway that led down to the beach. December wind came off the Atlantic in cold gusts that tasted of salt, under a heavy sky, the colour of wet slate.

His daughter had been relentless: “Dad, you need to get out. What about the widowers’ walking group that meets on Wednesdays? Why don’t you go? Once, at least.”

He’d agreed because it was easier than arguing and because Emma had inherited her mother’s stubbornness—that particular quality Catherine deployed like a surgical instrument. Resistance was futile. Emma would probably just appear at his door every Wednesday morning with her coat already on, car keys jingling, until he surrendered.

One walk. He’d do one walk, report back that it was dreadful, and return to his comfortable routine of coffee, crosswords, and the fiction that Catherine was just in the next room, reading, about to call out something inconsequential about the neighbours’ entitled cat.

A man detached himself from the group—early seventies, face weathered to the colour of old oak, wearing the kind of practical waxed jacket that suggested this was not his first walk.

“You must be Harold. I’m Jean-Pierre. Welcome to les marcheurs du mercredi.” His English carried the music of the southwest, vowels rounded by a lifetime of speaking Gascon at market stalls. “We walk, we don’t talk much, we drink a cup or two of coffee together afterwards. Et c’est tout.”

“How long do you walk?”

“However long feels right. Some days five kilometres, some days two. Some days we just stand here watching the ocean until we get too cold.” He shrugged—shoulders, hands, eyebrows all participating in a gesture that managed to convey centuries of French philosophy about the absurdity of asking how long a piece of string was. “We just show up and see.”

The group set off without fanfare or introductions. Eight men, ranging from perhaps fifty to somewhere past eighty, walking in a loose cluster that shifted like birds in formation. No one spoke. The only sounds were boots grinding against sand mixed with crushed shells, wind rattling through the sharp leaves of oyat grass, and the constant percussion of waves hitting the shore in irregular rhythm—crash, hiss, silence, crash.

Harold had expected—what? Some sort of grief support session with walking as an excuse? The kind of awkward male bonding that involved talking about rugby to avoid talking about anything that might hurt?

Instead: silence. Comfortable, undemanding silence.

They walked north along the beach where the sand was firm and dark from the retreating tide, marked with the delicate tracks of sanderlings. The ocean was steel-grey, with white foam where waves collapsed in on themselves. A few surfers in black wetsuits bobbed in the distance like seals, waiting for a wave worth riding. The beach stretched empty in both directions—the off-season gift of French coastal towns.

After perhaps twenty minutes, Jean-Pierre spoke: “Six months?”

Harold nodded, throat tight.

“The worst part.”

“Everyone says it gets better.”

“Bof.” Jean-Pierre made that particularly French sound of implied scepticism—somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “It does not get better. It gets different. You learn to carry it. But it’s always there.”

A man on Harold’s left—younger, maybe mid-fifties, hands shoved deep in his pockets, spoke without looking at anyone: “Six months for me too. Last June. Heart attack. She was fifty-two.”

Silence. Just the crunch of sand, the shriek of a gull overhead.

“The Christmas lights went up in town yesterday,” the younger man—Michel—continued. “First time seeing them without her. Thought I’d be ready. I was wrong.”

“No one is ready for the firsts,” said an older man with a pronounced limp, Bernard. “First Christmas, first birthday, first spring…”

“My wife loved dogs,” Harold heard himself say. The words came out raw, unplanned. “Always wanted one. I kept saying, after I retired, when we had more time. Then she got sick, and suddenly time was the one thing we didn’t left. We had forty-two years, and somehow it wasn’t enough time for a dog.”

“Mine loved this beach,” Jean-Pierre said quietly. “Walked it every morning, six-thirty, rain or shine. Even in January, when the wind tended to knock you sideways. For two years after she died, I couldn’t come here. Felt like trespassing on her private property, vous comprenez? Then one day I realised—merde, she’d be furious that I stayed away. She’d want me to come here. She’d want me to freeze my but off just like she did.”

Someone laughed—a soft, knowing sound, almost whipped away by the wind, before Harold could catch it.

“I keep setting two places at dinner,” Michel said. “Nine weeks in a row now. Every single time I realise what I’ve done, I feel stupid. But my hands just do it. Napkin, fork, knife. Napkin, fork, knife. Twice.”

“I still say goodnight to an empty bedroom,” someone else offered—Philippe, Harold thought. “Three years. Still doing it. Bonne nuit, chérie, like she’s just in the bathroom.”

“I bought her a Christmas present without thinking,” said Bernard, pausing to adjust his weight off his bad leg. “Silk scarf, her favourite colour—that particular blue, like the ocean on a perfect June day. It’s still in my car. Can’t return it, can’t throw it out, can’t look at it. It’s just there in the boot under a blanket.”

Harold felt his shoulders loosening, something unclenching in his chest. These men with their habits and their ghosts and their stubborn insistence on walking on the beach every Wednesday, carrying what couldn’t be put down, what couldn’t be left behind, no matter how far you walked.

By the time they reached the car park, Harold’s face was numb from the cold. His legs ached, but his mind felt clearer than it had in months.

“Coffee,” Jean-Pierre announced, leading the way to Mamasé, a small café in the heart of the village—the only one open in December, its windows fogged with warmth and light spilling onto the wet pavement like an incantation.

Inside, it smelled of espresso and cardamom, cinnamon and something else—ginger maybe. A wreath hung on the far wall, simple pine branches and red ribbon, and someone had arranged a small nativity scene on the counter—santons from Provence, hand-painted, the shepherds looking appropriately bewildered.

They claimed a large table scarred with use. A tall woman with box braids and an easy smile brought coffee without being asked—real ceramic cups, not those little tourist thimbles—and a plate of canelés that she placed in the centre of the table with a firm, “Profitez, messieurs.” The pastries were perfect: caramelised outside, soft custardy centres that tasted of vanilla.

The men talked now—about the weather (the forecast called for storms), local politics (the new mayor was an idiot), someone’s grandson’s wedding (in Bordeaux, too much money spent on flowers and not enough on wine). Easy conversations. Harold learned their names: Michel. Bernard. Luc, Philippe, André, Christophe. Each one carrying his own grief, none of it on display like a badge, all of it shared in the spaces between words.

“So,” Jean-Pierre said eventually, catching Harold’s eye over the rim of his coffee cup. “Next Wednesday?”

Harold thought about his empty house waiting for him. His daughter’s worried phone calls that came every evening now, her voice too bright, too careful. Catherine’s reading glasses still on the bedside table where she’d left them six months ago, one arm slightly bent from where she’d dozed off wearing them that last week. The way silence had become both refuge and sentence.

“I’ll be here,” Harold said. The words felt solid, real. “I’ll be here.”

Harold sat for a moment after they’d gone, watching rain blur the café window, watching the Christmas lights smear into soft halos of colour. He wouldn’t tell Emma about the walking yet—let her think she’d won too easily and she’d find something else for him to join. Some pottery class or book club where he’d have to make small talk with strangers. But he’d be back on Wednesday. And the Wednesday after that.

Life after Loss isn’t just another grief book. Written by a medical doctor with decades of experience in psychology and men’s reactions to loss, this book suggests a strategic, science-backed framework designed for men who want to process loss, rebuild identity, and create a life with renewed purpose.

The Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships Masterplan

Today, join a group specifically designed for people going through what you’re going through. Don’t wait until you feel ready. You’ll never feel ready. Show up anyway.

Worst case scenario: You spend a few hours with people you don’t connect with, walk on a cold beach, drink mediocre coffee, and decide it’s not for you.

Best case scenario: You find your Wednesday people—the ones who understand what you’re going through, who walk beside your grief without trying to fix it, who show up week after week not because they have answers but because they know that sometimes the only answer is silence. You discover that healing isn’t about moving on or getting over it—it’s about learning to carry what you’ve lost, one step at a time, until one day you realise you’ve walked further than you thought possible and you’re not walking alone anymore.

In times of transition, it’s easy to overlook the small, beautiful moments that make life meaningful—especially in friendships. These small wins could be as simple as an honest conversation, a laugh shared over coffee, or a moment of understanding that reminds you why this person is in your life.

Friendships don’t need grand milestones to thrive. They flourish in the quiet, consistent acts of care and attention that you both invest in each other. Celebrate the friend who checks in on you, the one who makes you smile when things feel heavy, or the friend who simply sits with you in silence.

What’s a small but meaningful moment you’ve shared with a friend recently?

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If your soul is craving fresh air, meaningful movement, and a chance to reconnect with nature, join us on a Camino de Santiago Crossroads Retreat in the southwest of France. This isn’t just a scenic hike – it’s a powerful, natural reboot for your body, mind, and spirit. Imagine quiet paths, rolling hills, cozy evenings, and slow conversations. No fitness requirements. No forced bonding. No pressure to have a breakthrough. Just one foot in front of the other, and a journey that meets you exactly where you are.

Author Bio: Dr Margaretha Montagu – described as a “game changer”, “gifted healer”, “guiding light” and “life-enriching author” – is an experienced medical doctor, a certified NLP practitioner, a medical hypnotherapist, an equine-assisted psychotherapist (EAGALAcertified) and a transformational retreat leader who guides her clients through life transitions – virtually, or with the assistance of her Friesian and Falabella horses, at their home in the southwest of France.

