Four beaches of summer, part one.

The aunt and the grandmother, travelling together, turned up at three o’clock for the one o’clock Christmas lunch with their contribution, a platter of baked, sliced turkey, which they carried as if they’d stolen it, guilt-ridden. But no-one minded, just relieved they hadn't crashed their car.

They had got lost because the place was hard to find, locked in a narrow isthmus between the Seaford wetlands and the shore. The house was a low rectangle with a gently raked roof; inside, ceiling beams poked through like old dinosaur bones. An open-plan lounge, rugs everywhere, floor-to-ceiling windows giving on glimpses of shady garden. It was how we might have lived in the 1960s: a Volkswagen beetle in the drive, black and white television, sherries before dinner, hi-fi high and lights down low.

These lucky dip Christmas lunches work well because of the sheer variety. There was some kind of buzzy mango and gem lettuce salad picked out with flecks of avocado and olive and other taste explosions; a couple of variations on potato salad; about six different cold grain and bean compotes (barley, garlic-infused wild and brown rice, lightly curried lentil, red bean, cucumber, spring onion and capsicum etc); then glazed ham, chicken in a kind of aspic and of course the turkey which had survived the journey as the day had been mild.

Children flew past the windows in the shady garden. Music played. Drinks were drunk. Hours passed. Dessert was served. Seven in the evening, sun lowering. Some of us got up a group and walked the half mile to the beach. The teenagers ran into the water. A white-haired man in old clothes laboured along the shore trailed by an ancient dog. It might have been his only Christmas companion; but then again he might have been a rich eccentric escaping his relatives.