Page 15 of Home This Christmas

Our conversation is interrupted then, as a formidable-looking woman in a navy suit taps a microphone and makes a formal introduction.

Marilyn tells me she is founder of the newly formed Women’s Institute, when I ask.

Apparently, the old club had all but folded, but lately there are lots of younger mums keen to learn how to knit clothes and make Victoria sponge, so it appears to be enjoying something of a resurgence.

‘And so, without further ado, I would like to welcome Ruby Holmes to join me, in our very own village bakery, that she was once so familiar with,’ introduces the lady, her face breaking into a smile that transforms her face.

‘And of course you will be ably assisted in your decisions by local farmer and amateur baker Nathan Woods.’

I can hardly believe my eyes, as I watch Nathan push his way through the crowds to the sound of applause, before he takes his place beside me. And amateur baker, really?

‘Oh wow, what a welcome,’ I address a sea of faces, scanning the crowd for anyone familiar as my heart hammers in my chest. Is Nathan really here to assist with the judging?

Did he know I would be judging too? Surely not, otherwise I’m sure he would never have agreed.

I did answer late, because I was ill… Perhaps he was their back-up, and then when they finally heard back from me, it was too late for him to pull out.

I spot several people I recognise, who are much older now, but otherwise the crowd is mainly children and, it would also appear, younger couples who must have bought houses and settled here in the village.

‘Firstly, may I thank you for welcoming me back here. Back home,’ I tell the assembled crowd, some taking pictures with their camera phones. ‘I have been reminded what a wonderful village Brindleford is, and clearly still a thriving community. Maybe more so than ever,’ I add.

‘We are indeed a thriving community,’ Nathan confirms. ‘Moving with the times. There is something here for everyone,’ he says proudly.

‘The people of the village are always here to help each other out in a crisis, so let’s hear it for Penny for stepping up and saving the competition at the eleventh hour.

And, of course, everyone involved in helping. ’

‘Hear, hear!’ shouts someone in the crowd.

Nathan leads the crowd into thunderous applause.

‘Well, I, for one, simply cannot wait to taste all these wonderful gingerbread creations,’ I continue, keen to get this over with. ‘Although they are so pretty it seems almost a shame to eat them. There is nothing like home-made confectionery,’ I tell the crowd. ‘So may the best gingerbread win!’

‘You never told me you were going to be a judge here today,’ I whisper to Nathan as I head towards the table to the sound of more applause.

‘You never asked.’ He shrugs.

He is dressed in jeans, and a smart checked shirt, and the hot guy in the Christmas movie I watched pops into my head.

A little girl tugs at my coat sleeve, distracting me out of my flustered state. ‘I’ve seen you on the telly.’ She grins. ‘I watched your cookery show with my mum the other night,’ she informs me.

‘Did you?’ I smile at the rosy-cheeked girl who is wearing a red dress.

‘Yes. She said you would be here today, but I didn’t believe her. Nobody famous ever comes here.’ She pouts.

‘Well, I am here. And I am pleased you enjoyed the cookery show.’

‘I did… Mum said we might make the Christmas chocolate brownies, but without the gold leaf on the top. But then, they are not really Christmas brownies, are they, without gold?’ She frowns, and even though she may be right about them not being festive-looking without the glitter, I believe that some things should not be tampered with.

I recently saw a viral craze suggesting glitter gravy for Christmas lunch, which is something I will most definitely not be trying.

‘Pippa, come away.’

A young woman takes the little girl by the hand and apologises, before hurrying off.

I inhale the unmistakeable smell of ginger, spices and treacle, as we approach the table, and I look forward to taking my first bite of the confectionery.

Some offerings on display are traditional houses, one adorned with a dusting of red edible glitter on the roof, the doors and windows drawn on simply with an icing pen.

Another is a flashback to a different decade, with peaks of stiff icing creating a snowy rooftop complete with Santa, snowman, trees and red robins.

A gingerbread family make me smile, as does an impressive garden complete with tall trees and a bench. There is an accurate replica of the village hall, and I realise what a bunch of talented bakers there are here in Brindleford. They would all make worthy contestants on The Nation’s Best Baker.

I take a bite of a rather delicious slice of moist, fragrant gingerbread, before making my way around the table and sampling everything that is on offer.

