Mairi ladled some Sowans into everyone’s bowls and we all tucked in. It was delicious, sweet and stodgy … and very filling. Dylan and Cole went in for seconds as the others shook their heads, their bellies full.

‘Right,’ Oscar said, standing up when we’d finished. ‘Ready to go out in the cold dark night?’

Everyone stood up with him, a buzz in the air.

‘We’re going outside? I asked.

‘Yep, for the jolly old burning of the rowan tree,’ Glenn declared.

I looked at them in surprise.

Dylan laughed. ‘Just the twigs. Mum makes us do it every year.’

‘Even when there was a blizzard last year,’ Cole added.

‘It’s important,’ Mairi said in a firm voice. ‘Otherwise …’

‘There’ll be bad luck all year long,’ everyone said, mimicking her strong Scottish accent.

She rolled her eyes but I could see the affection there.

‘Up for it?’ Dylan asked.

I laughed. ‘I’m the winter queen. I’m always up for standing in the freezing cold. Only problem is, my coat is soaking wet.’

‘No problem,’ Cole said. ‘I’m sure we can rummage a few things together.’

They all lent me various items – an oversized but thick coat from Alison, gloves from Heather, a thick mustard-coloured scarf from Dylan that smelt of him. And finally a navy blue hat from Cole. We all headed out through the back door and a thrill of excitement rippled through me. I felt part of something, this strange family ritual.

Snow lay thick on the ground, so thick I could hardly make out the garden, just various white foamy forms in the dark, the forest and mountains tall and silver in the background. We stopped under a large leafless tree, its branches caked with snow, and Dylan reached up, carefully snapped off branches and handed one to each of us.

I thought of all the birds who relied on the rowan’s berries come autumn and winter, birds I’d filmed in the past. I remember once, during a filming stint in Yorkshire, a flock of redwings were found dead or dying after eating fermented rowan berries. I’d always remember the sight of them on the frosted ground, their speckled plump chests still as they stared wide-eyed into nothingness.

‘Everyone got a stick?’ Mairi asked, pulling me from the dark memories.

We all nodded so she led us towards a large chimenea. Cole set the fire going inside with some cinder and logs until flames began roaring, their heat warming my cheeks. Then we each took it in turns to throw a branch from the rowan tree into the fire, the flames leaping up to catch them and turn them to cinder, its strong smell curling towards us.

‘As each branch burns,’ Mairi said, throwing hers into the fire last, ‘all bad feelings will be put aside for Yuletide.’