16/12/202516/12/2025

Countdown to Christmas Calendar Day 16

December 16, 2025 – 9 days to Christmas

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships during Life Transitions

Today’s Story: The Thirteen Desserts of Christmas

Lisa stood just inside the barn door at 5:45 AM on December the 2Oth, squinting into an impenetrable mist, literally and figuratively, trying to figure out how long she could make three bags of horse grain feed eight rescued horses, who’d already missed one meal this week. She has been struggling to make ends meet since October, when the vet bills from rescuing sweet and long-suffering Leila, a miserably neglected old mare, had consumed what little reserves she’d had.

Outside, frost coated everything—the paddocks, the bare oak trees, the rusted trailer she’d been meaning to fix for three years. Inside, eight horses munched hay she’d bought on credit from a neighbour, who was pretending not to notice she was two months behind with her payments: Leila, the abused mare whose vet bills had started this crisis, now slowly learning that humans could be kind, though she still flinched at sudden movements, Napoléon, an ancient gelding with arthritic knees and delusions of grandeur, who still tried to boss around horses half his age, Biscotte, a stocky pony with the temperament of a disgruntled tax inspector, Aramis, a thoroughbred with anxiety so profound he is afraid of butterflies, and that one specific corner of the paddock for reasons he refused to explain, Sixtine, a dappled grey mare who’d been found abandoned in a field, now the barn’s self-appointed psychotherapist, always positioning herself next to whichever horse seemed most distressed, Gaston, an enormous draft horse built like tank, rescued from a farm that had gone bankrupt, who would climb into your lap like a golden retriever if permitted, Fleur, a delicate chestnut who’d been neglected until her hooves had grown so long she could barely walk, and Pépé, the oldest resident at thirty-two, a retired riding school horse who’d earned his retirement but whose previous owners had planned to send him to slaughter because he was “no longer useful.” He spent his days napping in sunbeams…

Her phone buzzed. The bank, probably. Or the feed supplier. Or her landlord asking about her December rent.

It was neither. It was Beatrice: Emergency meeting. Your kitchen. 9 AM. Have the coffee ready. Actually, forget the coffee, you’re broke. We’ll bring coffee. And croissants. And chocolatines. And a plan.

Lisa stared at the message. Emergency meeting about what? Had they found out she was about to lose the rescue? That she’d been considering the unthinkable—calling other rescues to take her horses because she couldn’t afford to feed them through the winter?

At 9 AM exactly, seven women invaded her ancient kitchen, mounting a well-organised coup: Beatrice (her oldest friend, terrifyingly competent), Anne (who ran the Café Croissant boulangerie), Isabelle (a local teacher, who made excellent wine), Marie (a sheep farmer with three teenagers and zero patience for excuses), Claudette (a retired nurse who baked compulsively), Véronique (who owned Le Bistro Bleue in town), and Natalie (an accountant with an opinionated calculator).

Beatrice slapped a folder on Lisa’s table with the weight of someone presenting battle plans. “We’re saving your rescue.”

“Oh.”

“You need money. Lots of it. Winter feed, vet bills, fence repairs, and probably rent. Don’t argue, Marie saw your feed supplier at the market, he was complaining about unpaid invoices.” Beatrice opened the folder. “So. We’re doing a market. Le Marché de Noël des Treize Desserts. The Christmas Market of the Thirteen Desserts.”

Lisa blinked. “The what?”

“It’s a Provençal Christmas tradition,” Claudette explained, already unpacking des pain au raisin like she expected this to go on for a while. “Thirteen desserts served after midnight mass on Christmas Eve. Symbolic—the twelve apostles plus Jesus. We’re adapting it.”

“We’re making it Gascon,” Marie explained. “Because we’re in Gascogne, and Provence is in another country. Also, because I refuse to make pompe à huile, which sounds disgusting: it involves making a cake with olive oil, which just sounds so very wrong.”

“Thirteen stalls,” Beatrice continued, ignoring the theological dessert diatribe. “Each of us will sell one or two specific desserts. December 23rd—two days before Christmas—in the town square. We donate all profits to the rescue. Our target is to make enough to get you through to March, by which point you’ll have figured out sustainable funding, or we’ll arrange another intervention.”

“You can’t just—I can’t ask you to—”

“You didn’t ask. It was our idea.” Sophie poured coffee with the efficiency of someone who’d raised triplets. “It’s already decided. Natalie did a budget. Show her the budget, Natalie.”

Natalie produced spreadsheets. Actual spreadsheets, with columns and projections and a terrifying amount of detail. “Thirteen stalls, average fifty units per stall at three to five euros each, accounting for ingredient costs and pessimistic sales estimates, projected revenue twelve hundred to eighteen hundred euros. Enough for three months of feed, basic vet care, and fence repairs. Best case scenario: we make two thousand euros plus, and you can fix that trailer.”

“How did you—when did you—” Lisa’s voice cracked. “I can’t accept this.”

“Too late. We’ve already started baking.” Claudette pulled out a list. “I’m doing croustade—apple pastry, very Gascon, my grandmother’s recipe. Marie’s making pastis—not the drink, the dessert, the anise-flavoured cake. Isabelle’s doing tourtière—prune tart because this is Armagnac country and prunes have to feature.”

“I’m making gâteau à la broche,” Véronique added. “The pyramid cake that takes six hours to create and possibly requires a structural engineering degree. I’ve already started practising. My kitchen looks like a construction site.”

“I’m doing crème brûlée,” Sophie said. “Because I’m simple and I can make it in large quantities without losing my mind, unlike Véronique, who’s clearly having a breakdown involving cake architecture.”

The list continued: petit flans pâtissiers, cannelés, oreillettes (fried pastries dusted with sugar), merveilles (similar but different, the cause of an argument about regional variation), tourons (nougat-like confections), chocolate truffles rolled in white chocolate flakes, crème caramels, and mini Tarte Tatin made with vintage local apples.

“That’s twelve,” Lisa said, counting.

“Thirteen is you,” Beatrice said. “You’re making something. You’re participating in your own rescue. What can you make?”

“I rescue horses. I’m not terribly good at baking—”

“Everyone can bake something. What did your grandmother bake?”

Lisa thought about her grandmother—long dead, but present in memory. “Millas. Cornmeal cake. She made it every Christmas.”

“Perfect. You’re making millas. Natalie will buy your ingredients. You’ll have the thirteenth stall.” Beatrice stood, decision made. “Five days. We bake, we sell, we save your horses. Questions?”

Lisa had approximately eight thousand questions. What emerged was: “Why?”

The seven women looked at each other. Marie spoke first. “Because you took in Leila when no one else would. Because you spend every centime on horses that other people abandoned. Because you’re killing yourself trying to run it alone.”

“Because we’re friends,” Sophie added. “And friends don’t let friends lose their life’s work because winter is expensive and horses need to eat constantly to stay warm. Or whatever.”

They left like they’d arrived—quickly, efficiently, leaving behind coffee cups and spreadsheets and the particular chaos of people who’d made a decision and wouldn’t be disuaded from it.

Lisa sat alone in her kitchen, staring at Natalie’s budget projections, put her head on her arms and sobbed her heart out, letting go for the first time in three months.

December 23rd arrived cold and bright. Eauze town square had been transformed: thirteen wooden tables arranged in a circle around the central fountain, each draped with lights and pine garlands, each with a hand-painted sign explaining its dessert and the tradition behind it.

Marie’s pastis filled the air with anise. Véronique’s gâteau à la broche doddered like a golden tower of Pisa. Claudette’s croustade smelled like caramelised apples and Armagnac. Lisa’s own stall—modest but popular—offered fifty small squares of millas, dusted with sugar.

People came. Not just Eauze locals but people from surrounding villages, drawn by word-of-mouth and the particular French enthusiasm for both desserts and community drama. They bought crème brûlées, oreillettes and truffles, asking questions about the traditions, about the rescue, about whether the abused mare had recovered (she had, mostly).

By 3 PM, half the desserts were gone. By 5 PM, the rest was disappearing fast. Lisa’s millas sold out completely, people coming back for seconds, saying it reminded them of their own grandmothers.

Natalie appeared at 6 PM with her calculator and an expression of stunned satisfaction. “Final count: two thousand three hundred euros.”

Lisa couldn’t speak.

“You can fix the trailer,” Natalie continued. “And buy that expensive joint supplement for Pépé. And pay your feed supplier. And make rent through February. After that—” She shrugged. “After that, we’ll figure something else out. That’s what friends do.”

The seven women gathered around the fountain, drinking vin chaud that Véronique had made in an enormous pot, watching the town’s glorious Christmas lights reflect in the fountain’s water.

“Thank you,” Lisa said, inadequately and sincerely. “For all of this. For saving—” Her voice broke. “For saving us.”

“De rien,” Beatrice said, the standard French response meaning both “it’s nothing” and “you’re welcome.” “Next year, we’re doing it again. We make it an annual tradition. Le Marché des Treize Desserts d’Eauze. We’ll get you through every winter.”

“Every winter,” the others echoed.

They stood in the gathering dark, eight women who’d baked thirteen desserts and saved a horse rescue through sheer determination. Lisa realised that community wasn’t just about proximity—it was about showing up with spreadsheets and the stubborn refusal to let someone suffer alone.

Her horses ate well that night, and winter seemed slightly less long and less dark, and Lisa went to sleep thinking about the women who wouldn’t allow her to give up.

Thirteen desserts. Thirteen reasons to keep going.

