I resolve to spend New Year's Eve only in the best company

It was New Year's Eve and we'd decided to spend in the good ol' US of A.

Earlier on our trip, we'd been snowed in at the Grand Canyon, waking with delight at the two-foot drifts surrounding our rented motorhome at one of the world's most beautiful sights. We'd shopped in San Fran, taken stunning photographs at Golden Gate Bridge and watched tuna the size of tanks dart around a concert arena-sized aquarium. But all the while I'd wanted to be some place else: home.

That wasn't the first time I'd hit the road in search of New Year thrills. On another occasion, I'd flown out to a different part of America, seeking high jinks. I slept through New Year – the jetlag rendering my planned celebrations null and void.

And then there was a night at Trafalgar Square, where hundreds of thousands of people had gathered for what must have been one of the most anti-climatic nights of all time. I bought a huge, Churchillian-sized Romeo y Julieta cigar and arrived in good time – then grimly trudged home through the detritus after the tubes stopped running.

On another occasion, I drove to Land's End to be one of the first Brits to welcome the New Year. Never has so much petrol and so much tyre-eats-tarmac-travel brought so little joy.

At other times, I volunteered to work on New Year's Eve to spare myself the bathos. On Millennium Night, while the rest of the world tuned in, turned on and dropped out, I chained myself to my notepad and pen, dutifully reporting on people who had been smart enough not to volunteer to work. Fireworks lit the Ludlow night sky like a beacon as I stood, sober as a judge, disconnected from everything but work, asking people how they felt. 'Drunk,' was the answer. I scribbled down names, ages and addresses for the following evening's newspaper. And then, an hour after midnight, I made a resolution: I'm never doing this again. Thousands of reasonably-smashed locals cheered as a pyrotechnic display illuminated the town's beautiful castle as the clock struck 12. I, meanwhile, turned into a pumpkin.

You see, all that time on the road, searching for the best party, the biggest thrill and the fastest ride was time wasted.

All that time working, so that I didn't have to search for the best party, was equally futile. Because the happiest time was already right there at home, just waiting for me to join in.

In a couple of days time, I won't be necking Champagne in Centenary Square, smoking cigars in Trafalgar Square – if that's still allowed – sitting in a Jacuzzi in LA or locked in some wood cabin in some frozen American national park trying to stay awake for another four hours. I won't be interviewing other people about their party or clocking on for the late-night shift in the office.

I won't be embracing some of the world's most peculiar traditions: smashing plates in Denmark, scarecrow burning in Ecuador, eating grapes in Spain, wearing coloured underwear in South America or fist-fighting with old ladies at the Takanakuy Festival, in Peru. I kid you not. The women of Takanakuy are harder than the ladies of Horseley Fields, by all accounts.

Nor will I be watching Jools Holland, tuning in for Big Ben nor making meaningless small talk at some end-of-the-road party or other. I won't be wearing a funny hat, dad dancing to tunes best left unplayed or losing my dignity with a girl called Sue, Tina or Collette.

Instead, I'll be locking the doors, battening down the hatches, switching off the phones and staying at home. House parties, crowded pubs and exotic foreign hotels can't compete with the warmth and good nature of my family. And that's where I'll find the Happiest New Year.