WE had missed our children and grandchildren at Christmas because we spent the holiday period in Spain, welcoming and supporting the arrival of our ninth grandchild. Normally we go back to the UK every Christmas and May, but having missed out at Christmas, we opted to fly back in February, taking in the half-term.

People always ask me what I miss most living in France, family and friends apart. There are number of things but after nine years, I think I have finally decided my priority list.

For some strange reason fish’n’chips have joined that list although I doubt if I had them more than twice a year at most when we lived in the UK. Perhaps it is just that you miss what is English when in France, and that standard British fare is such a contrast.

My list of things I miss is Indian curries, Thai meals, fish‘n’chips and real ale: hardly exclusively English.

At Christmas, when we Skyped the family, we saw Abbie in Dubai with the girls, sitting outside in the sun; Lucie in Sarratt having a low-key day; Sophie in Bushey and Tara in Oxfordshire. It was the latter that gave me the most poignant moment when Tara’s husband Marc said: “We are just off to The Plough at Sulgrave.”

He knew he was turning the knife but probably even he would have been surprise how my taste-buds screamed for a pint of Old Hookey.

At 6.0pm, on the first night back. I met some friends, some of whom I had known from the early 60s and some from a decade later. We had much to catch up on, but thankfully only one recent funeral. We met up at The Cock, Sarratt, where I had cut my drinking teeth and continued to consume real ale for the next 40-odd years.

We were only there for two hours before they had to head for the homes and evening meals.

“Have you been in training?” they asked.

Yes I had consumed five pints of Sussex in two hours and never noticed the fact. It slid down so effortlessly. I had waited so long and just as we broke up our get-together, I was thinking of a sixth.

I managed to get in six pints of Old Hookey during a two-day stay at our daughter’s near Brackley, and a few more different pints as well. It is not good for the waist line but it went some way to curing the thirst.

Two Thai meals, four curries, three portions of fish’n’chips later it was time to go home. We had indulged ourselves but the thing I miss most, I have now decided, is real ale.

We went to Stratford-upon-Avon with one group of grand-daughters. They are very into horses and ride regularly. I have never been into horses. At a young age I attended a fair on Kings Langley Common. I could take you to the spot where my parents set me on a horse for a treat. The horse took on pace forward and it transpired the girth had not been tightened. The saddle, on the back of the horse, slid quickly to come to rest on the beast’s stomach. Not an insurmountable problem I grant you but as I was still in the saddle staring at the horse’s nether quarters, it was problem enough for me.

I have ridden donkeys and I loved mastering a camel, but horses engender wariness in me, probably because of that experience when young.

However, the girls spotted a horse sanctuary en route and I turned and took them there. It was Redwings Horse Sanctuary near Banbury, part of a chain and a registered charity.

I was very impressed with the condition of the sanctuary and more importantly the horses; so impressed I made a donation and, just to demonstrate how carried away I became, I actually patted and stroked some of the horses, making sure none of them realised I was scared.

Each enclosure had a set number of horses and ponies and before and after pictures were on display, along with their names, ages and height. One horse particularly caught my eye, not just because of the before and after pictures and subsequently I realised why. It was only natural: his name is Oliver.

Certainly worth a visit even if you are not into horses.

We had a look round Stratford and saw some of the sights including the impressive butterfly farm. Then the girls went shopping while I stood outside various clothes emporiums and watched the world go by. Then I spotted a shop which used to be in Watford: Thorntons. I was off across the road buying a few packets of traditional toffee, which made the shopping trip wholly acceptable to my mind.

On the way back, I took a little detour. I had seen a sign and it rang a bell: Edge Hill. We drove through the village and back, passing a mini-castle that was closed for restaurant refurbishment, would you believe. There was nothing to confirm I was wrong or right: not a sign or a plaque. Peerhaps I was having a made senior moment.

When we got back to my daughter’s, I went on the Internet. Yes, I was right. The Battle of Edge Hill was fought just below where the castle restaurant is today. The castle was erected 100 years after the battle, to commemorate it.

Strange isn’t it? An historic battle, the first of the Civil War, was fought there and nothing we could find in the village to say so.

It was not a decisive battle in that neither Parliament nor the King won but it was decisive in other ways. Had one of the sides emerged victorious, the war might well have ended. As they all lived to fight another day, it went on for six more years.

I just thought it was worth a mention but it would appear I am the only one..