‘Jeez!’ I jumped. ‘About three years knocked off my life expectancy, I reckon.’

He laughed and tried to look into the bag.

‘No peeking,’ I told him firmly, nudging him to one side. ‘What did you buy?’

He had far more bags than me, but then he no doubt had more folk to buy for. He certainly seemed to know everyone.

‘No peeking,’ he mimicked, nudging me back. ‘But our time’s up. Let’s go and meet Dolly. I know she’s desperate to see these lights.’

As we drove around the little town, the map from the Wynbridge tourist information representative guiding our way to the illuminations, I could sense Dolly’s excitement to see how everyone else had decorated their homes.

There were plenty of garishly adorned front doors, tinsel toting fence posts and lavishly lit facades and I knew Jonathan would have hated them all. He would have berated everything on display and I realised that my ‘tacky Christmas tat’ comment had indeed come straight from his phrase book, not mine. I would have to watch that. I might not have been a huge fan of the flashing lights and inflatables myself, but my own opinion was nowhere near as harsh as my other half’s, so why express it?

‘I’ve saved the biggest for last,’ said Beamish as we drove out of town. ‘This one is definitely the most spectacular.’

After a mile or two he turned off the narrow twisty road and onto an even more twisty and potholed drive.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ I gasped, my breath catching in my throat as we turned the last corner and were faced with what looked like a stately home. ‘That’s incredible.’

‘That’s Wynthorpe Hall,’ smiled Dolly.

The hall was lifted straight off the pages of a fairy tale and we weren’t the only ones who had turned out to take a look at it. I could see lots of people milling about. The entire house was draped in the warm white lights I had mentioned to Dolly, and was definitely worthy of the coveted front page of a glossy magazine. Noting the rapture on Beamish’s face, I got the impression that he wasn’t likely to tease me about tasteful decorations on this occasion.

‘You introduced me to the owner, didn’t you?’ I said to Dolly as I leaned between the seats to get a better look.

‘That’s right,’ she nodded. ‘Catherine Connelly. This place has been in her family for generations but, like the town, its undergone quite a transformation in recent years.’

‘Her husband, Angus,’ Beamish laughed, ‘is mad keen on Christmas. He’s the one behind the Winter Wonderland.’