December in Vancouver

Rain, ritual, winter pacing — clarity in the quiet season.

A familiar rhythm: first-class lounge quiet, an espresso taken slowly, a glass of bubbles marking the shift from one place to the next. Travel, for me, often begins not with arrival but with these small rituals — moments of pause before motion.

By the time I landed in Vancouver, the city had already slipped into evening. Winter air, steam rising from the streets, traffic lights softened by mist. I spent the first nights walking without a plan, letting the city reveal itself in fragments — illuminated corners, reflections in glass, the quiet hum of downtown after dark.

Vancouver in December has changed over the years.

It’s never been London — and it doesn’t need to be — but it has learned how to hold the season. Christmas lights feel intentional now, woven into the city rather than applied as an afterthought. There’s a confidence to it. A sense that winter is no longer something to endure, but something to inhabit.

Evenings became a ritual of their own: slow walks to see the lights, pausing at installations, watching the city soften under darkness. The familiar “LOVE” sign glowing against wet pavement. Streets that feel calmer, more reflective, as the year begins to fold inward.

By day, the mood shifts. Light arches and evergreen structures frame the city differently — quieter, brighter, gently festive. December in Vancouver isn’t loud or theatrical. It’s restrained. Thoughtful. A season expressed in details rather than spectacle.

This was the rhythm of the month: movement and stillness, night walks and daylight rituals, a city learning — year by year — how to embrace winter on its own terms.

Christmas Arrives

Christmas, for me, has never been about excess.

Over the years I’ve drifted toward a quieter version of the season — one shaped more by intention than by obligation. Gifts are chosen slowly, with care, for need rather than novelty. I’m sentimental by nature; I like objects that carry stories, things that feel considered instead of convenient. The best presents are rarely the loudest ones.

In Vancouver, the holiday rhythm is gentle.

Dinners become their own small art form: warm plates, shared tables, food that feels nourishing rather than performative. There’s comfort in the simplicity of it — the promise of connection without the usual noise of work and devices. Long conversations that stretch late into the evening, candles flickering, the world outside slowed down for a few days.

One of my favourite rituals is always the same: a trip to Granville Island.

No matter how many times I visit, it never loses its charm. The little boats crossing False Creek, the market buzzing with life, baskets filled with fresh produce and antipasti — simple, thoughtful ingredients that feel festive without excess. I’ll take the ferry even when I don’t need to, just for the small pleasure of seeing the city from the water — a familiar skyline viewed from a different angle.

Between Christmas and New Year, time loosens.

It’s a gentle in-between week — relaxed enough from work, but not yet pulled into January’s fresh-start energy. Plans are made casually, dinners kept lighter, days spent wandering shops to see if anything catches the eye. Not shopping for the sake of it, but browsing in that slow, unhurried way that only exists at this time of year.

Some meals stay festive; others intentionally don’t.

After weeks of rich food, there’s a quiet joy in simple plates and ordinary cafés, in choosing light over lavish, familiar over formal. December becomes less about spectacle and more about ease — about enjoying the season without being consumed by it.

By the time the year edges toward its close, Vancouver feels less like a backdrop and more like home again: familiar streets, familiar faces, a city holding space for a soft and thoughtful kind of celebration.

Settling Into the Month

After the first flurry of arrival — the lights, the night walks, the novelty of being back — life in Vancouver began to take on its own rhythm. Every city teaches you how it wants to be lived in, and this one has always done so quietly.

Mornings started early. Runs along familiar routes, breath visible in the cold air, the city still half-asleep. Vancouver at dawn has a particular softness: low clouds, damp pavements, mountains just visible in the distance. It’s a gentle place to rebuild routines.

By mid-morning I’d be folded into a corner of whichever café the day called for.

In London, the workday defaults are Pret and Nero. In Vancouver, they become JJ Bean, Honolulu Coffee, and the dependable calm of G Café. Each city has its staples — places where you can open a laptop without ceremony, order the same drink twice in one day, and feel, for a few hours, like you belong.

Tables became temporary desks. Cappuccinos marked the passing of time. Emails were answered, images were sorted, plans were made for the year ahead. There’s something grounding about working while traveling — the small rituals that follow you from place to place, even as the scenery changes.

Afternoons were for walking.

Sometimes along the waterfront, sometimes through neighbourhood streets dressed in winter greens. Vancouver in December is more understated than dramatic: rain instead of snow, quiet skies instead of hard blue ones. The season here isn’t loud — it’s lived at a softer volume.

Between errands and meetings, I found new little patterns: a favourite seat by the window, a reliable lunch order, a stretch of pavement that felt familiar by the third pass. Travel, at its best, isn’t constant motion. It’s the slow accumulation of small, ordinary habits in a new setting.

By the time Christmas edged closer, the month no longer felt like a visit. It felt, simply, like life.

January, Reset

The first week of January always feels like a soft hinge between worlds.

Christmas decorations come down, inboxes slowly refill, and routines re-emerge. After the warmth and indulgence of December, I found myself easing back into work with a kind of gentle focus — not rushed, just ready.

This year began with purpose.

A creative partnership with Hilton Whistler Resort & Spa carried me up to the mountains, camera in hand and very much in my element. There’s something grounding about returning to creative direction after a pause: scouting light, framing moments, capturing spaces as they’re meant to be felt rather than simply seen.

Snow, mountains, steam rising from outdoor pools — the perfect backdrop to reset both body and mind.

A visit to the Scandinave Spa became a quiet ritual of its own: warm water, cold air, the kind of stillness you can only find in winter. After weeks of festive socialising, it was the ideal way to start the year with clarity instead of chaos.

Even workdays found their rhythm again.

Laptop open, coffee close, small pleasures anchoring the bigger tasks. JJ Bean quickly reclaimed its place in my routine — and with it, the now-legendary gluten-free carrot cake donut. One of those tiny, reliable joys that makes ordinary days feel a little brighter.

And of course, my favourite companion, looking entirely at home wherever we land — my dog, ever patient, ever photogenic, always part of the story.

By mid-January, bags were packed once more.

London was calling, projects were lining up, and the familiar cycle of travel and work prepared to begin again. Vancouver had held me gently through the end of one year and the start of another — a place of routines, resets, and quiet progress.

December had been about reflection.
January was about momentum.

And somewhere between the two, life found its balance again.