I expected to freeze when I landed in northwest England in early December and I freeze easily, you&rsquoll understand, coming as I do from tropical Chennai. No such thing happened. It must have been the adorable fairy lights everywhere, defying the perpetually grey skies with their tiny, star-like strands of ice blue and sparkling silver. They are elegantly draped, canopied or hung like glimmering curtains over pillared corridors, old balconies, windows displays and grand squares, in the last of which lights are often worked into quirky and expert street art installations. It could have been the Panglossian buoyancy that comes with the impending year-end holiday, so it&rsquos okay to walk more slowly, converse at length, enjoy meals at leisure, and generally watch the world go by. It may even have been the rampant spirit of Christmas, which never fails to leave me feeling warm and fuzzy. It probably was the mulled wine, though I only sipped its piquant flavours in modest quantities out of paper cups dispensed at the busy Christmas markets I had come to see. Whatever it was, all it took was some layered winterwear and a good pair of shoes to discover the wonders of an English winter, where it hardly snows (the Welsh and the Scots keep the precipitation beyond the even colder hills).