In field or forest, only lofty larks for companions, we stowed the box. We thought the hard effort retrieving it'll save you from ennui during the dog days of the new year's entrance.

Some say taking up armchair treasure chasing is murderously strange. Husbands or wives, daughters, parents, sons, exhort and plead.

"Christmas's for family. No quizzes at dinner, no dratted codes, no partly understood theories which may explain an oddment of literary obfuscatory tripe!"

Addicts never stop. The trustworthy hunter is never deterred by such querulous carping, and soldiers on. He starts the clues first and examines the pictures; on-line, new questions sit waiting.

One, then two ideas thread themselves up. Eventually he weaves a net, a taut web of clues to the bigger picture. Midnight again; the codes remain undone. Retiring to bed sore, his spouse's supportive side starts to show: "Are you close? Need a hand? Show me what you've done."

Now together, they ineluctably find a way to move forwards. Loud calling for a map, lightening packing, "Do we call the team?" "We should go now." "It's still dark, and quite wet."

A dawn expedition is confirmed after a text or two. Try to sleep, despite the nerves. A rendezvous with no enmity, but one doubter querying treasure solution. And even some of them fretting at early calls.

On they go - not lucky this time. Maybe in there - it's muddy as hell, it's freezing of course. It's the treasure! Just that? That's it!