"This Thing Called Christmas"

OK, I was a cynic last posting but despite what I say now, I still maintain I had a point.
However, nevertheless:
Writer Julie Myerson brought a lump to my throat 1st thing this morning.
Like Monday, I was huddled in bed with the Times ( R out already, lost in frost in his balaclava on the golfcourse) but there was no lack of heating in my house today; I was simply enjoying being comfy with tea, toast and Lorna's Coniston honey.
So I read. And Myerson had written a piece ( with other writers) entitled " Going Home", ie what we all tend to do at Christmas, whether literally back to our roots along the motorways, or if we're elsewhere, having that annual look into the shadows of our minds, the shifting and sifting through the cobwebs of memory.
At the close of her piece , Myerson told of a Christmas walk; three people and a dog, "as day tipped into dusk". It had been an "ordinary" family Christmas but, she says, :" that frozen field, the strange blend of our voices as sky drained of light, has settled in my memory as a high point. ....I remember being entirely, dizzingly happy." ......

And you know JUST what she means. You see that icy landscape, hear those voices and you know just what she means about high points because you remember your own high points, your own personal definitions of Christmas magic..