Christmas in Ireland: the year I finally tried to keep up
Through Immigrant Eyes
Viktoriia Kantseva
The older I get, the more I realise that Christmas is less a season and more a personality test. And in Ireland, this test begins early — very early. Last year, I didn’t understand that Christmas actually starts around November 1. Halloween ends, the fake cobwebs barely hit the bin and the next minute — bang — Mariah Carey awakens, shop windows sparkle and new Christmas adverts are discussed with the seriousness usually reserved for elections.
Back then, we decorated our tree on December 23 — practically a crime by Irish standards. This year, however, something shifted. On December 2, I proudly ordered 21 Christmas presents. Twenty-one. I felt like a responsible adult, a woman fully integrated into Irish society, someone who finally knows what she’s doing. We even decorated the tree in the first week of December.
At this rate, next year I’ll probably evolve further and do it in late November, right after taking down the Halloween skeleton. Because here, holidays don’t simply come and go. They flow into each other — like Irish rain: constant, cheerful and slightly chaotic.
Growing up in Ukraine, we didn’t have this festive marathon. Christmas wasn’t the main event — New Year’s Eve was. On December 31, families gather around tables heavy enough to count as weightlifting equipment: Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat (better than it sounds), bread with butter and red caviar, tangerines, champagne — and absolutely no borshch, despite what foreigners assume. If you ever want a recipe for any of these, email me — I will gladly share one. It’s my secret plan to make all of Cavan addicted to Olivier.
At midnight, we watch the President’s speech as if it’s a national duty written into our DNA. No elves. No Christmas jumpers. Definitely no inflatable Santa climbing up the side of a house. So Irish Christmas initially felt like stepping into a movie — charming, slightly overwhelming and with significantly more sparkles than necessary. But somewhere between buying the tenth bauble and hearing my daughter sing Christmas songs with a Cavan accent, I realised: I kind of love this.
Ah yes, the elf of the shelf. A magical creature who appears every December and brings… let’s call it creative chaos. In Irish households, he brings a touch of magic. In ours, he brings total anarchy. This year he: Smeared chocolate across the sink like it was his personal toilet; drew moustaches on every photo of my daughter; nearly toppled the Christmas tree during a mysterious night-time “mission”; and ate all the sweets my daughter lovingly left out for him — every last crumb.
Strangely, this elf looks exactly like my husband — the same man who wakes up at 5am for work yet still finds the spiritual strength to moonlight as a mischievous North Pole employee. It’s an unpaid role, but he insists he’s compensated in the best currency: our daughter’s joy every morning.
1. The table that could feed a village: On New Year’s Eve, Ukrainian families cook enough food to avoid cooking for the next two days. It’s a survival strategy and a tradition.
2. Olivier — the king of the night: No dish is more honoured. If there’s no Olivier, the celebration simply hasn’t started.
3. Herring under a fur coat: Strange name, legendary taste. Every layer is a national pride.
4. Verka Serdiuchka at midnight: After the President’s speech comes the true cultural moment - Verka’s performance, glitter, chaos, and guaranteed good mood.
5. The burning-wish ritual: We write a wish on paper, burn it, drop the ashes into a champagne glass and… drink it. Slightly risky, highly magical.
Honestly? Fair enough. What Ireland taught me is that holidays are less about following a tradition and more about feeling something — joy, warmth, belonging, or at least mild amusement when the elf ruins your bathroom.
Our Christmas isn’t fully Ukrainian or fully Irish. It’s something in between — a little improvised, a little chaotic, very heartfelt. We celebrate early like the Irish. We cook heavy New Year dishes like the Ukrainians. We participate in elf madness like a family that has surrendered to destiny. Mostly, though, we create moments our daughter will remember — not because they’re perfect, but because they’re ours.
And that’s what I love most about Christmas here. Every window glows. Every roundabout gets a string of lights. Every child wakes up expecting magic. Every adult pretends they’re not stressed in Dunnes.
Irish Christmas is loud, cheerful, sentimental, slightly chaotic and completely irresistible. Even I, former last-minute-tree decorator, have fallen under its spell. So here we are. Twenty-one gifts ready. A tree decorated early. An elf who has more energy than two parents combined. And a daughter who now knows the English lyrics — but still adds her own.
Maybe that’s the magic of living in Ireland: Christmas doesn’t wait for you to be prepared — it simply sweeps you in.
Now, if you’ll excuse me — I think I hear the elf moving something he probably shouldn’t. And before he causes any more “Christmas miracles”, let me say this: Wishing you a warm, joyful, slightly chaotic and beautifully imperfect Christmas — the very best kind, if you ask me.