We had a large, pleasant room with a view over the English Channel and an extremely comfortable bed (which I could have spent more time in). We had two trips on a hovercraft and a go on the dodgems on Sandown Pier. But more than anything else, we had food.

I’m not kidding, this was a gourmet tour of the eastern parts of the IOW. The amount of food we ate could probably have fed us at home for a week.

On arrival in Ryde on Friday just before lunchtime, we decided that fish and chips were necessary. I suppose if I had thought it through, having pre-ordered two lunches and being aware that evening meals were also planned for the weekend, I would have suggested that alfalfa salad would be sufficient for the time being. Instead we dashed straight into the first sit-down chippy we saw and enjoyed an excellent meal. Bernard experienced scampi for the first time, and did not behave particularly well, having been up very early after a rather bad night.

We then took a taxi to the hotel, just south of Seaview. We booked high tea for the boy and then headed straight to the beach, where we spent the afternoon digging with shells, in the absence of a spade. The others arrived over the course of the afternoon, and we checked into our room and discovered how lovely it was. Bernard ate a mountain of spaghetti bolognese, but left the home-made ice cream for Pete to finish. He continued to behave badly pretty much until he was asleep, at which point I escaped to join the party in the restaurant, and was plied with wine. It was necessary.

Dinner at the restaurant was delicious. I had gazpacho, goat’s cheese risotto, and birthday cake. At the time, I felt deprived of a pudding; but I realise now that one less course, over the whole weekend, was a good thing.

A few hours of sleep followed, and then down for a cooked breakfast. Bernard ordered porridge and didn’t eat it; I ordered a full english and did.

It was a grey and damp morning, and the sea was reportedly too choppy for the planned boat trip to take place. Our taxis were summoned and we headed to Sandown for old-fashioned fun at the pier. The pier was your traditional seaside entertainment, from amusement arcade and mini golf to lewd jokey photo-cut-out thingies. Bernard played a racing game with Pete, squirted water at some fireman, went on his first dodgems, and trounced everyone at air hockey. (There is some rumour that the grown-ups let him win).

Lunch was in The Pond Cafe in Bonchurch, which we were informed was the best restaurant on the island. It was extremely small, so as a party of 13 we had pretty much all of it. Wisely, I seated Bernard by the door so we could get out once he got bored; at that point I had no inkling it would take around three hours for us to finish the four courses and wait for some lingerers to have coffee.

This whole weekend had been kept secret from Pete, it being his birthday treat, so I had pre-ordered lunches without consulting him. We therefore shared a carpaccio of beef with parmesan and rocket, and a large pile of peas and broad beans as a starter. This followed enormous bowls of warm olives and cashew nuts, inappropriately described as appetisers. They would have been enough on their own. One assumes, of course, that the portions in places like these are going to be tiny, but no. My main course was a large calf’s liver with vegetables, and then there was a cheeseboard. I liked the IOW soft cheese, but found the blue quite peppery. Yes, I really was still eating. Bernard had eaten a lot of olives and cashew nuts, and then all the salmon and none of the chips in his large children’s meal, and then got bored as predicted and gone off outside.

The home-going taxi paused to allow for the purchase of proper buckets and spades, and we spent the remainder of the afternoon making the aforementioned large sandcastle for the boss to sit in. Sadly Bernard and I did not witness any sitting, as it was time for high tea. You should know that the high tea cost £16.50 per child, and Bernard managed one sausage and a small lump of mash before demanding payment of his bribe of being allowed back to the beach to see the finished castle.

Our evening meal that night was at The Boathouse pub in Seaview, ten minutes down the road. I was uncomfortable being so far from the hotel, with a colleague’s parent minding the baby monitor. I was also uncomfortable because I had already eaten half a farmyard worth of food and it wasn’t all that long since I’d put away the last cracker of lunchtime. So we skipped the starter and opted for a salad. Ah, more goat’s cheese. An entire goat’s cheese and a load of pointless lettuce. I do really love goat’s cheese, though. It rained, and we strolled outside on the seafront, looking at the lights of Portsmouth. Bernard was sleeping peacefully when we got back to the hotel.

A grey morning dawned on Pete’s birthday, and Bernard was up bright and early as always. One advantage of a hotel room is being able to stick cBeebies on and get back into bed with my head under the pillow until a more civilised hour. We were finally prompted out of our bed by his grumbling for breakfast, and again we were first in the restaurant. I sensibly stuck to fruit and toast, and did I mention that the coffee was phenomenally strong? From breakfast we went directly to the beach and claimed the stream as our own. This activity filled the morning, culminating in a dash back to the hotel to clean up the children before the check-out deadline.

