It's snow joke!

Maybe it started that way for my mother too; hearing stories of gentle flakes, layering one upon the other, silently, slowly, covering and cleaning the land, the air and the mind. Did my mother hear stories, accompanied by child-friendly jingles, while a roaring fire warmed her hands and gifts were opened by people who loved her? When did you first hear of the iconic white Christmas? Maybe love for snow is in my blood. Is it strong Lithuanian DNA yearning for a white landscape? Maybe it's just mythology; swirling, swishing and ebbing from mouth to ear, from generation to generation.

For me, Christmas was celebrated in perfect subtropical sunshine once every two years. It coincided with Great Aunt Esther's visits from England, a distant, mystical place of thrones and lights where they enjoyed real snow in the real cold. We had to make do with the synthetic, sticky, packaged stuff that spread like a spider web over our made-up tree. But we loved that fake snow. The second year could not come quick enough; not only for the gifts in gaudy wrappers, the laughter and the cheer but most of all for the fake snow, the tinsel and lights, all carefully arranged on the deep green tree. I do remember many of our Christmas' together. And then there were the James Bond films, National Geographic and European fashion magazines that helped keep the snowy mythology alive.

I do remember being bundled into a plane with my family and travelling thousands of kilometers to see and play with real snow in the Swiss Alps. I was 10, and I remember most of it like it was yesterday. It was as though I had come home... I belonged in the snow. I revelled in it, lay in it, ski'd on it, played with it. I sat for hours just watching it. It froze my hands and it stung my eyes. I couldn't get enough of it.

Years later I met my gorgeous wife. She too had travelled with her family to play in the snow when she was 10. No wonder she was my soul mate. We have our own children now; a pigeon pair aged 12 and 10. In a time that they may not remember, they must have heard our stories and enjoyed our pleasure as we spoke of those snowy days. For years we have dreamed of repeating the trip. But ours is not our parents' world. It's outrageous to think of travelling to Europe. But we are brave and quite foolish. And love knows no bounds. And we are very lucky to have generous friends in the Yoko's, who in turn are lucky to have Polish roots and a house in the foothills of a beautiful Eastern European mountain range.

Now it's snowing outside. Gently whispering cool and silent, it fills this morning's footprints and calls for us to play. We're exhausted from skiing, our faces are burned red from the cold and our cheeks are stiff from grinning all day long. We're going to get more of the same tomorrow. The mountains will look different as they do every day. Never a minute looks the same as the one before. It's everything we remember, and more.

The credit cards will take time to recover. But we're like that; a little irresponsible, like a family of youngest children would be. It's a gift to indulge in something you love; it's even a greater gift to share it with those close to you. I want my family to see me in this state; elated, satisfied, relaxed and filled with joy. It's all very contagious. I want to share it. I hope I've passed it on. From one generation to the next and the next.

I look forward to our grandchildren, listening in a time that they will forget, to pleasant conversations filled with laughter, to memories that plant enticing seeds of adventure in their infant minds. I look forward to my grandchildren experiencing the same moment of touching the real thing, and working out the connection with their great grandparents, where for me, it began.

In people and life, I seek the same tranquillity and silence, the same promise of adventure, the same challenges and the same natural beauty of snow. It makes me feel the joy of life and demands that I live it to the fullest. For you it may be the spray of sea air as the sunsets, the howl of a hyena in the dead of night or the shrill of a bird in the forest. Whatever it is, don't keep it hidden. Speak out, shout out loud, sing... let the world know that there is something, as simple as snow, that brings you joy. Maybe, in a time that will soon be forgotten, your child will hear your song and know that they too are faced with a life that offers magical moments of love.