There are certain places in this world that seem to hold a kind of quiet magic, a gentleness you almost can’t explain. For me, that magic has always lived in the small villages of England—those clusters of stone cottages, church bells, crooked lanes, and timeless routines that seem to whisper, You can slow down here. And if there is ever a season when their charm feels almost otherworldly, it’s Christmas. I’m convinced that English villages were made for winter. They feel like storybooks you can step inside—like someone took the pages of a childhood memory and brushed snow across the edges. Even imagining them from across the ocean feels like slipping into something soft and peaceful, like wrapping up in a blanket your grandmother once knitted, the kind that holds warmth long after you step away. And at Christmastime, these villages seem to glow from within. A Different Kind of Christmas In America, Christmas often feels loud. Everything is bigger, brighter, rushing forward...