The sudden intrusion of another plethora of memories ensured I didn’t linger, but instead wove my way back around the narrow lanes and out of the village, failing to spot the sea because the tide was too far out. As the road twisted and turned, I fell to wondering if Wynter’s Trees was going to look as cared for as the village and I didn’t have to wait many minutes to find out.

‘Well, that’s new,’ I observed, as I turned off the road and on to the drive. ‘Welcome to Wynter’s,’ I read aloud, as I opened the passenger side window and leant across the seats to take in the personalised board which told visitors they’d arrived.

The sign was well over eight-foot high and featured a very jolly Santa, sleigh and reindeer soaring over what looked like the acreage owned by Wynter’s Trees.

The artist had done a good job and I wondered how much it had cost to have a bespoke sign designed and painted. I couldn’t remember any email about it but I knew I could have done it for a fraction of the cost. Then I remembered that I didn’t draw or paint for myself anymore so it wasn’t worth thinking about.

I put the car in gear, released the stubborn handbrake and carried on along the drive, which was now enchantingly flanked on either side by rows of tall red and white striped candy canes. They lit the way in the gathering darkness and, like the sign, weren’t the only new additions. There was also a five-bar gate blocking entry to the yard, but even if there hadn’t been, I would have rolled to a stop at that point anyway.

‘Wow,’ I whispered, pulled up short by the sight of the lodge, which was on my left and set back, almost amongst the trees.

Tears pricked my eyes as I took it in and acknowledged that my memory had failed me. In my head it was much smaller and I’d forgotten how intricately carved and painted the bargeboards which gave the place its authentic gingerbread feel, even in the height of summer, were. It was a home fit for Santa himself and for a few years it had been mine. They might have been unhappier than I would have wished for, but there was no denying, the aesthetic was idyllic.

The lights in the lodge were all switched on, giving the rooms a warm glow, and there was smoke curling out of the chimney. David had gone above and beyond to welcome me back and my intensely emotional response to the sight of the lodge, which I had never formerly felt any affection for, was a surprise. However, it wasn’t quite as much of a shock as the piercing noise of an alarm which began to screech when I tried to open the gate.