It has been calculated that Father Christmas would have to cover more than 100 million miles, travelling at 1,000 miles per second, in order to be able to make all his promised deliveries in one night. Now, either that means the Santa thing is all a load of rubbish, or it’s all a load of magic. We favour the latter. And that’s because we — my son Jonah, age six, and I — went to see him. The real one, that is, at his home in Lapland.

It started well. Above Helsinki, our pilot had to go into a holding pattern due to air-traffic congestion. Too many reindeer training for the big event, I explained to the boy. By the time we arrived at Kittila — 1.30pm — it was already getting dark. Or not beginning to get light. It’s more famous as the summer land of the midnight sun, but in winter, Lapland is the land of the midday dark.

And so we boarded a coach, nice and snug, and drove through the black-and-white night to Harriniva, a wilderness- holiday centre on the edge of a national park. Originally built as a stopover for German adventurers on their way to the North Pole, the huge family-run log cabin stands on the banks of the River Muonio, which we couldn’t really see because it just looked like more snow.

On the inside, the cabin had the look of a sauna — so cosy and comforting that I half thought I might spend the next couple of days inside, without bothering to venture into the wickedly cold world beyond.

IN OUR room we found a wardrobe full of clothes belonging to a giant and his giant son. The monster outfits — thermal shell suits, moon boots, gloves and top mittens, tea-cosy hats and Johnny English balaclavas — were picked from the Harriniva stores according to the measurements we had posted ahead.

The next morning — well insulated — the winter fun began: swaddled in deerskins, we rode out on a sleigh pulled by a reindeer that I passed off as Rudolph, explaining how his nose shines only for night flights; we mush-mushed a team of huskies through a silent, duvet world of snow, ice and a million and one conifers; I snowmobiled; we tobogganed; and, later, drank mulled rosehip tea around a fire inside a Sami tepee. We were offered the chance to swim in the ice hole, but said no thanks, some other time perhaps. We had had enough for one day.

Or almost. Father Christmas was the star turn. Jonah and I were bundled up in elkskins in a sled pulled by the “playmobile” (snowmobile) and driven across the snowy meadows. Even buried deep beneath our layers of Ranulph Fiennes-wear, we had a sense of the wild, icy breath of death licking across the valley floor. We looked for the northern lights, those magical wisps of fluorescent trails fanned by the solar wind, but cloud obscured the sky.

For the last half mile or so, the track through the forest was lined with flaming torches. We saw a lonely cabin, lights radiating from within like an Advent calendar. Elves greeted us at the door and took us into Father Christmas’s home for a private audience. Inside, another pair were busy wrapping presents, while the man himself sat in a big throne of a chair.

I was half dreading the encounter, imagining all sorts of naff jollity, with giveaway glimpses of Hush Puppies and M&S ankle socks peeking from the bottom of the red robes. But here was a real pro, oozing homespun fireside wisdoms — his beard big and bushy enough to hide a flock of starlings, little round specs, big red boots and rouged cheeks. I was impressed and so was the boy, who, for a rare moment in his waking life, was reduced to silent gawping. When he shook hands, I thought he was about to teeter over backwards. Afterwards, all he could recall was, “He was very old, about 69,” and, “His house was nice and warm and his bed was very long.”

Santa also turned up after supper on the last night. He pulled up in his reindeer sleigh and all the children charged across the dining room. He staggered in with the help of a cane, sat encircled by kids and opened his sack, giving each child exactly what they had written to ask for. Now there’s magic for you.

If you don’t want to spoil things, shut your eyes now: I had brought the present along, and sneaked it to the tour operator’s rep on arrival.

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