© MargarethaMontagu – I spend many hours each week happily writing these articles, although less since the advent of AI, hoping that someone will discover one at the exact right moment to make their life a bit easier. If that person is you, please consider donating to my charity Sauvetage et Sérénité, and make someone else’s life a bit easier in turn.

The Make Friends and Maintain Friendships Masterplan

Friendships often grow in unexpected ways when we create space for them. Life transitions may feel isolating, but they also provide opportunities to connect with people who resonate with the new chapters we’re stepping into.

Take a moment to think about the kinds of friendships you’d like to cultivate. Maybe you’re seeking someone who shares your interests, someone who offers a fresh perspective, or simply someone who listens without judgment. These connections don’t happen overnight, but being open to them is the first step.

When your life’s work is failing financially, let your friends help—actually help, not just emotionally support but practically organise, budget, and execute a solution. Accept the intervention. Participate in your own rescue. Make the thirteenth dessert.

Worst case scenario: Your friends organise a market that doesn’t raise enough money, and you still have to make hard decisions about the future.

Best case scenario: Seven women show up at your kitchen with spreadsheets and a plan to save your horse rescue by creating a Christmas dessert market based on a Provençal tradition adapted for Gascogne, and you discover that community isn’t about suffering nobly alone—it’s about friends who refuse to let you fail, who organise everything while you’re too proud or too broke to ask for help, and who raise enough money to get you through winter while creating a tradition that ensures they’ll show up every year because that’s what friends do. You learn that accepting help isn’t weakness—it’s participation in the network of care that makes survival possible, and that sometimes the difference between losing everything and keeping your life’s work is just having friends stubborn enough to invade your kitchen with croissants and battle plans and the absolute refusal to take no for an answer.

What qualities do you value in a friend? How can you attract those qualities into your life through your own actions?

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#christmascountdown #friends #friendsforever #friendsforlife #friendship

15/12/202515/12/2025

Christmas Countdown Calendar Day 15

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships

December 15, 2025 – 10 days to Christmas

Today’s Story: The Hailhe de Nadau

Julien sat at his kitchen table, staring at his Hailhe de Nadau list, while his father shouted at the television in the next room about a football referee who’d apparently committed crimes against humanity and should be tried at The Hague.

On the list: getting hold of the wood needed (12 cubic meters, source TBD, possibly prayer), fire safety coordination (volunteer brigade, insurance forms, liability waivers that made it sound like they were launching rockets instead of lighting a bonfire), community outreach (flyers, announcements, someone’s nephew who could allegedly “do social media”), food preparation (soup, wine, chestnuts), and approximately forty-seven other tasks that Julien had inherited because his name had been drawn from a hat at the village meeting and everyone else had suddenly remembered urgent appointments in other departments.

His phone buzzed. His daughter Sophie, calling from Bordeaux. He could hear anxiety in the ringtone. “Dad, my landlord is raising rent again. I know you said you couldn’t help but—”

In the living room, his father bellowed: “JULIEN! The remote isn’t working! I’m hungry! And that referee should be in PRISON! Are you LISTENING?”

Julien closed his eyes. Breathed in through his nose, and entertained—briefly but sincerely—the idea of walking into the Landes forest and never coming out again.

His phone buzzed again. Text this time. Marie, his childhood friend: I can see your kitchen light is still on. I’m coming over with a bottle of Tursan.

Headlights swept across the yard a moment later.

Marie came in without knocking, shook the cold from her coat, took one look at Julien’s face and said, “Mon vieux, you look like something the cat dragged in, dragged back out, and then refused responsibility for.”

“Good evening to you, too.”

She sat at the kitchen table, in “her” chair, hers since she was six, found two mismatched glasses—one wedding gift, one from a service station—and poured the dark Tursan wine. She took a long sip. “Where’s the list?”

“Marie, really, I can manage—”

“You’ve been trying to organise the Hailhe all on your own for the last two weeks, and I’ve watched you age approximately ten years. You’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”

She fixed him with the look that made her sheep line up without being asked. “You’re caring for your father, who has dementia and the personality of an angry badger. You’re supporting a daughter who can’t afford Bordeaux rent on a teacher’s salary—nobody can afford Bordeaux rent on a teacher’s salary. And you have to organise a pagan fire festival that requires coordinating thirty people, several tons of wood, and the cooperation of the volunteer fire brigade who, let’s be honest, think this whole thing is a lawsuit waiting to happen. You cannot handle it on your own. Stop pretending you’re Superman.”

From the living room: “JULIEN! Is someone here? Are we being robbed? Should I call the police? WHERE’S MY PHONE?”

“IT’S MARIE, PAPA!” Julien shouted back. “YOU KNOW MARIE! SHE’S BEEN HERE A THOUSAND TIMES!”

Silence. Then: “WHO’S MARIE?”

Julien dropped his head into his hands. “He doesn’t know who I am. Keeps calling me by my uncle’s name. Yesterday, he introduced me to the postman as ‘that man who keeps breaking into my house.'”

Marie squeezed his hand. “My mother had Alzheimer’s, remember? I know. It’s exhausting and frustrating, and you feel guilty for becoming frustrated, which makes you more exhausted, which makes you feel guiltier.”

“How did you—” Julien’s voice cracked. “How did you cope?”

“I asked for help. ”

She pulled his list towards her.

‘You need wood?”

“Twelve cubic meters of good burning wood, properly seasoned—”

“My neighbour Bernard has it. He owes me for helping with his ewes during lambing season—complicated birth, very dramatic, I saved his prize ewe’s life, and he cried. I’ll arrange delivery. Fire safety coordination?”

“I need to coordinate with the volunteer brigade, file insurance forms, get them to sign off—”

“My son Lucas is in the brigade. Sixteen years old, thinks he’s a hero, will do anything if I promise to stop telling his girlfriend about the time he cried watching Ratatouille. I’ll handle it. Food preparation?”

“I was going to make soup, organise wine, chestnuts—”

“Delegate it. Ask Claudine—she’s been wandering around the village like a ghost since her husband died, desperate to find something useful to do. She’ll make enough soup to feed the entire fire département, and she’ll love you forever for asking.”

Julien stared at the list—at Marie systematically dismantling his anxiety with six phone calls and the particular rural French superpower of knowing everybody’s business, and who owed what to whom.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked quietly.

“Because we’re friends. Because you stood by me when Guillaume died, and my teenagers went off the rails. Because sandwich generation stress is a special kind of hell—caring for parents, supporting children, getting crushed in the middle—and nobody should have to do it alone.”

On Christmas Eve, la Veille de Noël, the Hailhe de Nadau bonfire was ready on a hill overlooking Saint-Sever—twelve cubic meters of wood (delivered by Bernard’s tractor, stacked perfectly, seasoned to perfection) arranged in a traditional pyre. Around it, the village had gathered: maybe eighty people, bundled in coats and scarves and wool hats with pompoms, holding cups of Claudine’s soup (chestnut, bacon, cream, so absurdly good that people were already asking for the recipe), waiting for sunset.

A tradition older than anyone could remember: on Christmas Eve, bonfires are lit across the Landes from hill to hill, an unbroken chain of light stretching back to pagan winter solstice celebrations that predated civilisation itself. Once the first fire was lit, the next village would see it and light theirs, fire calling to fire across the darkness, a tradition that had been honoured for hundreds of years.

Hailhe—the old Gascon word for firewood, for the bundle of wood, for the fire itself. Nadau—Christmas. The fire of Christmas. The light in the longest dark.

Julien stood near the pyre with the ceremonial torch. His father was somewhere in the crowd, being supervised by Sophie, who’d come home for Christmas after Julien had quietly sent her three months’ rent he didn’t have and would be paying off until Easter.

Marie appeared beside him, “Ready?”

“I don’t know why we still do this,” Julien said. “Light fires on hills, pretend it means something—”

Marie didn’t answer right away. She watched the villagers shifting their weight, the way people do when they’re cold but unwilling to leave, cups of soup steaming in their hands, children tugging at their sleeves, the old ones standing maybe a little closer to the fire than necessary.

“It’s about memories,” she said at last. “Not the kind that lives neatly in your head and answers when you call it, but the kind that survives for centuries. Because eighty people showed up on Christmas Eve to watch wood burn because their grandparents did, and their great-grandparents before them, and even when names go missing, and faces blur, and stories fall apart mid-sentence, the body remembers what to look for in the dark. Because somewhere back in the mists of time, some freezing genius said ‘let’s light a fire so big we can see it from the next village’ and everyone said ‘yes, excellent idea, very sensible.’ Now light the thing before everyone freezes their but off.”

Julien touched the torch to the base of the pyre. As the first spark caught, a murmur ran through the group—not surprise, not excitement exactly, but recognition. Heads turned toward the next hill, eyes searching, waiting. Flames were soon devouring the wood hungrily, orange and gold and red against the darkening sky, crackling and snapping, sending sparks out in all directions.

People cheered. Someone started singing—”Nadau, Nadau, Nadau”—in Gascon, the old language few of them still spoke, though everyone knew the words, the way you know prayers or nursery rhymes or the lyrics to lullabies your grandmother sang.

The fire burned higher, visible for kilometres, a beacon, a signal, a call.

“Regardez!” Marie shouted, pointing across the valley. “Hagetmau has lit theirs!”

Across the valley, another fire blazed to life. Then another—Grenade-sur-l’Adour, then Aire-sur-l’Adour, then Tartas. Chain of light across the Landes, fire answering fire, exactly as it had for centuries. You could see them all from here, little points of light scattered across the dark landscape like stars fallen to earth.

