A Very Dibley New Year

Dibley (my parents' village, code-named here a) for descriptive purposes and b) in case of reprisals) is awesome. It is the anti-London in so many ways, most of them good, some of them hilarious, all of them peaceful and quiet.

Quiet that is, until there's any cause for celebration and then all is disrupted and raucous carousal ensues. This village, buried deep in the Tamar Valley, celebrates everything - from Burns Night to Wassailing to Apple Harvest - which means that when quiet does descend it's normally the result of the whole village having a hangover, or being off celebrating something else in a neighbouring hamlet. So while it might seem slightly strange that this year I ditched London in favour of a village with a population of 300, it was with good reason.

In fact, so confident was I of the new years offering here at Dibley, I got Sian, her boyfriend Marc and Marc's boyfriend Graham to ditch London for Dibley too. And it didn't let us down.

Dibley at New Year has an incredible sense of unity and community - the entire village goes to the pub and then, at 11.50 the pub gives everyone champagne and sends them to the church next door. No, you didn't misread, The Church. And there, in the church-yard, propping their tipsy selves up on 100 year old grave stones, while the bells ring the old year out and the new year in, everyone joins hands and makes up the words to Auld Lang Syne. Then goes back to the pub.

Incongruous though it may be, this tradition is somehow perfect and just thinking of it makes me feel philanthropic - something I don't think London ever made me feel. Because somehow at the heart of all Dibley Hullabaloo, there is a sense of calm confidence. Maybe it's the assurance of traditions or community enduring, or maybe it's just the fact that when you look up at night you see the stars rather than murky light pollution, but either way, celebrations in Dibley are somehow more frank and heartfelt than their cooler, glitzier city cousins.

The very best bit about a Dibley New Year is that on new years day, instead of festering in a bottle-strewn hangover pit, fires are lit, breakfast is readily available and the world outside has green fields and fresh air to offer as a cure. So off we went, Sian and I, pretending to be 10 again and tramping our way across fields, swinging across quicksand, skipping through swamps and clambering over trees while Marc and Graham (stuck being 28) trailed far behind.

And then I felt it. Quiet. I stood at the top of the hill, looking over the river, waiting for Marc and Graham to catch up, and felt entirely calm. No monsters asking to be fed, no heart pounding anxiety, not even a slight twinge of nervy sickness (I ignored the twinge of hangover), just quiet and the peaceful knowledge of the year's promise.

Have A Very Dibley New Year.