One promise I had made to myself living in China was to find a real Chinese Spring Festival, in a village, with real people rather than foreigners and city types.

Having rented a farmhouse in just such a village, I didn't really have an excuse not to do so this year.

But memories of a night shivering there a few weeks earlier were still fresh, and having told my best friend how awful it had been, I was convinced - and hopeful - she would turn down the suggestion.

But she said yes.

"Didn't you HEAR what I told you about staying there? No bar? No heating? No shower?"

She was unmoved. Well, that was it, we had to go now. Socks and red wine in hand, and wrapped up three-year-olds in tow, we jumped on a bus.

After lighting the fire under the kang (the brick bed we would all be sleeping on as the only source of heating in the house), we roamed the village to look for the Spring Festival.

It was spooky. There was no sign of anyone. Suddenly, there was a burst of crackers and some smoke. We rushed over but all we saw was a pile of black, smoking tubes.

All the houses in the village look inward, facing the yards around which they are built, with no windows looking out and just a front door to gain access. All the doors were tightly shut. Presumably families were huddled up inside, wrapping their dumpings, adding fuel to their kang, and now and then letting off a few firecrackers.

In a strange way it felt cozy to be outside in the freezing cold, imagining the warmth within.

But this was New Year's Eve, and we had thought the village would celebrate collectively. We were looking for dragon dancing, fireworks, singing.

We gave up looking for Spring Festival celebrations, hunkered down in my kang room, found food of sorts, told stories, and felt pretty snug ourselves.

At five to midnight, with two children sleeping and a third bottle of wine opened, we struggled onto the roof. I found myself feeling even more respect for my friend, who, sober and in daylight, hates climbing that rickety old ladder.

Suddenly, from the blackness of the valley way below, came simultaneous showers of sparks and towers of fire flowers stretching hundreds of yards, fountain after fountain. And behind, the village suddenly came alive, with blast after blast and the loudest fireworks I've ever heard, just a few meters away.

For half-an-hour we watched this spectacular show - and, miraculously, didn't fall off the roof.

Maybe it was the wine; maybe the snuggling together on the kang; or perhaps burning half my landlord's entire winter stock of timber; or even having another adult to share with; but we all slept like the logs I'd seen go up in smoke, and in the morning we were still toasty. We even went for a walk.

Who would have thought it had happened. It was as if the midnight minutes on the roof had been a dream. There was no outward sign that the most important date of the year had just passed, with the beauty of the hills undisturbed, the crows cawing and the morning light, golden and still.

I felt very calm, stepping off the bus in Beijing. Till, that is, a crackle right under my feet sent me scurrying on a pavement completely covered with red paper and lined with people clutching incense as they queued up to enter the Lama Temple.

Noise! Litter! People! Fireworks in the middle of the street!

Aha, Spring Festival. I had found it, at last.