“Dad.” Sophie appeared suddenly, voice tight with panic, eyes wide. “Papie’s wandered off. I turned around for two minutes to take a photo, and he was gone—”

Julien’s stomach dropped into his boots. His father! Darkness. Fire. The woods. Oh no oh no oh no— “

This way,” Marie said immediately, already moving, voice calm. “He’ll go toward the light. He’ll go toward the fire.”

They found him quickly, slowly but steadily approaching the bonfire. He stopped when he saw the flames, staring up at them with an expression Julien hadn’t seen in months. And for a brief, piercing moment, his face cleared.

“Nadau,” he said. “My father brought me. I brought Julien. I remember.”

Julien felt the moment expand—and then slip away.

“Where’s Julien?” his father asked. “He should be here.”

“I’m here, Papa,” Julien said, voice unsteady.

“Good,” his father said, patting his arm. “Is there soup?”

“Yes, Papa. There’s soup. Let’s get you some.”

Later, much later, after they’d gotten his father home and settled, Marie and Julien sat on his front steps, sharing what was left of the Tursan, watching smoke still rising from the hill.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Julien said quietly. “I love him. I do. Mon Dieu, I do. But I’m exhausted.”

“I know. The solution’s name is Véronique Mercier. She does respite care. Professional, experienced. I’m texting you her number. Not expensive if you qualify for the departmental subsidy, which I’m sure you do.”

“Marie—”

“You know what my mother said when she still could speak? When she still had words? ‘Get help before you hate me.’ She was right. You can’t care for someone if you’re destroyed by caring for them. Accept it. Accept help. Or you’ll break, and then where will he be?”

Julien looked at Véronique’s number glowing on his phone screen. “D’accord,” he said. “Okay. I’ll call her.”

The Making of Friends and Maintaining of Friendships Master Plan

Presence is also a gift you can give yourself. When you slow down and embrace the moment, you’ll find clarity and peace, even amid life’s transitions.

Today, stop pretending you can handle everything on your own. You can’t. Nobody can.

Worst case scenario: You admit you need help, feel vulnerable, and discover the world doesn’t end when you’re not controlling everything yourself.

Best case scenario: Your childhood friend who survived her own caregiving crisis shows up with wine and a terrifying amount of competence, systematically dismantles two weeks of your anxiety with six phone calls, connects you with respite care you didn’t know existed, and forces you to ask for help with the village fire festival. You discover that asking for help isn’t a weakness—it’s the thing that keeps you alive and functional and able to actually care for the people who need you. You learn that community tradition exists not just to preserve memory but to share burden, that fire spreads from hill to hill because it’s meant to be collective light not individual responsibility, and that the friends who refuse to let you collapse quietly are the ones who understand that caring for others requires letting others care for you, even when guilt and pride say you should do it all alone.

What does being present mean to you? How can you practice presence in your friendships this season?

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14/12/202514/12/2025

Christmas Countdown Calendar Day 14

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships

December 14, 2025 – 11 days to Christmas

Today’s Story:

Margaux stood in Henri’s farmhouse kitchen at 4:47 AM on December 24rd, drinking coffee that could strip paint and wondering why she’d agreed to this.

“Remind me,” she said, “why I’m awake at an hour that shouldn’t exist, preparing to go to a marché aux gras?”

Henri, who looked distressingly awake for someone sixty-five years old, handed her a thermos. “Because you’ve spent six months alone in your apartment trolling everyone with an opinion on the internet, and I decided it was my civic duty to intervene before you became completely insufferable.”

“I’m already completely insufferable. It’s who I am.”

“Mais non. You are a ‘brilliant journalist who’s temporarily lost her mojo’.” He pulled on a worn jacket. “The market starts at six. Let’s go and watch them set it up.”

Margaux had known Henri for thirty-five years. They’d covered wars, corruption scandals, and environmental disasters together; they reported fearlessly all the ways humans found to destroy each other. Then Henri had retired, bought a farm, started raising ducks ethically (a phrase Margaux found oxymoronic), and apparently decided that dragging his cynical former colleague to a foie gras market at dawn was going to give her a new zest for life. (???)

She got in his Deux Chevaux. The Gers countryside was pitch black, silent except for their engine rattling and the occasional bark of a farm dog. Winter fog hung low, making everything look like a badly exposed photograph.

“This is going to be depressing,” Margaux said. “Industrial animal agriculture, rural economic collapse, traditional farming methods disappearing—”

“Or,” Henri interrupted, “it’s going to be a lively farmers’ market, days before Christmas. With farmers proudly selling their produce. You should try observing before editorialising.”

“Observing IS editorialising. Everything’s a story with an angle.”

Henri did not reply, he was manoeuvring the Citroen into a minuscule parking spot on a point rond.

The Marché au Gras in Samatan was not what Margaux expected.

She’d expected corporate stands, industrial farming, the sanitised brutality of modern food production.

She found hundreds of small farmers setting up individual stalls in the pre-dawn dark, the intoxicating aroma of freshly brewed coffee and vin chaud, in deference to the season, a market that had apparently run every Monday from November to March since the Middle Ages, uninterrupted by wars, revolutions, and the general collapse of rural France.

“This is it,” Henri said. “Biggest foie gras market in France. Two hundred producers, all small-scale, all local. Most of them I know personally.”

They walked through the setup. Farmers arranging their products with the precision of people who’d done this weekly for decades: whole ducks and geese, foie gras (raw, mi-cuit, stuffed), confit, rillettes, eggs, and a large selection of vegetables from winter potagers. Everything displayed in metal basins or wicker baskets, no plastic, no corporate branding, just food and the people who’d produced it.

“Sacré Henri!” A woman roughly Henri’s age embraced him, then looked at Margaux with the assessing gaze of someone who could judge character at twenty paces. “This is the journalist? The famous one?”

“Former journalist,” Margaux corrected. “Retired. Inactive.”

“Bah. Once a journalist, always nosy.” The woman—Claudette, apparently—gestured at her stall. “You want to learn about foie gras? Real foie gras, not the industrial garbage? I’ll teach you.”

Before Margaux could protest, she really did not want to have anything to do with foie gras, Claudette was explaining: the ducks (prize Mulards, or crossbreeds), the feeding (gavage, controversial, but done traditionally—hand-feeding twice daily, birds living outdoors), the liver itself (colour, texture, marbling, how to identify quality).

“People say it’s cruel,” Claudette said bluntly. “City people who’ve never seen a duck. These birds—” She gestured at photos of her farm. “They run to me at feeding time. They’re not afraid. Industrial farming is cruel. This? This is tradition. The birds live good lives. More respect than humans give each other.”

Margaux found herself asking questions, her journalist’s instinct impossible to suppress. About economics (tight, but sustainable), about regulations (onerous, but necessary), about why Claudette did this when she could make more money doing literally anything else.

“Because my grandfather did it. My father did it. The land is ours. The knowledge is ours. If we stop, it dies.” Claudette shrugged. “Also, the ducks need someone who gives a shit. Might as well be me.”

The market opened at six. Instant chaos: buyers flowing in, farmers calling out prices, rapid-fire negotiations in French and Occitan, the particular energy of commerce that’s been happening in the same place for six centuries.

Henri moved through it like he belonged—greeting farmers, inspecting products, negotiating prices with the practised ease of someone who understood both quality and value. Margaux followed, notebook appearing in her hand without conscious decision, journalist brain engaging despite her much-maligned retirement.

She watched an old farmer, had to be eighty at least, selling foie gras he’d clearly prepared himself, hands shaking slightly as he wrapped each purchase in paper, refusing to raise his prices even though his product was clearly superior to his neighbours’.

She watched a young couple, not yet thirty, hesitantly buying what must be their first Christmas foie gras, the vendor explaining, at length and in detail, the various preparation methods, with the patience of someone teaching something that mattered to him.

She watched Henri negotiate for a foie gras with a woman named Thérèse, both of them laughing about something, their transaction more conversation than commerce, twenty minutes of discussion ending with a handshake and Henri paying slightly more than asked because “it’s Christmas and your grandson needs braces.”

“You overpaid,” Margaux said when they moved on.

“I paid what it was worth. There’s a difference.”

By eight AM, they’d bought: one exceptional foie gras (Thérèse’s), two confits de canard, fresh eggs, walnuts from someone’s orchard, wine from a neighbour’s vineyard, and vegetables from Claudette’s winter garden.

“This is for tonight,” Henri explained. “Réveillon. Christmas Eve dinner. Traditional. That you’re cooking with me.”

“I don’t cook—”

“You observe and criticise. Same skill set, different application.”

Later that evening, Henri’s kitchen smelled like duck fat and Armagnac. They’d spent the afternoon preparing: the foie gras seared quickly, perfectly, served with toasted bread and fig jam Henri had made in September. The confit cooked slowly in its own fat, skin crisping, meat falling off the bone. Potatoes roasted in duck fat with garlic and thyme.

Simple food. Prepared with great care. Nothing industrial, nothing corporate, just ingredients treated with respect by people who cooked with love.

“You’ve been quiet,” Henri said, pouring wine—the neighbour’s Côtes de Gascogne, rough but honest.

“I’m processing.”

“Process out loud. You’re a journalist. Report.”

Margaux stared at her wine. “I spent thirty years documenting how terrible people are. Corruption, violence, environmental destruction, all the ways we’re destroying everything I care about. I got good at it. Won awards. Then I retired.”

