Christmas in England vs. Christmas in the Philippines

If there’s one holiday that can stretch across oceans and still hold the same heart, it’s Christmas. But when you’ve lived and celebrated in both England and the Philippines, you quickly learn that while the meaning is shared, the way the season unfolds can feel like two entirely different worlds stitched together by the same star atop the tree.

In the Philippines, Christmas begins the moment the ‘ber’ months arrive.
September 1st is the unofficial opening ceremony. Jose Mari Chan’s voice suddenly appears on every radio station like an old friend tapping on your window, malls hang up their garlands overnight, and neighbours start competing over who has the tallest parol (star lantern) on the street. The air is warm, thick with the scent of bibingka and puto bumbong from roadside stalls, and the sound of tricycles mixes with carolers singing under the flicker of fairy lights strung from coconut trees. It’s not just a day or a week—it’s a four-month-long embrace that carries you all the way to January.

Some of my most treasured Christmases happened there. I remember spending one December feeding the homeless with friends, their smiles brighter than any fairy light. In my hometown, we would gather for a Christmas party with the children—games, laughter, and gifts wrapped in colourful paper.

But the most unforgettable part of all was Simbang Gabi—nine dawn masses leading to Christmas Eve, always with my family beside me. We’d walk to church in the cool pre-dawn air, the streets alive with people carrying lanterns, and afterwards, share warm bibingka while the sky slowly turned gold.

In England, Christmas has a later, more cinematic entrance. The season begins in earnest when the autumn leaves are swept away and the first frost dusts the pavements. Christmas adverts—the kind that make you unexpectedly teary—start appearing on television, and shops put up tasteful displays that feel less like a competition and more like a quiet nod to tradition. The air is cold enough to make your breath visible, and the smell of roasted chestnuts from market stalls blends with the crisp scent of pine from real Christmas trees. The season here is shorter, more restrained, but wrapped in the magic of fairy-lit streets and frosty mornings.

The gatherings feel worlds apart too.
In the Philippines, Christmas Eve is loud, long, and alive. Families and friends crowd under one roof for Noche Buena—a midnight feast where laughter and karaoke spill into the early hours. Tables bend under the weight of lechon, pancit, hamon, and trays of kakanin. Children run around playing tag while titas exchange gossip and uncles pull out guitars for impromptu sing-alongs. It’s messy and heartfelt, and even if you don’t get a wrapped gift, you go home with a full belly and an even fuller heart.

In England, Christmas Day is the main event. The morning starts with unwrapping presents by the fire in pajamas, the paper piling up as the kettle boils for another round of tea. The feast is a midday roast—turkey with stuffing, pigs in blankets, roast potatoes crisp on the outside and soft inside, swimming in gravy. It’s quieter, more intimate, with Christmas crackers on the table and everyone wearing paper crowns that never quite fit. The evening winds down with mince pies, mulled wine, and maybe a Christmas special on TV.

Even the weather changes the feeling of the day.
In the Philippines, December is still humid, and the closest thing to snow is shaved ice on your halo-halo. The warmth allows for open doors, outdoor games, and neighbours dropping by unannounced. In England, Christmas is marked by short days and early nights. The cold drives you indoors, huddled by heaters and under blankets. If you’re lucky, you might wake to a gentle snowfall, turning the world outside into something that looks like a Christmas card.

And then there’s the heart of it all—the spirit that lingers.
In the Philippines, Christmas is about presence, not presents. People find ways to give even when wallets are light—whether it’s a plate of food shared, an old toy passed on, or the gift of time and laughter. In England, the generosity takes on its own form—charity drives, community Christmas markets, and the quiet thoughtfulness of handpicked gifts.

I’ve learned that neither way is better—just different, shaped by climate, culture, and history.

In the Philippines, Christmas feels like a festival of the senses; in England, it feels like a storybook you step inside for a few treasured weeks.

For me, having experienced both means carrying double the joy. I keep the long countdown, the giving spirit, and the dawn masses of home, and pair them with the frosted windows, warm roasts, and twinkling nights of my life here. Two worlds, one holiday—and my heart, split between them, is full either way.