The calm of Christmas Day in Ireland

In Ireland, on Christmas Day, the airports were closed.

No planes landed or took off. No buses came either. No trains left the shuttered stations. No ferries sailed into the ports. No cinema opened. No pub unlocked its doors for a quick pint after mass. No supermarket sold crisis custard and crackers.

And if you wanted a last-minute present for Aunty Mary, who had suddenly decided to bring a gift after years of Scrooge-ing, then maybe you’d find a corner shop or petrol station – likely staffed by Muslims or Hindus – that was open for a couple of hours and would hand over a box of Milk Tray or a wilting poinsettia for a premium.

Just maybe, because the Republic of Ireland is officially closed for Christmas.

It’s the same every year.

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When I tell this to people from elsewhere, they look at me like I’m mad.

Then they go and check online. Yes, I smile, off you go and see if you can get to Dublin on Christmas Day.

Oh, they say, but I could fly into Belfast in Northern Ireland – which is part of the United Kingdom, another country – and get the train down.

Okay, I say, now try book that train…

You can’t, because (almost) everybody has the day off. And you know what? It’s lovely.

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For one day of the year, the entire nation is on the same page. For one day, the hustle stops.

We are at home with those we love (and Aunty Mary), eating, drinking, and being merry. Or being grumpy. What we don’t have, we do without.

Yes, the emergency services are open should Aunty Mary choke on her own benevolence; the fire brigade is operational should you set fire to the turkey; the Gardaí (police) are on duty; and the occasional taxi-driver may decide to do a few hours before dinner, because public holidays mean premium rates and Christmas cheer brings big tips.

And yes, of course the hospitals are still staffed and hotels have guests, but there’s nowhere for them to go except for a crisp winter’s day stroll. Everything is peaceful.

Meanwhile, on Christmas Day in Benoni, my mom joined the panicked half-hour queue at the tills at Checkers to get milk and Bisto.

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In Ireland we’d knock on the neighbour’s door, because it’s Christmas.