So, apparently warm Christmas beer is a thing. I didn’t think it should be but in Belgium it’s the thing to drink when the days get nippy and it’s very nice.

I know this because we’ve just enjoyed our traditional pre Christmas jaunt to a festive market - the brainchild of my sister, who obviously feared several years ago that she might be forced at some point to offer to cook dinner to celebrate my December birthday and wanted to offer up an alternative.

Over the past few years it’s become an eagerly anticipated part of the Christmas build up as we look forward to mulled wine for breakfast and any available local delicacy for lunch, dinner and the odd snack in between.

This year my sister suggested a trip to Ghent in Belgium.

“It’s perfect,” she said. “We can go over on the Eurotunnel. Ghent is only an hour and a bit from Calais so we can stop off on the way back and top up with some goodies for Christmas.”

Unusually for us there were very few dramas on the drive to the tunnel although despite being early we still managed to miss the train.

“It doesn’t matter, it’s still a short drive on the other side,” said my sister calmly. “We’ll be in the house in time to go out for dinner.”

Emerging from the tunnel we had a short pitstop at the supermarket to pick up some essentials and we were off.

“Your sat nav is saying it’s going to take almost three hours,” said the housemate peering at the screen.

“I must have done something wrong,” I replied. "We’ll just follow them,”

Three hours later my sister paged us on our holiday walkie-talkies - because yes, we are that professional about holidaying.

“I’ve no idea where we are!” She wailed.

“I thought we’d arrived when we drove through that little village about an hour ago,” I said.

“Me too,” she replied. “But I think that was just a diversion because the motorway was closed.”

“At least we’re in Ghent,” chipped in The Mother from the back of the car where she couldn’t get her hands on the walkie-talkies which she has been known to use to strike up conversations with random and possibly lonely lorry drivers.

“The house is there,” said my brother-in-law pointing to a dot on the map. “But we’re there and I can’t see how to get between the two places.” “We do seem to have driven around this block quite a few times,” said the housemate. “Do you think this house even exists,” she added, asking the question we’d all been afraid to raise.

“I’m going to ask that woman on a bike,” said my sister pointing generally in the direction of several hundred women on bikes.

“Oh you need to be over there,” said the helpful lady leaning her steed against a wall.

“I know…but do you have any idea how we get there,” asked my sister.

“Not a clue,” came the reply.

“Driving in Belgium is a nightmare. That’s why we all ride bikes,” she laughed pedalling away into the frosty night.