Bunches of grapes hang improbably from the naked vines that drape the fence, some maintaining the deception of succulence, others wizened, shrinking away from the wind’s icy probings.  The progress of pedestrians towards the bus stop is charted in sound by the barking of dogs banished to gardens, the raised hackles of guard duty, a display of ferocity encouraged by the protective barrier of the gate.

Our arrival had proven smoother than anticipated, the airport authorities having imported scabs from elsewhere in Europe to alleviate the chaos caused by the strike, throngs of disgruntled passengers queuing to pass through the metal detectors.

We removed out outdoor shoes, but not our coats or scarves, as the heating could not be coaxed into life, turning the thermostat dial to full blast nothing more than an exercise in misplaced optimism.  Even taking refuge beneath double eiderdown-filled duvets offered little comfort (and after the plumber had shown us how to bleed the pipes several hours elapsed before we noticed any difference in temperature, G dragging a foam mattress and bedding down to the boiler room’s dark yet warm confines).

Mass redundancies and industrial action exacerbate the winter gloom.  “Balkan wages, EU prices!” the slogan neatly encapsulating the woes of the average Hungarian.  According to Professor László Bogár, the cost of the weekly shop is 20% cheaper in Austria, whilst salaries across the border are over four times higher.

A dead swallow putrefies slowly in front of the conservatory pane, the agent of its demise.

Having unloaded the provisions, four 750g jars of Speculoos paste and Cherry Bakewells (which have ousted Bramley Apple Pies in my son’s fickle teenage affections), we clambered into the fostalicska [diarrhoea wheelbarrow], alternatively nicknamed the Commiemobile (in spite of having been manufactured in the decadent capitalist West), our conveyance for the duration of the holiday, to pick up G the following morning.  Halfway round the ring road (with the recently opened elegant suspension bridge, not named according to the outcome of the public poll, after Chuck Norris, the will of the people having been deemed too vulgar, though one of the other suggestions, Géza Hofi, would have been a fitting tribute to the much-loved comedian), the car, which boasts the dubious distinction of being the cheapest four-wheel drive vehicle in the entire country, a 22-year-old Toyota Tercel, began shuddering and simultaneously producing alarming metallic clanking noises, as if imminently about to blow itself to bits (I kept on peering through the back window, expecting to see the exhaust pipe being unceremoniously jettisoned onto the pristine tarmac, a strange repetition of when my Mother had driven me to be interviewed at Herriot-Watt University in her Austin Allegro, Sam).  Somehow the Hungarian managed to cajole it as far as the car park, half an hour after G had landed.

The final breakdown only happened a third of the way along the main road from the airport.  It wasn’t the fault of the bone-juddering potholes, between which drivers of more delicate or expensive vehicles swerve in the Demszky slalom, as the fostalicska has amply demonstrated its imperviousness to such punishment.  We pulled over onto a mud track running parallel to the official lane, plunging into puddles before grinding to a definitive halt beneath a hoarding with a gleaming-toothed beauty seductively sipping coffee (conveniently near a bus stop, although, this being Hungary, you cannot purchase a ticket on board, and we were able to ascertain from a friendly passer-by that neither an orange BKV machine nor a trafik kiosk was within easy walking distance).   Right on cue, when our initial amusement at the misfortune that had befallen us was on the brink of turning sour, a taxi appeared (we joked that the fare home would almost exceed the value of the Commiemobile).  We wondered whether, having just filled the tank, we would return with a tow to discover that it had been siphoned into a jerry can – nothing would really have surprised us by that stage, as, when we had lent the car to our friend Predator, someone had attempted to break in, making it impossible to open the front door on the passenger side (consigning me to the back seat, only G being lithe enough to clamber over).  Beyond a rancid old blanket, the only conceivable booty could be the built-in radio, as ancient as the car itself.  Nobody but the truly desperate would consider stealing it.

In an effort to salvage some cheer after our minor mishaps, G and the Hungarian brought back a trophy of the seasonal slaughter of immature firs, a magnificent specimen from Norway, which we proceeded to decorate in breach of local tradition (the custom here involves adorning the tree with tinsel and baubles on the evening of the 24th).  We had managed a trip to the hypermarket prior to heading for the airport, filling several carrier bags with szaloncukor, which we attached to threads and draped over the branches.  The Hungarian has an annoying habit of plundering the contents of the shiny wrappers but not removing them, so that numerous disappointments precede chocolatey gratification.  This year, the sweets are colour-coded: silver for yoghurt flavour, red with silver bells and blue bows for rum and cocoa and red with stars for strawberry-jelly.