“And?”

“This morning, I just watched two hundred farmers wake up at 4 AM to sell food they produced themselves, in a market that’s run for more than six hundred years, in a rural area that everyone says is dying, and it’s not dying—their story is just very different from the story I expected.” She took another sip. “It’s not all moonshine and roses. Half of those farmers are seriously struggling. The economics are brutal. Traditional farming is being crushed by industrial agriculture.”

“But?”

“But they’re still there. Still doing it. Thérèse is raising ducks the way her grandmother did. Claudette could sell to corporations for twice the money, but won’t because it would compromise quality. That old man of eighty is still showing up every Monday.” She looked at Henri. “You could have stayed in journalism. Covered more wars, won more awards. Instead, you’re raising ducks and paying extra for foie gras because someone’s grandson needs braces.”

“Your point?”

“My point is I forgot that we are also capable of this, of doing things because they’re worth doing even when they’re hard. And controversial.” She gestured at the food, the kitchen, the farm outside. “I’ve been so focused on documenting darkness that I forgot to look for light. And then you dragged me to a duck market at 4 AM and forced me to see it.”

Henri smiled. “The world is full of darkness. You know that better than most. But it’s also full of farmers who care about their ducks, markets that run for centuries, and people who overpay for foie gras because community matters. Both things are true. You just forgot to look for the other part.”

They ate slowly, carefully, the food tasting like history and the particular satisfaction of knowing exactly where it came from. Outside, Christmas Eve settled over the Gers—cold, clear, stars sparkling in the vast night sky.

“Thank you,” Margaux said finally. “For not letting me disappear into cynicism.”

“De rien. That’s what friends do. Also, you’re coming back for the January market. Claudette wants to introduce you to her nephew. He’s single, runs an organic vegetable farm, and apparently needs someone to argue with.”

“I’m sixty-two and retired—”

“So is he. Perfect match. Also, you should write about this.”

“Henri, I’m retired—”

Margaux looked at her notebook, at the pages of observations she’d accumulated without meaning to. At the story forming in her head: the market, the farmers, the six centuries of tradition continuing despite everything.

“Maybe,” she said. “Maybe one more story.”

The Making of Friends and Maintaining of Friendships Master Plan

Friendships are about mutual illumination. Just as your friends light your path, you have the power to brighten theirs. Even if life feels uncertain right now, trust that the light you share will always be enough.

Today, reach out to a friend who’s found meaning in simple, honest work. Go to the market, the farm, the place where people are doing something real with their hands. Observe without editorialising. Let yourself see both the struggle and the passion.

Worst case scenario: You wake up at 4 AM, feel awkward around strangers, and confirm that the world is as depraved and depressing as it’s always been.

Best case scenario: Your former colleague, who left journalism to raise ducks, drags you to a six-hundred-year-old foie gras market where two hundred small farmers prove that tradition, passion and honest work still exist despite industrial agriculture trying to crush them. You remember why you became a journalist—not to document darkness exclusively, but to tell true stories about both darkness and light. You accidentally take notes, meet farmers who care more about quality than profit, and watch your friend overpay for foie gras because their community matters to them. You end up writing one more story, maybe dating an organic vegetable farmer, definitely returning to the January market, because your friend reminded you that the world contains both corruption and duck farmers who hand-feed their birds, and both deserve documentation, and maybe the second story is actually more important because everyone already knows about the darkness but someone needs to remind people about the light.

Who has been a source of light in your life this year? How can you express your gratitude to them this holiday season?

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I’ve lost count of the number of guests who have asked for the recipes of the dishes I serve during my retreats. I’ve finally gotten around to publishing my retreat recipe collection as an e-book. If you’re interested in nutrition, especially while you’re walking the Camino de Santiago, or you just love authentic French cuisine, here is a link to my ebook The Walking Gourmet: Essential Food Strategies for the French Camino de Santiago

09/12/202510/12/2025

Countdown To Christmas Calendar Day 9

9 December 2025, 16 days to Christmas!

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships

Today’s Story: Ste Suzanne’s Crèche Vivante

Sophie stood at the kitchen window of the ancient half-timbered farmhouse. Vineyards stretch across the rolling hills, their geometric rows precise even in dormancy. The gnarled trunks of the vines are twisted with age. The leaves are long gone, leaving only the dark, knotted wood, almost black against the frost-whitened earth.

A morning mist still pools in the valleys, thick and stagnant, obscuring where the vineyard rows end and the next hill begins. It moves slowly, deliberately, with intention. Finally, the sun breaks through—thin and watery, a December sun that promises light but not warmth—the mist burns off in patches, revealing the landscape piece by piece: a stone chai here, a distant farmhouse there, the Pyrenees rising sharply and startlingly white on the horizon.

Behind her, Clara’s bedroom door was firmly closed—had been closed, in fact, for most of the three weeks since they’d moved here from Toulouse. The silence from that room was solid and slow, something physical she kept bumping into.

A sudden, persistent knocking at the front door startled her from her reverie. In three weeks, exactly two people came knocking: a curious postman (once) and a confused delivery driver looking for a different address (once).

A woman in her seventies stood shivering on the doorstep, shaking a dripping umbrella with one hand and clutching a covered dish in the other. She had the kind of face that suggested she’d seen everything worth seeing and found most of it less than amusing.

“Bonjour! I am Madame Belmont. I live three houses down, the one with the blue shutters. I have brought you some cassoulet.”

Sophie, who had in fact been planning a jambon-fromage dinner, accepted the dish gratefully. “Très grand merci. This smells awesome. So very kind.”

“Bof. It’s just beans and duck.” Madame Belmont peered past her into the house. “You have a daughter, oui? Fifteen? Sixteen? I saw her once, looking very much like someone who would rather be anywhere else than in Ste Suzanne.”

“Sixteen. And yes.”

“Ahh. The age of such self-righteousness! When you are certain your mother has ruined your life and that small villages are where joy goes to die.” She said this with such cheerful matter-of-factness that Sophie almost laughed. “I have a proposition for your daughter. May I come in?”

Maybe Sophie should have said no. Maybe should have protected Clara’s fragile privacy, her right to be furious about this relocation. Instead, she found herself saying, “Coffee?”

Sitting at Sophie’s kitchen table, drinking terrible instant coffee without complaint, Madame Belmont explained the concept of the Crèche Vivante.

“Every Christmas Eve, we bring the Nativity to life in the village square. Real people, real animals. Last year the donkey ate Baby Jesus’s straw bed and we had to improvise with someone’s jacket. All very authentic, actually.”

“That sounds… chaotic.”

“Entièrement! En plus, this year, our costume maker, Colette, a lovely woman, terrible sense of style, created everything from brown potato sacks, has moved to Pau to live with her daughter. We are desperate.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “I saw your daughter’s fashion sketchbook. She left it on the garden wall last week. I did not snoop—it was open, the wind was turning pages like it wanted me to see. She has talent.”

Sophie’s chest tightened. “Clara’s going through a difficult time. We both are. I don’t think—”

“I am not asking you to think. I am asking you if she knows how to sew.”

“She… used to. Before.”

Before the divorce. Before Sophie’s ex-husband decided his new life didn’t have room for weekend custody. Before Sophie looked at their Toulouse apartment—expensive, cramped, full of memories that hurt—and thought: We need to get away from here.

“Parfait.” Madame Belmont stood, decision apparently made. “I will ask her myself. Which door?”

“She won’t—she doesn’t—” But Madame Belmont was already in the hallway, knocking firmly on Clara’s door with the confidence of someone who’d raised four children and wasn’t intimidated by teenage sulking.

“Clara! I am Madame Belmont. I need a costume designer for our village Christmas pageant. Your mother says you sew.”

Silence. Then, incredibly, the door opened a crack.

“I don’t know anyone here,” Clara whispered.

“Bon. Then you can design the costumes without worrying about hurting people’s feelings, oui?”

The door opened wider. Clara stood there in an oversized sweatshirt, her dark hair in a messy bun, looking younger than sixteen and older than she should have to. “What kind of costumes?”

“Mary, Joseph, shepherds, wise men, angels, animals. The usual suspects.”

The corner of Clara’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “I’d need to see the fabrics you have.”

“Naturellement. Come to my house tomorrow, three o’clock. I will show you everything. Also, I make excellent hot chocolate, not the powder nonsense, real chocolate melted with milk and melt-in-the-mouth calissons on the side.”

After Madame Belmont left—leaving the cassoulet, her phone number, and a subtle frison of revival in her wake—Clara emerged fully from her room for the first time in days.

“You told her about my sketchbook?”

“Not I. The wind did, apparently.”

Clara sat at the kitchen table, pulling the cassoulet toward her and eating directly from the dish with a spoon. “Her house is the one with blue shutters?”

“Three down.”

“Okay. I’ll go. But just to look. I’m not promising anything.”

“Understood.”

“And I’m still moving back to Toulouse as soon as I finish school.”

“Noted.”

Clara took another bite. “This is really good.”

Clara started disappearing to Madame Belmont’s house daily, the one with blue shutters that Sophie could see from the kitchen window, and return hours later with fabric scraps in her hair, pins stuck to her sweater, talking about seam allowances and Biblical-era authenticity and whether angels should have practical footwear.

Sophie started helping—not because she knew anything about costumes, but because Madame Belmont recruited her with the same cheerful inevitability she’d used on Clara.

