There's nothing quite like Christmas on the Isle of Man

If two years away had left me in need of a reminder that home can be a peculiar place, waking this morning to the sound of air raid sirens would have done the job. Other places left with such equipment would probably not decide that they could fulfil the dual purposes of summoning volunteer firefighters for their shifts, and signalling the imminent end of days, if only because only one of the two is worth getting out of bed for. But then again, the point of the Isle of Man is that it is not quite like anywhere else.

Blocking traffic to and from the airport to make way for the annual festive tractor run is the sort of idiosyncratic decision that makes the island what it is. It goes without saying that farming implements decked out in lights are a relatively recent addition to the list of holiday traditions, added to the rota along with such jolly seasonal pleasantries as the Yuletide gouge, where merry flight booking websites happily inform you that the cost of a ticket a short way into the Irish Sea could probably get you halfway to Beijing.