Nathan joins me in the tasting, and I can feel all eyes on us, as we make our way around the display.

His closeness is stirring something in me, something I’m not ready to acknowledge.

‘I think this may be one of my more pleasant jobs,’ I remark, trying to keep the conversation light. ‘Some of this gingerbread is truly delicious,’ I say, savouring the tasty gingerbread.

‘As good as you can get in London?’ asks Nathan with a raised eyebrow.

‘Oh please.’ I roll my eyes. ‘You ought to try the pastries in a place near my apartment. They are melt-in-the-mouth fabulous.’

‘Oh I have heard everything about those artisan bakeries,’ replies Nathan. ‘Almost a tenner for a Danish pastry that probably costs a quid to make. If that.’

‘You prefer yours wrapped in a doily then, sold alongside sacks of potatoes?’ I retort.

‘You’ve changed,’ he says with a shake of his head, and I am not sure if he is joking.

Truthfully, though, some of this home-made gingerbread is some of the best I have ever tasted. Not that I tell Nathan this.

‘One of the church volunteers generally bags first prize,’ Nathan whispers. ‘But I don’t think her gingerbread is quite up to scratch this year.’ He chews thoughtfully. ‘There is a little too much ginger, and not enough treacle,’ he decides, and I wonder when he turned into Paul Hollywood.

He leans over to try another piece of gingerbread, and when our hands go for the same plate and briefly touch, a bolt of electricity shoots through me.

Eventually, we place the cards with the winners in front of their offerings. My heart is thumping, and I wonder what on Earth is going on here. I just want this to be over with so I can head back to the place I now call home.

I take the microphone and invite the winner, one Esme Jones, onto the stage to collect her trophy and a hamper of Christmas treats.

‘Wow, I can’t believe it, thank you so much! I think there was a lot of stiff competition, as all of the gingerbread creations looked marvellous,’ she says kindly, and I observe a couple of clearly disappointed faces, who force a smile as the crowd bursts into applause.

Esme – who is around my age and a bubbly redhead – is the creator of the sleek, unfussy house with the red roof, that hands down tasted better than anything else on the table.

‘Gosh, this is amazing, I never win anything,’ she says excitedly.

‘Thanks again.’ She raises her trophy aloft and the little girl who had talked to me earlier jumps up and down excitedly beside her, as along with the trophy, there is a hamper prize containing a bottle of mulled wine, some hot chocolate and marshmallows.

Bottles of mulled wine and wooden baking spoons are also handed out to second and third place.

Watching Esme with her daughter makes me fleetingly wonder if I will ever have a child to attend fetes with and feel the magic of Christmas.

‘Right, see you later, then.’ Nathan disappears with his phone glued to his ear, after answering a call.

‘Your gingerbread really is amazing,’ I tell Esme as I try to gather my thoughts. I am not sure what just happened there, or why I feel a twinge of disappointment that Nathan has disappeared without a backward glance.

‘Thanks. I must admit, I have been doing a lot of baking lately with my daughter, as well as gifting cakes and biscuits to friends and family. I got some inspiration from the cookery show you hosted. And, of course, from the bakery here.’

Hosting the show briefly inspired me too, but with so many good bakeries on my doorstep in London, I rarely feel the need to roll up my sleeves and get stuck into some home baking.

Being here reminds me of how much I used to enjoy it, though.

It was a good way to de-stress after a hectic day, although I often had no one to gift the bakes too, other than my work pals.

I barely know my neighbours after all. There would be a host of grateful recipients around here, I’m sure, and requests for cakes for school and village fetes.

It is another reminder of the sense of community here.

‘The bakery here is fabulous, isn’t it?’ I agree. ‘And it was so nice that Penny stepped up and agreed to host the competition here.’

‘It’s the least I could do,’ Penny pipes in as she passes by and overhears. ‘Plus, it pays to advertise.’ She winks. ‘I have already had one or two people sign up for the new bread-making classes after Christmas.’

‘Would you mind if I have a photo with you?’ an older lady tentatively asks as she approaches the table. ‘I will send it to my sister who lives in Liverpool. She is a big fan of your shows.’

I duly oblige, and it inspires several other people to ask of a selfie together. Maybe I really am a little more famous than I ever realised…