At a time of year when we think of men with crowns from the east travelling westwards with gifts, I go in the opposite direction to a place not ventured to for a year. Lewes to be precise: a centre of anarchy where kings, and anyone else deeming themselves to be ‘in charge’, generally get burned. All those fiery crosses and blacked-up faces are a step too far for the uninitiated. I went there once on 5^th November. I might as well have been in outer space for all I understood. Be very afraid.

I’ve been to stay with Bev. I haven’t seen her for ever and a day. Almost to the day. It’s taken us that long to get over the storm-spoiled, chicken-sitting trouble in Provence. I don’t take breakfast which is dangerous. Whether or not one gets any food at Bev’s is a lottery. After all, there was that business with lobster tails in the distant past. I might pass away from malnutrition. However, these days, things have improved greatly. Bev now has a selection of grandsons whom she looks after and there is food in the house; albeit, chopped and mashed. Bev has also changed beyond recognition: she is revitalised by the presence of all these charming small people. How very, very.

The plan, in as much as we two can ever make a plan, is a spot of culture. We are to travel some distance to see some rare frescoes in a Sussex church. This is England in December and the plan is instantly thwarted by the freezing elements. Thus, we must embark a shopathon. Splendid. Firstly, we visit somewhere or other below the Sussex downs. ‘Look for the elephant’, she says amongst the sparsely dressed trees. As ever, I have no idea what she’s talking about but, surprisingly, we find The Trading Post and it’s glorious. I make some purchases and secure a discount on the basis that I will mention them in my blog. They think I’m famous. Possibly not, but here I am keeping my word.

Bev pretends she can’t cook. Then she presents a roast beef dinner to die for. Actually, as I sink into my cosy bed, full of cow, I could die happily. But there’s shopping in Lewes to undertake the next day. To be honest, Lewes has let itself down with its Christmas decorations – there aren’t any. However, there is late night shopping. In Lewes, they only have one night of this and the whole town is out and about. My very favourite bit was the horses. Harvey’s Brewery still deliver their beer by drays and the enormous, beautiful, shiny black Shires were out in the street, amenable to petting by the masses. I’ll forgive Lewes the lack of decorations for where else can we be both spoiled by such animals and an archaeologist explaining all the wonderful local finds with such enthusiasm. And we bought all the gifts we didn’t even know we were searching for. I once wrote a Weasel entitled ‘Lewes is Lovely’ and it is. Odd, but lovely.

The next morning, the house is over-run with tiny folk. On my way in search of coffee, I inadvertently succeed in overloading the smallest with a Weetabix. Job done, I look around this Sussex war zone. It’s 9am and Bev is fighting to dress an 8 month old person. It’s time for me to leave. Returning westwards, I am, worryingly, stuck behind a Daish Holidays’ bus. Caliphate Coaches, have superseded camels. Who knows what gifts are on board? I am too afraid to comment further.