It's Christmas in Bournemouth.

It's Christmas in Bournemouth.

The sky was darkening over Bournemouth, the wintry light was fading and in a small corner of Dorset it was Christmas Day. Now to those of you who may have assumed that too many glasses of mulled wine and port may have been consumed it should be pointed out that this was a very special weekend.

Some of us celebrated their birthday and when the festivities were over and Santa Claus plus his merry band of reindeers had paid a fleeting visit to Bournemouth we began to believe that the bloke in the thick red coat really does exist. And yes this was no time warp at all because last Saturday really was Christmas Day and Sunday really was Boxing Day. You have to believe me because it's true and no it wasn't some late and bizarre April Fools joke. We did experience the whole splendour of the festive season a whole month before the real day and we weren't imagining it.

Our wonderful daughter had paid for the most fabulous weekend of light hearted entertainment, a rock and roll guitarist with a jolly line in sharp innuendo and joyful humour while behind him were two other sadly neglected guitars that just looked sorry for themselves. Hair slicked back beautifully in Bill Haley and Comets style, our entertainer promptly proceeded to roll out the back catalogues of Eddie Cochran, Del Shannon, Elvis Presley and Bobby Darrin in a style that suggested that the spirit of 1954 was still with us today.

Meanwhile at the reception desk my wife and I were treated to quite the most spectacular display of Christmas decorations you're ever likely to set eyes upon. There were glitteringly white reindeers in what looked like glass, Christmas trees in rich profusion and a selection of some of the most attractive looking presents this side of Lapland. Now please suspend your imagination for just a while because there was more to come.

In one of the many ornate guest rooms there were yet more homages to the festive season. There were plush Chesterfields, cosy seating with deeply comfortable leather to sink into at your leisure. Beside the fireplace, yet another glorious variety of boxes of Christmas presents nestled next to yet more reindeers. Everywhere you looked you were confronted with quite the most remarkable demonstration of surrealism followed swiftly by some heartily uplifting fun at the same time.

Then the evening arrived and Christmas dinner was lavishly served up with just a hint of knockabout laughter in the air just for good measure. Party hats were distributed, turkey with all the trimmings proudly delivered and then the hotel manager bounded into the dining room dressed as Santa. Red coat tightly strapped to his body and white beard flowing in all manner of directions, we tucked ravenously into the festive fare stifling a gale of giggles and a flurry of chuckles.

Now we would find ourselves as privileged guests at one of the finest bingo nights of all time. In fact every night would be bingo night because that is somehow quintessentially English and you can't beat a good, old fashioned game of bingo over Christmas. People love the thrill of marking their bingo ticket with a cross to acknowledge the simple fact that they could be in line to win a substantial sum of money at the end of it all.

But here we were in bracing and bountiful Bournemouth and the good people of Dorset do like to enjoy themselves. After much number calling and gentle murmurings of excitement, we reached a crescendo of fever pitch when it felt as if the identity of a National Lottery winner was about to be revealed. For one crushing moment of disappointment though this would prove the ultimate let down. It was £20 only and nothing much to write home about to be rounded up with  a princely £100 for the full house.

For some of us though a trip to see the house of one of the greatest of literary authors of all time would be the icing on the cake. Thomas Hardy was, and remains, one of Britain's most deliciously lyrical wordsmiths of all time. Hardy, by profession an eminent architect, designed Max Gate in the very rural heart of Dorchester. For the first time we were given a thorough and superb guide who carefully explained the simple and delightfully furnished interior of the Hardy hearth and home.

Hardy fell in love with the fragrant Emma and spent a considerable amount of his literary life in the quiet serenity of the Wessex countryside. There was a crackling log fire, some well upholstered wooden chairs, shelves groaning with dictionaries, thick history books and a wholesome intimacy about this very welcoming home from home. A coal bucket and frying pan sat re-assuringly in the far corner of the smallest kitchen in the world.

Suddenly, some of us were transported to literary heaven. We were told that Hardy always felt that the very essence of English poetry would become his preferred choice of writing. His now world famous and well documented novels will never ever be forgotten but there were weighty books of Hardy's poetry on several tables. The written word though would always be his forte and the vividly decorative prose would elevate him to the highest of plateaus.

Throughout their married life Hardy and wife Emma would share a troubled private lifestyle. Writing studies would become extensions and new bedrooms. Our guide took me up to Emma's room where a very private letter and a slim volume of her writings were in pristine condition. We discovered that Emma was a sadly unwell woman for much of her life and never ever really received the same level of recognition and adulation as her celebrated husband.

For the man who gave us Tess of the D'Urbevilles, Far From the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure, Return of the Native, the lesser known the Trumpet Major, Under the Greenwood Tree and the Woodlanders, this had to be one of the most memorable day outs for many years now. In fact this was the fulfilment of a very personal ambition and as we left Max Gate you felt as if you'd rubbed shoulders with greatness, sitting right next to the typewriter where all the classical words, sentences and paragraphs would flood out of a fertile mind.

So it was that we left Bournemouth to the familiar strains of 'Auld Lang Syne' on New Year's Eve. You thought for a minute that you'd simply dreamt a yearly festival at the end of the year. Now though it was being re-enacted well over a month before the proper date. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow and if you just closed your eyes and pretended that Thomas Hardy was still with us then everything would be absolutely perfect. Roll on Christmas. Or maybe Christmas has passed and we thought we'd experienced it. Jingle Bells everybody.