Taxis arrived to carry us to our final meal on the island: Pete’s birthday lunch event took place at The Seaview Hotel and Restaurant, which was an odd place with the appearance of a very ordinary hotel as you went in, but the further back you got, the smarter it became. We had a long table, possibly the first time the entire group sat down for a meal together, children an’ all. Bernard sat next to his new friend Jack, and they entertained themselves by drawing pictures and presenting them to other members of the party. I feasted on grilled mushroom with goat’s cheese, roast pork with an anomalous but pleasant yorkshire pudding, the ubiquitous cheeseboard, and birthday cake. Pete was given gifts. A taxi returned us to Ryde and the hovercraft, and we went home.

I do miss the two half-days of free time for me, although when I say free, I mean busy doing admin or teaching a Starting Solids Workshop or doing a counselling shift. I’m not doing any work on the helpline at all during August, because even when I do get the time, I find that I need some respite. Which I then waste, of course. Last time I had a whole evening to myself, I spent the entire time buying books on Amazon, something I haven’t done for ages. I’d forgotten how much fun it was.

August is also broken up with holidays and mini-breaks. There was the Big Camping Trip at the start of the month, which took us to Matlock, then Skipton, then Grasmere, then somewhere near Ludlow, and home again. The camping element was much more successful than I had expected. Nights were warm and comfortable (I have a canvas camp bed and the boys have those funny floor-mat things. I am older and achier than they. Why, even if you add Pete’s and Bernard’s ages together, it still comes to less than me). The food was mostly excellent, especially the night I made bulghur-pesto salad and served it with cheap bangers. The boys voted that their favourite meal of the holiday, and ate the lot. All the campsites had their ups and downs, but the best bits were: the Derbyshire Pagans, all the children for Bernard to play with, and camping on an island by a stream.

This weekend is Pete’s Big Birthday, and his boss has planned the company summer outing in a big way, to take account of this. I can say no more here, for it is all a big secret from him. And that, of course, is killing me: planning all these details without consulting him. I also have to be careful how much I share with Bernard, who thinks that secrets are very exciting, and wants to talk about them to everyone he meets. He is thrilled at the idea of spending two nights at a “hoe-tayul” [lord knows where the Penelope Pitstop pronunciation has come from], and I’m just hoping he’ll go to sleep at bedtime so that I can join the grown-ups for the evening meal.

And at the end of the month we head up north again, but to Armpit in the east; which means Granny and the beach, two things that please Bernard immensely and give me some knitting time. And then we will come home with a spinning wheel.

We pitched our tent a little more efficiently than last time, while Bernard lay pathetically on a blanket feeling sorry for himself. The poor mite had some sort of stomach bug, which fortunately I didn’t catch until after we got home. We figured we may as well sit in a sunny field with a whiney child, as sit at home with one.

And it was particularly sunny. The basic facilities did not include an ice-pack freezing service, so the small quantity of food we brought in the coolbag was in great peril and had to be shifted constantly into ever-decreasing patches of shade. What the basic facilities did include was: one tap, two composting toilets for men and two for women, and two pump-your-own-water showers. A composting toilet, in case you didn’t know, is a hut built above a pit of poo.

These were sited just inside an ancient oak wood, through which there was a shady pathway that led to the shop and cafe, where they served delicious lattes (almost as good as Pete’s), and interesting salads. (Quinoa and strawberries, for example). We hired a brazier and bought a box of logs (but were forbidden from raiding the wood for kindling, lest we slaughter the insects who make their home in bits of dead tree).

They had no sausages, so we went into Cirencester where we found a traditional butcher (and a yarn shop!). Cirencester is very pretty, and would be nice to explore without a whiney child in tow. The high street was very non-generic; and as I said, a traditional butcher! You don’t get those around these parts.

Back at the campsite, several more tents had arrived, and all seemed to agree that our corner was the most attractive in the large empty field. It’s a very popular place for families, and those campers without children had wisely pitched at the far distant end of the field. There was a group of four or five families with countless children right behind us, and more arriving before our very eyes.

Pete fiddled with our stove and I failed to light a fire in the brazier. We ate sausages. Bernard was ill so I put him to bed and we sat outside until dusk, listening to the screeches of little girls and crows.

In the morning the farmer took us to see chickens and pigs, and showed us some big trees. We also spotted a stoat running after some rabbits. We went into Cirencester again, and then spent the rest of the day lounging around on the grass trying to persuade the whiney child to go and play with some of the non-whiney children. He was quite happy to ask other parents to play with him, but had no interest at all in the children.

Our fire that night was more successful, and we toasted marshmallows late into the evening. Despite Bernard being unwell, we considered our small adventure to have been a pleasant one. He seems to like camping; at least, he said he didn’t want to come home, and is looking forward to our next trip at the beginning of August.

And that’s the totem pole up there in the corner; Pete fancied a change.

On Saturday we all arrived, and fell to experimenting with the Rayburn. My brother and I divided the catering between us, and he had first go at it, which must have been pretty daunting.

