Mulled Wine, Mud and Mild Panic: How I Do Festive Markets Now

Every November I get the same text: 'Christmas market this weekend?' And every year I say yes before my brain has caught up and reminded me what that actually means. Queues. Mud. Prices that make me laugh out loud in a slightly unhinged way. Portable toilets. The slow realisation that I am cold in places I did not know could be cold.

Here is the thing I have finally admitted: I love Christmas and I do not always love Christmas markets. Those two facts can live in the same person. This is not a bah-humbug column. It is a field guide for anyone who wants the lights, the wooden stalls and the general hum of festive cheer without the £9 hot chocolate and the mild panic of being trapped behind a family arguing about a giant bratwurst.

First, the honest bit

The version of a Christmas market in my head has snow, space to move and a choir singing something tasteful. The real version has a generator humming, a queue for everything and a bin bag flapping in the wind. Neither of those things is a crime. Markets are popular because they are lovely in theory and sometimes lovely in practice. But they are also crowded, expensive and freezing, and pretending otherwise is how you end up buying a candle shaped like a reindeer out of sheer survival instinct.

I have queued for things I did not want. I have paid £4 for a tiny paper cone of roasted nuts and eaten them with the grim determination of someone completing a challenge. I have stood in a muddy field, holding a lukewarm drink, thinking: I could be at home. This is allowed. You are allowed to love the season and still find the market itself a bit much.

The timing trick that changes everything

Go early. Not 'early-ish'. Go in the first hour. Weekday evenings can be quieter than Saturday afternoons, and the first hour of a Sunday is often calmer than the last. Avoid the weekend of the light switch-on if you can, unless you enjoy standing still in a crowd while someone on a stage counts down from ten.

Check the local Facebook page before you go. It will tell you about parking, road closures and the fact that the choir is on at 2pm, which is either a reason to go or a reason to go at 11am. Pre-book parking if that is an option. Decide on a leaving time before you arrive. 'We will stay for 45 minutes' is a perfectly grown-up plan. You can always stay longer if it is going well. You rarely regret having an exit.

Dress like you mean it

This is not the time for the nice coat. The nice coat is for drinks. The market needs thermals, waterproof boots and a scarf that can be pulled up over your chin. Gloves with touchscreen fingertips are a small mercy. A crossbody bag leaves your hands free for mulled wine and your phone, and keeps you from doing the bag-and-gloves shuffle every 90 seconds.

If your feet are cold, you will buy rubbish. If your hands are cold, you will buy rubbish faster. Comfort is not unglamorous. Comfort is the difference between browsing with pleasure and marching towards the exit while muttering about the price of a sausage.

The budget rule I wish I had learned sooner

Decide what you are spending before you leave the house. Contactless taps make money disappear in a way that feels almost magical until you check your banking app. Carry a little cash for the small stalls, and eat before you go. Not because market food is terrible — some of it is excellent — but because hunger makes the queue feel longer and the £9 hot chocolate feel like a reasonable idea.

The £9 hot chocolate rule: if it is made from powder and looks like hot milk with ambitions, walk away. If it is real chocolate and you are cold enough to cry, fine. Buy it. One treat is a treat. Five treats is a very expensive walk in a muddy field.

The one queue actually worth joining

It is rarely the giant bratwurst. It is rarely the snow globe photo opportunity. It is usually the tiny local stall: the one selling proper hot chocolate, local cheese, handmade wreaths or something from a charity. I will queue for a good local maker. I will not queue for something I could buy in a supermarket for half the price and no frostbite.

My rule is simple: if the queue is longer than ten minutes and I am not certain what is at the end of it, I walk. The market will not run out of candles. It never does.

What I actually buy now

One decoration a year. Something consumable. Something from a local maker, if I can. I have stopped buying 'bargain' blankets that shed, novelty mugs that chip and decorative signs telling me to 'eat, drink and be merry' in a font I would not tolerate in January. The best market purchases are the ones you still like when the fairy lights are packed away.

The gentle permission slip

You can skip it. You really can. Send the message, suggest a walk instead, book a pub lunch, go and look at the lights in your own town without the crowds. Nobody's Christmas is ruined because you did not stand in a field paying £6 for a paper cup of something warm.

If the invitation is really about seeing people, say that. 'I would love to see you. Can we do it somewhere with chairs?' is one of the most festive sentences I know.

Better alternatives, honestly

A church hall craft fair. A school fair. A local makers' market with actual makers and not just a man selling phone cases. A charity shop Christmas display. A wreath-making evening with friends. A homemade market at home, where everyone brings something they have made or found, and the mulled apple juice is on the hob, and the loo is your own.

It is not the same as a big market. Some years it is better. You can love the version of Christmas that includes a muddy field and a giant pretzel, and you can love the version that includes a sofa, a film and a plate of biscuits. The season is big enough for both.

Love Christmas. Protect your joy. Go prepared, or stay home with the good blanket. The market will be back next year.