Welcome to snowy Lapland… it’s just off the M3 in Berkshire 

The snow is deep and crisp and even, the air thick with the smell of gingerbread. Christmas tree lights twinkle as children slide and skid on a frozen circle of ice and, when we finally meet the man in red, he’s so darn believable, I find myself a little moist of eye at the magic of it all.

This glittering winter wonderland, where elves dance, Mother Christmas bakes and reindeer graze, does a fine impression of the North Pole. Except we’re just off the M3 in Berkshire.

For the past three years, Lapland UK has cloaked the towering Scots pines of Whitmoor Forest, near Ascot, in faux snow and transformed a pedestrian patch of woodland into, well, Father Christmas’s patch of woodland.

It’s not hard to convince my two, Belle, five, and Cleo, two, that we’ve genuinely made it Chez Santa. Even the weather is convincing, sharp enough to tinge Rudolph’s nose red.

The format is polished; there’s an air of Disney swirling about the place. Until Christmas Eve, thousands of families will come here, but there’s no queuing.

A luxury welcome tent sees visitors chaperoned in groups through the Enchanted Forest for a three-and-a-half hour experience that includes toy-making, icing gingerbread men in a cosy bake-house and skating on a proper ice rink.

Free time lets little ones pet huskies, post their December 25 wish-list and prepare for the crescendo; the all-important tete-a-tete with Old St Nick.

So, who goes? Mostly, it is the preserve of middle-class parents who like their Christmas free of neon lights and Slade songs, even if that means paying about £300 a family. Oh, and celebrities; the website carries glowing praise from Elton John, no less.

When bearded elf Sage, who might have stepped off the West End stage, asks the sea of children before us what they’d like to unwrap this year, ‘hope’ offers one angelic soul, ‘peace’ adds another.

“The format is polished; there’s an air of Disney swirling about the place. Until Christmas Eve, thousands of families will come here, but there’s no queuing”

“A luxury welcome tent sees visitors chaperoned in groups through the Enchanted Forest for a three-and-a-half hour experience that includes toy-making and icing gingerbread men”

Finally, my mischievous father-in-law booms: ‘Presents!’ and Sage looks almost relieved, fearing a lean day in the pretty village shops that await us.

Reassuringly, raging consumerism is alive and well, and the tills chime along with the jaunty music. The Enchanted Forest operates on the currency of Elf Jingles where one Jingle is equivalent to a British pound; a small soft toy reindeer will set you back 15 of them, a hot chocolate four and a Russian-style fur hat 50.

With an early-morning slot, though, we find ourselves only needing tea (a reasonable two Jingles a cup) to sustain us.

The grandparents, who are Christmas-mad, are smitten. And the children are, for almost four hours, wide-eyed and mesmerised. Belle, my Bambi on ice, has to be dragged from the rink, begging for just ‘ten more goes around’.

Likewise, we have to liberate Cleo from the brace of ice-eyed huskies, who don’t seem to mind that she’s patted them 100 times already.

When our Father Christmas moment comes, we bypass a trio of reindeer, a vintage sleigh and a blacksmith bashing out shoes for Prancer, Dancer and co.

The Narnia-esque path gets narrower and finally an elf ushers us to the cute wooden chalet where Santa sits by a toasty fire.

His cheeks are rosy, his beard a mass of tumbling white curls and his belly rotund. He knows their names (ah, the power of email), he knows that Belle likes ballet and Cleo is crackers about swimming.

They are dumbstruck and forget to say thank you when he hands them two luxuriant husky dog toys. The grandparents glow, we dab our eyes. And we sing carols all the way home.