where a flag once came down from heaven

The sound of many voices singing "Holy, Holy, Holy" is rising from an ancient church on Sunday morning. Outside the souvenir shop next door, a plastic Santa is playing a tinny, noisy version "Jingle Bells".

The contrast could symbolise this entire December weekend. I pull up my hood against the winter rain and keep walking, stubbornly excited, along slippery cobblestoned streets.

I saw a glimpse of the "real" Tallinn when we slipped into one of the modern shopping centres that looked exactly like any shopping centre in Helsinki, a two-hour ferry ride away. The old town, where we spend most of the weekend, is a wondrous world of winding streets, tall church spires, glowing windows, thick town walls and fortified towers and everything you expect from the most romantic of medieval settings.

It is also an isolated little world of fragrant Christmas spices, alluring restaurants, gaudy souvenir shops and rosy-cheeked tourists snapping selfies - all quaintness and mulled wine.

It may not be very authentic but it's easy to get sucked into the happy carefreeness. To exclaim over Gothic vaults and the glow of Baltic amber, to drink cinnamon beer allegedly made from an old monastery recipe, to drift around cozy cafés and majestic churches among crowds of Russians and Scandinavians. It doesn't matter that the cold is creeping in and that the cobblestones are grey with rain. We're on holiday, chestnuts are roasting and we're having ourselves a merry little Christmas.