A view from the Cartford bar...

Setting aside political disasters and tragedies, it's been a great month for fun. An 18^th century writer called Francis Hutcheson once claimed, 'That action is best which procures the greatest happiness for the greatest numbers.' I reckon he must have been referring to the chap who introduced horse meat into supermarket burgers. I haven't seen so much hilarity for years, nor heard such a variety of dreadful puns. If Cameron had the sense to claim the credit he'd romp away with the next election.

Gallic thigh and seafood pie ...

One swing of the Cartford Inn's door was all it took to transport us from a dark, dripping, rainswept December night to a festive haven of subdued light and soft music. Ari, fresh from another term at Uni and apparently still growing, welcomed us with a smile that sparked like the famous Cartford log fire. In our chosen corner we sipped Pino Grigio and perused the menu. I make a notable pea and ham soup myself but could the Cartford kitchen team really incorporate black pudding and soft-poached egg into that traditional recipe? They could and did – with gratifying results. All around us the decorations reflected the candles' glow in gold and scarlet. Julie approached at speed, wearing her welcoming grin and scary spectacles as she prepared the tables for a big party.

The seafood pie is not for the faint-hearted or the dietary fanatical, but for a hungry man with a liking for rich flavours it was a culinary treat! Every forkful was savoured. 'I'll have a blue Christmas,' warbled Johnny Cash in the background. The candle on our table flickered momentarily, throwing Patty's face into warm relief. I raised my Talisker glass and watched the firelight dance in its honeyed depths. Mr Cash's Christmas may have been blue but ours was looking rosier by the minute.

Eventually – and what an elastic-sided word that can be when dining at the Cartford - we prepared to tackle the north face of Cartford Brow. Patrick offered to drive us home.  As we climbed in we caught a distinct flash of sturdy Gallic thigh. Fresh from a night in the hot kitchen wearing his shorts, Patrick appeared to be, as they nearly say in Pilling, 'sans culottes'. As a simple Fylde country lad I viewed the proximity of a trouserless French hotelier with mixed feelings but it didn't half bring a gleam to Patty's eye.

Lunar Lambing...

If you'd been in the Cartford Inn on January 19 you might have heard this intellectual argument based on my daughter Kate's farm in far away South Wales. Despite the scientific accuracy of the ewes' impregnation, (if you don't know, better not to ask) the first lambs have been appearing several days early. The family went into conference. They hadn't taken January's new moon into account. New moon and full moon, apparently, can affect gestation periods and the timing of births.

I explained this theory to the Cartford's Friday night brains trust. They sneered. They scoffed. They jeered. Agricultural phrases such as 'bullmanure' and 'spherical objects' abounded. I weighed their opinion against generations of Welsh farmlore and experience. No contest. If that little moon can drag countless billions of tons of sea water across the face of the earth and back, who could doubt its effect on a lamb in the womb – or those spherical objects?