“You can hem, oui? Everyone can hem. It’s just making things shorter with thread.” Not patronising at all then.

Madame Belmont’s house smelled like hot chocolate and old books, a place that had been lived in happily for decades. Her dining room had become costume central—fabrics draped over every surface, Clara’s sketches pinned to the walls, the sewing machine (older than Sophie, still functioning perfectly) humming at all hours.

Other village women appeared: Thérèse with her mother’s lace collection, Anne-Marie with sheets they could dye for shepherd robes, and young Émilie, who was taught how to embroider by her grandmother. They worked in companionable chaos, drinking coffee, sharing gossip, teaching Clara techniques she wouldn’t have found in YouTube tutorials.

Sophie hemmed angel robes beside Thérèse, who told stories about her son in Paris—also sixteen, also angry about village life until he’d left and realised he missed it, desperately. Or maybe he just hated having to do his own laundry.

“Your daughter,” Madame Belmont said one evening, watching Clara explain her design vision to Émilie with the confidence of someone who’d found her element, “she is gifted. Not just at sewing.”

“She gets that from her father,” Sophie said automatically.

“Non.” Madame Belmont’s voice was firm. “She gets it from watching her mother be brave enough to start over. From learning that sometimes leaving is the only way forward.”

Sophie’s eyes burned. “I don’t feel brave. I feel like I’ve dragged her to the middle of nowhere and ruined her life.”

“Bof. You’re a mother. Feeling guilty is part of the job description.” Madame Belmont patted her hand. “Look, she’s laughing now. When did you last hear her laugh?”

Clara was indeed laughing at something Émilie had said about last year’s donkey fiasco. The sound resonated around Madame Belmont’s dining room like a Christmas bell.

Two weeks later, Christmas Eve arrived cold and crystalline, the kind of night where breath hung visible in the air, and stars felt close enough to touch. The village square of Sainte-Suzanne glowed with hundreds of candles, tapers flickering in iron lanterns hung from the plane trees, their flames wavering in the December wind but refusing to die. Behind it all, the stone church rose ancient and implacable, its romanesque walls honey-colored in the candlelight, its bell tower dark against the indigo sky.

The entire village had turned out for the Crèche Vivante—elderly couples in heavy coats, families with sleepy children bundled in scarves, teenagers trying to look bored but enchanted anyway—everyone gathered in that particular hush that comes when a community anticipates entertainment. The air smelled of wood smoke and beeswax, cold stone and the faint sweetness of vin chaud being poured at a makeshift stand near the church steps, steam rising from cups clasped in gloved hands.

Sophie stood with Madame Belmont at the edge, watching Clara make last-minute adjustments to Mary’s costume, pins in her mouth, completely in her element.

Then Mary and Joseph (and the donkey, on a lead, because he was so not carrying anyone or anything) started walking around the square, their costumes glowing in candlelight. Clara’s designs transformed the familiar story into something ethereal. The shepherds’ robes moved like water. The angels’ wings caught light as if they might actually take flight. Even the wise men looked properly regal instead of like revenants wearing brown potato sacks.

When it ended, the village burst into spontaneous applause. Someone shouted Clara’s name. Then someone else. She stood there, stunned, as people she’d barely met thanked her, complimented her work, and welcomed her.

Walking back to their farmhouse later, Clara slipped her hand into Sophie’s—something she hadn’t done in years.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“I still want to go to art school in Toulouse eventually.”

“I know.”

“But maybe… I could just go during term.”

Sophie squeezed her hand, afraid to speak, afraid she’d cry.

“It’s still the middle of nowhere.”

“It is.”

“But it’s kind of our middle of nowhere now. You know?”

Sophie did know. She looked back at the village square, still glowing with candlelight, and at Madame Belmont’s house with its blue shutters, and thought about how home wasn’t something you returned to—it was something you built, stitch by stitch, with people brave enough to knock on your door and refuse to let you isolate yourself in your grief.

“En effet,” Sophie said. “I know.”

The Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships Masterplan

In winter, the vineyards might look like they’re dying, but the vignerons know better—beneath the frozen ground, the roots are growing ever deeper, intertwining with neighbouring vines in an underground network of support that will sustain them through the growing season.

Friendship works the same way: it’s in the cold, dormant seasons of life that the surprising new connections can form, initially invisible but soon essential, so that when spring finally comes, you discover you’ve been held up by roots you didn’t even know were there.

Today, join one community activity where you live, especially if you’re going through a difficult transition—even if (especially) if you’re convinced you don’t belong there yet.
Volunteer for something. Join a committee. Show up to a community event. Offer your skills, whatever they are—cooking, organising, designing, hemming, showing up with hands willing to help.
Worst case scenario: You spend a few awkward hours with people you don’t know well, contribute something small, and go home still feeling uncomfortable about being the new person.
Best case scenario: You accidentally find your Madame Belmont—the person who sees past your walls and your grief and your conviction that you don’t belong, who recruits you and your daughter into community with the cheerful inevitability of someone who knows that isolation is a choice and belonging is work worth doing. You discover that talent and contribution are better icebreakers than small talk, that your teenager starts laughing again because someone gave her purpose beyond her anger, that home isn’t about geography—it’s about being seen and needed and welcomed for exactly what you can offer. You realise six months later that you’ve stopped planning your escape because somewhere between hemming angel robes and finding out which is the best boulangerie, you accidentally built a life, and the people who were strangers became the ones you text when anything—good or bad—happens, because they saw you at your most lost and said “here, try this” and refused to let you disappear into your grief and behind your closed doors.

Have you ever been recruited into a community project or tradition that you initially resisted, only to discover it made all the difference? What was it, and how did it transform your experience of that place?

Share your stories about the volunteer committees, the pageants, the potlucks, or the community events that turned strangers into neighbours and neighbours into family.

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If you are currently facing a major life transition or any other dramatic change in your circumstances, and you have no idea how you are going to cope, the good news is that the strategy presented in this book can help you, step by step, to improve your ability to handle the stress caused by change, even if you feel entirely powerless at the moment.

08/12/202508/12/2025

Countdown To Christmas Calendar Day 8

8 December 2025, 17 days to Christmas!

Theme: Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships

Today’s Story: The Cardamom Conspiracy

Maya stood in her minuscule apartment staring at the empty cardamom jar like it had personally betrayed her. Which, in a way, it had.

It was Christmas Eve. She was thirty-eight years old, a “mature student” (academic code for “your life fell apart so spectacularly you had to start over“), and she’d been in France for exactly four months. Long enough to know where the best boulangerie was. Not long enough to receive an invitation to any celebrations.

The recipe was her grandmother’s—handwritten on an index card so stained and worn the measurements were more memories than instructions. Cardamom cookies. The smell of her childhood Christmases, back when she’d had a job and a plan and hadn’t been “let go due to restructuring” which was corporate-speak for “we’ve decided you’re expendable.”

She’d bought all the ingredients yesterday. Checked the list twice. Somehow still managed not to buy cardamom, which was possibly the most on-brand thing that had happened to her this year.

Outside, Pau was doing its picturesque French Christmas thing—the Pyrenees snow-capped in the distance, lights twinkling on the Boulevard des Pyrénées, families heading to réveillon dinners. Inside, Maya was having a small crisis over a spice while her upstairs neighbours’ footsteps creaked overhead and their television soundtrack sounded like a dubbed version of Love Actually.

She could go to the store. Except it was 6 PM on Christmas Eve and everything was closing. She could make different cookies. Except these specific cookies were the entire point—her one attempt to make this silent apartment feel less like exile and more like choice.

She could also just give up, eat a jambon-beurre for dinner, and watch Christmas movies until she felt sufficiently sorry for herself to justify going to bed at 8 PM.

Or.

She looked at her apartment door. Directly across the hall, in 5B, her neighbour lived. The woman she’d seen exactly three times: once on the stairs, once collecting mail, once taking out recycling with the grim efficiency of someone who had opinions about proper sorting.

Mrs. Petrov. That’s what the name on the mailbox said. Somewhere in her seventies, steel-grey hair always in a bun, the kind of posture that suggested either ballet training or military service. She’d nodded at Maya precisely once. The nod had contained multitudes, none of them particularly welcoming.

Maya stood at her door for a full two minutes, conducting an internal negotiation with her inner critic.

She probably has cardamom. Old ladies always have spices.

She also probably wants to be left alone on Christmas Eve.

Or.

Or she might be lonely too.

What if she thinks you’re an idiot American who can’t plan ahead?

You ARE an idiot American who can’t plan ahead.

Helpful, thanks.

She knocked before she could talk herself out of it.

Silence. Then footsteps—measured, unhurried, the footsteps of someone who wasn’t expecting company and wasn’t particularly excited about the prospect.

The door opened.

Mrs. Petrov stood there in an apron dusted with flour, holding a wooden spoon like a weapon. Her expression suggested Maya had interrupted something important, possibly state secrets or a very serious conversation with her cat.

“Bonsoir,” Maya said, then switched to English because her French deserted her under pressure. “I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m your neighbour, Maya, from 5A, and I’m making cookies—trying to make cookies—and I’ve run out of cardamom and everything’s closed and I know this is incredibly presumptuous, but I was wondering if possibly you might have any I could borrow?”

She said all of this in one breath, like verbal diarrhoea, and immediately wanted to sink through the floor.

Mrs. Petrov stared at her. Maya couldn’t tell if the expression was judgment, irritation, or gas.

