Lucy is whisking you off to the hamlet of Porthkerry, which lies on the Bristol Channel coast of South Wales.

It’s very close to the end of the runway of Cardiff International Airport. So, when Leesa Oliver lands there in the middle of a blizzard, on a return trip from Sydney, it’s rather fortunate that her boss, Cary Anderson, lives locally. Or is it?

Christmas isn’t always full of joyful jingle bells and smiling faces. Just the typical family Christmas, then…

Except that this one is a little different!

As far as I’m concerned every day should be like Christmas – because it’s magical. And because I’m always EXCITED about my favourite time of the year….

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READ AN EXCERPT:

It isn’t easy navigating our way through the mass of stranded travellers and luggage trolleys. As we approach the exit, even in the darkness we can see the snow is falling fast and the flakes are large. It’s a sight to behold but rather intimidating.

The strong wind is literally sculpting huge white mounds that are so powdery they change shape quickly. After only a couple of minutes the outline of the front of a vehicle suddenly appears out of the darkness and it looks suspiciously like an old army jeep. Considering the arctic conditions, it’s approaching quite fast and I wonder how safe it can be as it looks rather basic.

‘Okay, let’s do this.’ Cary heads out through the door and I follow as best I can. Being buffeted by the wind is no joke and it’s a struggle to move forward. With each step I’m falling further behind and the eerie silence when the wind isn’t gusting is unsettling.

A sudden change in the direction of the icy blast takes my breath away for a moment. I’m being pounded full-on and the intensity of the artic chill leaves me gasping. The jeep is only a couple of feet away now and a guy approaches; well wrapped up and wearing a ski mask and goggles, so not an inch of skin is showing.

He holds up a gloved hand in acknowledgement and immediately takes my case from me with a nod and heads off to stow it in the rear of the open vehicle. Cary deposits his case next to mine and then takes my arm to help me climb into the back seat. He leans in to fasten my belt, double-checking it before giving me a thumbs-up. There’s little point in trying to talk as the wind would disperse our words as soon as we tried to speak.

Worryingly, the snowflakes are getting bigger by the second. Drawing the hood around my head tighter with both hands, I keep blinking away what now feels like icy missiles being fired directly into my face.

Our driver turns the buggy around and we head away from the terminal. All we can see is a few feet of the white landscape ahead of us, against the curtain of night. Visibility is deteriorating quickly and it’s just us, a lone vehicle on a deserted road – the boundaries of which can’t even be seen, so we follow the quickly fading tracks in the snow to lead us out of the airport.

I half-turn to take a quick glimpse behind me; already the airport terminal is just a massive blur; mere pinpricks of light shining out into the hazy darkness. There is nothing at all in the sky other than the battering snow as it falls relentlessly. It will be hours before anyone is going anywhere. It feels like the heavy, dark-grey sky above is going to engulf us and my heart begins to race as the chill takes a hold.

I’m not feeling at ease anyway, what with being whisked off to Cary Anderson’s family home. I hardly know the man and he’s already made it abundantly clear he’s not happy about it. But I fleetingly wonder how many people will end up sleeping on the floor at the airport tonight. I’m beginning to realise how lucky I am, even if I would have preferred the anonymity of a room at one of the hotel chains in the area.

It’s a bumpy ride and at one point we slow while the shovel-like apparatus on the front of the vehicle is lowered to clear a section of the road. The drift is way above the bonnet of the open vehicle. We smash into it and the wind quickly sends a spray of powdery snow swirling in all directions. I’ve heard of the term whiteout but never in my wildest dreams thought I’d ever experience one here, in the UK. It’s even more daunting with the pervading darkness all around us. It seems to accentuate every little sound, as if we’re travelling in a tank and not a vehicle stripped down to the minimum. But those chunky tyres are doing their job and the grip, for the most part, is reassuringly firm.

With the obstacle removed we continue, albeit at a slower pace now, along what looks like a main road to the rear of the airport. We travel along parallel to the link perimeter fencing, beyond which is a large snow-covered bank extending up and obscuring any view of the airport itself. To our left I can only make out the odd swathe of skeleton winter trees. They are interspersed with evergreens that are now weighed down by their heavy white coats.

Beyond that the landscape falls away slightly, disappearing into the darkness as if it’s been swallowed up. Abandoned cars litter what I assume is a grass verge at the side of the road. They stick out at differing angles like some weird parking configuration. After being unable to gain any traction on the slippery surface they only came to a halt when something solid prevented them from sliding any further. Often, that was another car and in one case, a wall.

We pass the outline of a very grand house with a collection of stone buildings nestling behind an impressive gateway. Travelling onwards, the jeep takes a left turn into a single-track country lane. After a few hundred yards of ploughing through crisp, virgin snow I spot where we’re heading. My jaw would have dropped if I wasn’t already cradling my entire face. It’s a constant battle to avoid the sting of icy white missiles coming at me from every angle. This isn’t a house, it’s a huge Victorian country manor.

The vehicle pulls to a halt and Cary literally heaves me out and bundles me under an open, extended porch. It’s flanked by two enormous stone lions that now look more like polar bears. Small, red Christmas lights like glowing berries, hang from the canopy turning this little haven into a colourful grotto. He lowers his collar, glancing at me in earnest.

‘Are you okay? I’ll get the bags.’

It’s actually a relief to hear his voice and my shoulders sag a little, grateful to have made it here in one piece. At the same time the large door behind me is flung open.

Suddenly I’m hurried inside by a gentleman who looks most concerned as he escorts me over the doorstep.

Seconds later Cary, me, our very competent driver, and a pile of damp luggage are all creating a puddle on a very old and beautifully tiled floor. A woman steps forward to greet us. Her smile is warm and her demeanour one of graceful elegance. Long, silver-grey hair is coiled up into a perfect French twist and her face is beaming, clearly delighted by Cary’s arrival. Behind her the man who helped me inside is standing attentively awaiting her command. I’m rather surprised, as I thought butlers were a thing of the past.

I glance upwards to see that above our heads isn’t just the customary token piece of mistletoe – oh no! It’s a massive orb, no doubt lifted by a cherry picker from the top of a very stout tree. It’s suspended some forty-plus feet in the air. As my eyes continue to take in the surroundings, I note the grand sweep of the staircase and the wide, galleried landing. Above that is a beautifully detailed ceiling with ornate plaster coving. I’ve stepped into the film set of a Christmas film and they are about to begin shooting.

‘Cary, my darling boy; it’s so good to have you home. And welcome, my dear, I had no idea… but I simply love surprises and this one was well worth the wait!’ Her eyes dart between both Cary and myself and before he can introduce me properly she begins talking again. ‘You must both be exhausted. Nicholas, can you kindly grab their coats and take them to dry off? Robert, I insist you stay for a drink, you extremely brave man,’ she continues, turning to face our driver as he pulls off his woollen ski mask. ‘Thank you so much for saving the day and rescuing Cary and his young lady.’

His young lady? He’s my boss, well, until my contract has been fulfilled!

Magic Under the Mistletoe