Christmas 2004 was one our family will never forget. While many of our friends in England were pulling crackers and huddling by the fire, we were halfway across the world in India, trading holly and mistletoe for palm trees, tigers, and an unforgettable elephant called Tara. We were in India to celebrate my wife’s parents' Golden Wedding Anniversary. They had been married in St. Paul’s Cathedral in Kolkata to where we would return for a small ceremony.
Our family—my wife Emma, our three children Hugo (9), Adam (7), and Elisabeth (5)—set off just before Christmas for what would become a month-long adventure across India. We began with a week in Goa, easing ourselves gently into the rhythms of Indian life. Goa, with its golden beaches, palm-fringed shores, and relaxed charm, proved the perfect antidote to a long year of work and school routines. The children quickly adapted to days spent in the surf and evenings watching the sun sink over the Arabian Sea while we enjoyed grilled fish and lime sodas.
After a week of blissful idleness, we flew north to Delhi to meet Emma’s family, 15 of us all told, for the rest of our journey. From there, we embarked on a three-week trip that would take us through India’s cultural and natural treasures—Agra, Jaipur, and finally, Kipling Camp near Kanha National Park.
Our first stop was Agra, home to the magnificent Taj Mahal. As the sun rose and the white marble changed from blush pink to pure white, even our usually restless children stood still, in silent awe. From Agra, we traveled to Jaipur, the “Pink City,” a whirl of colour and noise. We explored ancient palaces, rode elephants up to Amber Fort, and bartered (mostly unsuccessfully) in the bustling bazaars.
Then came the part of the trip we had all been waiting for: our journey into the heart of tiger country. From Jaipur, we took an overnight train south to Jabalpur, and from there, a long drive brought us to Kipling Camp ~ on the edge of Kanha National Park, run by the Wrights, the dearest friends of my parents in law. The camp was rustic but full of charm: thatched cottages, open fires, and the ever-present sounds of the forest.
It was here, amid the sal trees and the calls of distant birds, that we truly felt the magic of India. The December nights were bitterly cold—temperatures dropped close to zero—and our early mornings began long before dawn. Rugged up in layers of wool and scarves, we would gather in the flickering light of the campfire, sipping tea to keep warm before clambering into open jeeps for our morning safaris.
The forest at first light was otherworldly. Mist hung low over the meadows, and the only sounds were the hum of insects and the occasional alarm call of a deer. For hours we would drive through the park, eyes scanning for movement, hearts racing with anticipation. And then, one morning, we saw them: two tigers, moving with effortless grace through the long grass. To see them IRL was mesmerising and magical and terrifying, all at once.
But the true star of Kipling Camp, especially in the eyes of our children, was Tara the elephant. Tara had been given to the Wrights by Mark Shand, the British conservationist and author, after his epic 1,000-mile journey across India on her back in 2000—a story he later told in his book Travels on My Elephant.
Each afternoon, a small group of guests would accompany Tara on her daily walk to the nearby river for her bath. Once there, we watched as she delicately reached out with her trunk to break off branches, and use them to clean between her toes. Then she would lie down in the shallows while her mahout gave her a good scrub.
On Christmas day itself, as dusk fell, the children gathered around the campfire in great excitement, as Santa arrived ~ not on a sleigh, but on Tara! Laden with gifts and good humor, he handed out the presents.
Evenings at Kipling Camp were especially wonderful. Guests would gather at the long communal table to share stories of the day’s sightings. Above us, the stars shone with a clarity we had never seen before. It was a Christmas of warmth and connection.
Our journey from Kipling Camp to Kolkata was unexpectedly delayed by the devastating tsunami that struck southern Asia on Boxing Day 2004. Many trains in northern India were diverted to carry emergency supplies southward, and our schedule shifted as the country rallied to help those affected. It was a sobering reminder of the fragility of life, even amid such beauty.
When we finally reached Kolkata, we found a city unlike any other—chaotic, crumbling, yet alive with culture and charm. We stayed at the Tollygunge Club, a colonial-era retreat in the south of the city, about nine kilometers from the center. The children adored the open spaces, the swimming pool, and the novelty of monkeys occasionally joining us at breakfast. We explored the city’s markets; admired its fading architecture; went to a wonderful service at the cathedral for my parents in law to renew their marriage vows 50 years on; and soaked up the unique rhythm of life along the Hooghly River.
After a week in Kolkata, it was time to return home. As our plane lifted off, we reflected on the journey we had shared. For Emma and me, it was a chance to see our children discover the joy of India, in all its wonder and complexity. For Hugo, Adam, and Elisabeth, it was the adventure of a lifetime—the year they met an elephant, saw real tigers, and learned that Christmas could be magical, even without snow.
More than twenty years later, those memories remain vivid: the misty forests, the laughter around the fire, the sound of Tara splashing in the river. India gave us the greatest gift of all—shared wonder as a family, and stories we will tell for the rest of our lives.