“Cardamom,” Mrs. Petrov said finally. Her English was accented, precise, with something Eastern European underneath. “For cookies.”

“Yes. My grandmother’s recipe. It’s—it’s stupid, I know, I should have checked, I’m terrible at planning, I just—” Maya heard herself spiralling steadily downwards and forced herself to stop. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

She started to back away.

“What kind of cookies?” Mrs. Petrov asked.

“Um. Cardamom. Swedish, actually. My grandmother was—”

“Swedish cardamom cookies. With pearl sugar on top?”

“Yes! Exactly those.”

Something shifted in Mrs. Petrov’s face. Not quite a smile, but a thawing. “I have cardamom. But you will ruin them if you use old cardamom. When did you buy yours?”

“…September?”

“Bozhe moy.” Mrs. Petrov shook her head, a gesture that seemed to encompass all of Maya’s poor life choices. “Come. I will give you fresh cardamom. Also, you will help me with koledna pitka because my hands are old and the dough is stubborn.”

Before Maya could process what was happening, she was inside Mrs. Petrov’s apartment.

It smelled like heaven. Yeast and butter and something warm and spiced that made Maya’s stomach growl audibly. The kitchen was small but immaculate, every surface covered with evidence of serious baking: cooling racks, mixing bowls, a massive round loaf of bread studded with walnuts and dried fruit.

“Sit,” Mrs. Petrov commanded, pointing at a chair. “You look like you haven’t eaten today.”

“I had coffee—”

“Coffee is not food. Americans. Pffft.” She said it with the weary tone of someone who’d been dealing with American nonsense for decades. “I am making koledna pitka. Bulgarian Christmas bread. You will eat, then you will take cardamom, then you will make your grandmother’s cookies properly.”

She cut a thick slice of the bread—still warm—and placed it in front of Maya with a small dish of honey and butter. The bread was golden, studded with walnuts and what looked like dried apricots, the crust crackling, the inside impossibly soft.

Maya took a bite and almost cried. Not because it tasted like her grandmother’s cookies—it didn’t. But because it tasted like someone’s grandmother’s something, and she hadn’t realised how desperately she’d been missing that.

“Good, yes?” Mrs. Petrov said, sitting across from her with her own slice.

“It’s incredible.”

“Koledna pitka. Christmas bread. In Bulgaria, we make it Christmas Eve, hide coin inside for luck. Here in France, I make it anyway. No one to share with usually, but the bread doesn’t care.”

She said it matter-of-factly, but Maya heard the loneliness underneath.

“How long have you been in France?” Maya asked.

“Forty-three years. Came in 1981, from Sofia. My husband was French, worked in Pau. I spoke no French, knew no one, understood nothing.” She broke off a piece of bread, dipped it in honey. “First Christmas, I cried for three days. Tried to make banitsa, burned it because French ovens are different. Sat alone in apartment smaller than this, eating burned banitsa, thinking I had made terrible mistake.”

“What happened?”

“Neighbour knocked. Old French woman, very proper, very stern. She could smell the burning, thought maybe I had set the flat on fire. Instead, I was crying over pastry.” Mrs. Petrov smiled—actually smiled, a real one that transformed her entire face. “She invited me for réveillon. Her family, twelve people, all speaking French too fast to understand. I sat there like deaf person, smiling, nodding. But they fed me, gave me wine, taught me French Christmas songs. And that woman—Madame Dubois—she became my French teacher, my friend, my family here.”

She looked at Maya directly, her eyes sharp but kind. “You are alone for Christmas, yes?”

Maya nodded, not trusting her voice.

“Your family is where?”

“California. I couldn’t afford the flight. New student budget.” She tried to smile. “Plus I got laid off from my job six months ago and I’m still kind of… figuring things out. Coming here to study felt like either a great idea or the worst decision of my life. Jury’s still out.”

“Ahh.” Mrs. Petrov stood, started pulling down spice jars from a cabinet. “You are running away.”

“I prefer ‘strategic relocation.'”

“You are running away,” Mrs. Petrov repeated, but not unkindly. “Is okay. I ran away too. Sometimes running away is just running toward something you cannot see yet.”

She placed a jar of cardamom on the table—the good kind, whole pods in a glass jar. “Fresh. From the Indian shop on Rue Serviez. You grind yourself, yes? Better flavour.”

“I don’t have a grinder—”

Mrs. Petrov produced a mortar and pestle like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “You grind here. I teach you. Then you make cookies here, in oven that works properly, not your terrible American apartment oven that heats up and cools down too fast.”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“You think I want to eat the entire koledna pitka alone? You will make cookies, I will make banitsa, we will eat together. This is how Christmas works.”

It wasn’t a question.

For the next three hours, Maya ground cardamom, learned that Swedish cookies and Bulgarian bread had more in common than she’d thought, and listened to Mrs. Petrov’s stories about Sofia in winter, about learning French, about Madame Dubois and the family that adopted a lonely Bulgarian woman forty years ago.

The kitchen filled with the smell of cardamom and butter and yeast and something else—the particular warmth that comes from cooking with someone who understands what it means to be far from home.

Maya’s cookies came out perfect—golden, fragrant, studded with pearl sugar that Mrs. Petrov produced from her improbably well-stocked pantry. They ate them warm with strong coffee while Mrs. Petrov’s banitsa cooled, and somewhere between the second cookie and the third story about Madame Dubois, Maya realised she was laughing. Actually laughing, for the first time in weeks.

“Your grandmother,” Mrs. Petrov said, examining a cookie critically. “She was good baker.”

“She was. She died two years ago.”

“Ahh. So you make cookies to remember her.”

“To feel less alone, maybe.”

Mrs. Petrov nodded slowly. “We carry our grandmothers in recipes. In bread, in cookies, in things we make with our hands.” She placed another cookie on Maya’s plate. “But you cannot eat cookies alone in sad apartment. This is not what grandmothers want. They want you to share, to make new family, to keep living.”

“Is that what you did?”

“Is what Madame Dubois taught me. She died ten years ago, but I still make koledna pitka every year. Still invite lonely people who knock on my door asking for cardamom.” Her eyes crinkled. “Still believe that Christmas is for finding family wherever you are.”

They sat in comfortable silence, eating cookies and bread, while outside, Pau celebrated Christmas Eve and inside, two women from different continents and different generations shared the universal language of butter, flour, and generosity.

“Next week,” Mrs. Petrov said, standing to brew more coffee, “you come for dinner. I teach you to make proper banitsa. Also, you will meet my friend Simone from downstairs—French teacher, very bossy, will improve your French whether you want her to or not.”

“I’d like that.”

She poured coffee, placed a cup in front of Maya. Maya wrapped her hands around the warm cup, feeling something unknot in her chest. “Thank you. For the cardamom. For everything.”

“Nishto. Is nothing. Is Christmas.” Mrs. Petrov raised her cup. “Chestita Koleda. Merry Christmas, Maya from California, who bakes vintage Christmas cookies.”

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Petrov, who saves Americans with incomplete spice collections.”

They clinked cups while church bells rang across Pau, and somewhere between the bells and the bread and the overwhelming smell of cardamom, Maya realised this was exactly what her grandmother would have wanted: not perfect traditions recreated in isolation, but new traditions built with whoever happened to be there, sharing whatever they had.

Stop second-guessing yourself. Start owning your success. This book gives you the step-by-step roadmap to break free from imposter syndrome, build unshakable confidence, and finally believe you deserve every bit of your success. You ARE Good Enough!

The Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships Masterplan

Friendship also means setting boundaries to protect your energy, especially during challenging life transitions. It’s okay to say no to invitations or expectations that don’t align with your well-being. True friends will understand and respect your needs.

This Christmas, give yourself permission to prioritise what feels right for you. Saying no isn’t about shutting people out—it’s about making space for the connections and activities that truly matter.

Today, knock on a neighbour’s door—literally or metaphorically—and ask for help with something small. Borrow sugar. Ask for directions. Request a restaurant recommendation. Admit you don’t know how something works. Be the person who’s willing to be vulnerable first. Worst case scenario: They say no, you feel awkward for three minutes, life continues.
Best case scenario: You discover that your stern neighbour is actually lonely too, that asking for help is how friendship starts, that the people who seem most intimidating are often the ones who most understand what it means to start over in a strange place. You end up with cardamom, Christmas bread, stories about Sofia in winter, and an invitation to dinner next week, where you’ll meet your neighbour’s friend who will improve your French whether you want her to or not.

Have you ever knocked on a neighbour’s door for help—or had someone knock on yours? What happened, and did it change your relationship? What’s your “cardamom moment”—a time when running out of something small led to something bigger and more meaningful?

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05/12/202507/12/2025

Countdown to Christmas Day 6

December 6, 2025 – 19 Days to Christmas

A Christmas Gift

A Christmas Story: The Spa Day That Went Sideways

For Lesley

By the time Claire Dubois signed her divorce papers on December 18th, she felt as if she had spent five years inside a malfunctioning emotional blender—one of those noisy, lid-jumping contraptions with several warning labels and a tendency to splatter carrot puree on the ceiling. So when her three closest friends—Sophie, Marianne, and Elodie—announced they were taking her to Bagnères-de-Bigorre for a spa day to celebrate her newfound freedom, Claire didn’t protest. She needed pampering. She needed steam, serenity, and something resembling a full nervous system reboot before facing Christmas dinner with her well-meaning but relentlessly nosy family.

