In the capital of Asmara, we might have eaten spicy chicken and drank homemade beer, and attended a service at the Italian-built cathedral on the main avenue, but there in our valley we had to create our own festive spirit in the glaring sunshine. For food, we had only goat and popcorn, washed down with strong, freshly brewed coffee and locally made wine. Not the most traditional meal I grant you, but one we relished nevertheless, having eaten only lentils virtually every other day of the year. A surprise package from home arrived at the last minute, containing a whole bag of toffees. We solemnly ate one of these each per day, making them last a good 15 days this time. In one sense at least, I had progressed slightly in the long journey from my childhood into middle age.

As evening fell that festival day and the frogs began their twilight chorus round the lake, we wished each other a merry Christmas and vowed never to take the season for granted again. At the same time, there in our darkening valley in the moonlight, far from the baubles and the jingles, we realised how simple an occasion it can be. A time to understand what really matters: taking part in celebration with people you love. It's an experience shared in a multitude of different ways by every culture the world over.