The drive to the Pyrenees felt like slipping inside a snow globe. Fresh powder dusted the mountain peaks like royal icing on a gingerbread landscape. The air smelled of pine resin, wood smoke, and cold stone. Christmas lights twinkled from the windows of wooden chalets along the road—reds and golds reflecting off the snow—and somewhere in the distance a church bell chimed Adeste Fideles, muffled by the crisp mountain air. Roadside vendors sold roasted chestnuts and vin chaud from steaming pots. By the time the four women arrived at the thermal spa—its elegant stone façade rising out of the valley, draped in garlands of pine and white lights—Claire felt her shoulders finally unclench.

Which was, of course, the moment the day started slipping sideways.

Inside the spa, a calming soundtrack of flutes and trickling water played, occasionally interrupted by instrumental versions of Christmas carols that made “Silent Night” sound like meditation music. Miniature Christmas trees dotted the reception area, their ornaments catching the soft amber light. Each locker offered a neatly folded white cocoon of terry cloth. Sophie’s and Marianne’s looked plush enough to double as duvets. Claire’s XXXS version looked like it had shrunk in the wash—or been designed for an unusually modest elf. She tried to put it on anyway. It wrapped around her torso with all the generosity of a disgruntled dish towel. Her left hip staged an immediate escape attempt. Elodie took one look and doubled over laughing, loud enough to attract stares from two indignant retirees in matching terry cloth, attempting to preserve the sanctity of spa silence. Claire couldn’t help it—she had to laugh too, the kind of laughter that bubbled up unexpectedly like champagne.

She marched to the reception, one hand clamped across her chest to preserve her dignity (and modesty, although why she bothers…), the other attempting to hold the robe closed. The receptionist, without even blinking, sighed as though this was a daily occurrence and murmured, “Oh. Yes. Er, our apologies.” She disappeared into a back room and returned with a robe so enormous Claire could have hosted a community meeting inside it. But it fit, and it was warm, and smelled faintly of cinnamon. Disaster averted.

Robe secured, the four friends floated toward the outdoor thermal pool. Steam rose in soft curtains from the turquoise water, backlit by strings of white lights wound through the surrounding pine trees. Snowflakes drifted from the grey winter sky, melting the instant they touched the surface. The air smelled of minerals and eucalyptus, with an undertone of mulled wine from the spa bar, a scent suggesting festive promise. Claire lowered herself into the water and felt it envelop her like a warm exhale from the earth itself.

“This is bliss,” she sighed, leaning back. “This I could get used to.”

The universe, hearing her, chuckled and said, “Hold my spiced cider.”

Just as Claire began to relax, a sudden roar erupted behind her. Before she could turn around, something flew across the water. Her robe. The huge, heavy, comforting robe she had laid neatly on the pool’s edge was now spinning in the water like a squid being sucked toward the filtration intake. She lunged for it. She missed. People turned. A few applauded. The lifeguard—wearing a Santa hat over his regulation cap—sighed, retrieved a long pole, and began fishing for it with resigned professionalism. When he finally hauled it out, limp, dripping and drowned, the receptionist materialised at her side with another, working hard to keep her face straight.

Her friends were laughing so hard they could barely stay afloat, which made Claire laugh too—big, helpless, ridiculous laughter that made her cheeks hurt. The kind she hadn’t felt in far too long.

They eventually staggered their way to the hammam, decorated with a small garland of eucalyptus and holly above the entrance. Inside, the steam was so thick Claire couldn’t see the bench in front of her, the walls around her, or the limits of her own personal space. Voices echoed strangely in the fog, disembodied. Someone murmured “over here,” and Claire, imagining she was moving toward Marianne, took a confident step forward, reached out, and sat down.

On a stranger.

A very startled, very unclothed stranger.

His shocked gasp cut through the steam like a foghorn. A moment later, the steam parted enough for Claire to see his horrified eyes, wide as poached eggs. Claire yelped, jumped up, slipped on condensation, and skidded across the tile floor with the helpless momentum of a baby deer encountering ice for the first time. Somewhere behind her, her friends dissolved again into uncontrollable laughter—the sort that suggested they might need medical attention.

The man coughed. “Is okay,” he wheezed. “I think… you break no bones?”

“My dignity,” Claire said, “is in traction.”

After the hammam debacle, they attempted lunch. The spa café smelled promising: roasted chestnuts, mulled wine, something buttery and cinnamon-spiced. A small Christmas tree stood in the corner, its lights twinkling hopefully. But their soup—described enthusiastically by the waitress as “rustic, warming, a heritage recipe from the mountains”—arrived as a beige, flavourless puddle that somehow managed to be the exact opposite of every comforting winter meal promised by the season. They seasoned it. They stirred it. They attempted to coax character out of it. Nothing helped. Sophie said, “It tastes like my last relationship: bland, lukewarm, and profoundly disappointing.” Finally, Elodie announced, “It tastes like beige had a personality and lost it halfway through therapy. Beyond redemption.”

At sunset, they finally made their way to the rooftop hot tub. Steam curled into the cold winter sky. The Pyrenean peaks blushed pink and peach as daylight faded, their snow-covered slopes glowing like they’d been dusted with silver. In the distance, church bells chimed. Claire felt herself melt into the warm water, into the moment, in the presence of the three women who had held her up through the darkest season of her life.

“I thought today was supposed to be calming,” she smiled.

“Oh, it was never going to be calm,” Sophie replied. “We don’t do calm. We do… memorable.”

“Thank you,” Claire said. “For today. For all of it. A Christmas gift I’ll never forget. For making sure I didn’t spend Christmas week crying while binging on not-yet-discounted chocolate.”

“Even though everything went wrong?” Sophie asked.

“Because everything went wrong. My marriage was about everything going right. Perfect plans, perfect image, perfect relationship. Perfect Christmases with matching sweaters and colour-coordinated gift wrap. And it was hell.” She paused, watching a snowflake land on her finger and melt. “This was about everything going wrong. And it was perfect.”

They clinked plastic spa cups of spicy herbal tea together.

Marianne proposed, “To the worst spa day ever.”

“To freedom,” Sophie toasted.

“To questionable spa etiquette,” Elodie added.

“To friendship,” Claire whispered. “

Today’s post in 2024

Today, be the friend who shows up when needed. Don’t wait for the perfect moment or the perfect Christmas gift. Just show up—and create the messy, imperfect memory.
Worst case scenario: Nothing goes to plan, someone sits on a stranger in a hammam, and you all eat terrible soup while questioning your life choices.
Best case scenario: Years later, when your friend thinks about that difficult Christmas, they won’t remember the pain as much as they remember you—showing up with ridiculous robes and refusing to let them face it alone, turning the worst spa day ever into the moment they realised that love looks like friends who stay through no matter what goes wrong.

The Making Friends and Maintaining Friendships Masterplan

Christmas reminds us of the joy of giving, but sometimes, we hesitate. In our friendships, we often hold back. We hesitate before reaching out, before offering help, before being the first to say “I’m thinking of you.” We worry about seeming needy, or too much, or like we care more than they do.

True generosity in friendship isn’t transactional. It’s not a ledger that needs balancing by year-end. It’s the quiet decision to reach out simply because you want to—because someone matters to you, because connection itself is the reward, because giving from genuine affection needs no return on investment.

Forget the perfect Christmas gift. A small act of kindness—a thoughtful message at 11 PM because something reminded you of them, a shared memory that says “remember when we laughed until we couldn’t breathe?”, a surprise gesture that requires no occasion beyond “I saw this and thought of you”—these moments carry more weight than we realise. They brighten someone’s day in ways you might never witness.

This Christmas season, be the friend who reaches out first.

Sometimes the greatest gift we give is letting someone know they’re worth the effort.

What questions can you ask to get to know a new friend? How do you know if you and a new friend are really compatible? I have created a set of light-hearted quizzes, quotes and questions to help you do just that. Just fill in the form below and you’ll get immediate access to them all. I’ll also add you to my newsletter list, though you can unsubscribe from this list effortlessly and at any time. Included:

– How well do you know your Friends? Quiz

– What is Your Friendship Style? and Are your Friendship Styles compatible? Quiz

– 20 of the Most Inspiring Friends and Friendship Quotes and

– 20 lighthearted Questions you can ask to get to know a new Friend

Discover how to build meaningful, lasting friendships and create a support system that truly has your back—delivered straight to your inbox!

Today’s (Other) Blog Post

High-Functioning Burnout Symptoms: I Looked Fine on the Outside, But Inside I Was Falling Apart

4 responses to “Countdown to Christmas Day 6”

Riet

06/12/2025

Murphy’s law can help you through a difficult time, certainly when surrounded by friends in this sort of situation and the laughter can’t be held back.
1. Margaretha Montagu
  
  06/12/2025
  
  I’m so glad the comment section finally works!!! Indeed,as far as I can make out, Murphy was an optimist. 😉
Ginster

06/12/2025

“Women’s friendships are like a renewable source of power.” Jane Fonda and she is right and shows it.
1. Margaretha Montagu
  
  06/12/2025
  
  Endlessly renewable. “We need women at all levels, including the top, to change the dynamic, reshape the conversation, to make sure women’s voices are heard and heeded, not overlooked and ignored.” Sheryl Sandberg

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Today’s Story: The Cardamom Conspiracy

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A Christmas Story: The Spa Day That Went Sideways

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