On the Sunday her entire step-family visited, we barbecued and played tennis, and the Small Boy was admired for his delightfulness and his pluck. This had something to do with his love of running across a crowded tennis court to give someone a ball.

On Monday we went to Chatsworth House, which was actually pretty magnificent, but too big to visit in a day in a group of seven people including one toddler and one pensioner in a mobility scooter. Bernard’s favourite bit was the enormous sandpit, complete with built-in diggers and older kids driving the younger kids with whips. Pete cheated at the maze, by looking at a photo of it on google maps and apparently committing it to memory. He and Bernard walked straight to the centre, leaving mum and me to wander round in frustrated circles.

On Tuesday we had lunch near Carsington Water, and then a short walk among the midges.

On Wednesday, we left the old people at home and met up with Lisaand her girls at Blackbrook Zoo, half of which was under renovation, and all of which was very Mighty Boosh: staff standing around staring at you in the coffee hole; pelicans giving you filthy looks; penguins pooing to entertain the toddlers. The only food available was hot dogs so we headed into Leek for nice Italian food.

On Thursday we stayed at the cottage. In honour of Easter, we dyed some eggs using onion skins, decorated them with felt tip pens, and then hid them in the garden for Bernard to find. Sporting bunny ears from a cbeebies magazine, he located them all; and then we rolled them down the drive. I told him all about Ostara and spring festivals and stuff, but he wasn’t listening.

On Friday we drove to Pete’s mums and stayed there for the Easter weekend. There was a lot of chocolate, and stomach flu.

It was a long time to be away from home, and we were glad to get back on Monday. One result of the holiday was that Bernard now sleeps in his own bed all night (albeit with at least two calls for Mama during the night). It’s nice to have Pete back in bed with me.

I do really want to see my mum, and I really want her and Bernard to be able to spend time together. I just hate going to Armpit. My stepdad is now pretty much immobile, so they can never come to see us, so if I want to see them, then I have to go there.

To the non-parent, no doubt this just sounds like miserly grumbling. Parents of toddlers, on the other hand, will probably understand the challenges presented by a 250 mile car journey that has to be undertaken outside of working hours. We have had some success with setting off just before bedtime, but it does seriously disrupt our already precarious sleep patterns, because it is not possible to do a stay-asleep transfer to bed on arrival, sometime around midnight. Oh the mess. Still, if he sleeps later than 4am the next day, that would be a good thing. And a rare thing.

Which leads me on to our sleeping arrangements. Mum “improved” her cottage by changing it from three bedrooms to two. The spare room is just big enough for her computer, the world’s smallest double bed, and a travel cot. There is no room to stand on either side of the travel cot, which is less than comfortable. This will be the first visit when we don’t use it, as Bernard now sleeps in a big boy bed, and is just too heavy to be lifted in and out of the cot. So mum has prepared some sort of camp bed arrangement. I am anxious about this. But maybe it will be fine. Except that there will be no question of any three-in-a-bed arrangement, which is our usual default for Bad Nights.

And then the aforementioned 4am wake-up call. And the aforementioned stepdad, who is up for most of the night because he’s in so much pain, will be in the sitting room at that time feeling miserable. If we go in there, we disturb him. If we stay in the bedroom, we disturb Pete. There isn’t really anywhere else to go. We will have to get dressed and go for a walk or something. At 4am. In Armpit. And getting Bernard dressed is not exactly a peaceful and straightforward activity, so if we do that, we will disturb everyone.

But on the plus side, mum’s a great cook.

Maybe it’s something to do with how you change when the pregnancy hormones kick in, but more and more people I know have had good experiences at Center Parcs. The fact that most of the people I talk to these days have young families may have something to do with it. At some point, a few weeks ago, I tentatively booked us a weekend at Center Parcs in Longleat.

And it was good, if somewhat like going on holiday to a food court. We had three nights in an Executive Villa. Not sure why it was executive; there was no desk. But there was a cot and a high chair (and a potty!), a bathroom with a whirlpool bath that terrified Bernard, a well-equipped kitchen, and a bike stand outside. The village itself had a number of restaurants, all with as many high chairs as tables (this high chair thing is so important at the moment), clustered around three centres. One centre had the pool, one had the sports “garden,” and one had, erm, a launderette. The pool was smaller than we expected, but had a great toddler pool with slides and steps, which was of great use in exhausting Bernard. We cycled lots, up and down boardwalks mainly, and it didn’t rain on us, but nor did we see any wildlife more exciting than a moorhen.

On Saturday we hired a babysitter for three hours, which worked a treat because Bernard didn’t wake up. It was always a gamble; if he had, we would have had to rush back. On Sunday we abandoned him in a creche, but had to collect him early, traumatised and tearful. In the interval, we had had an excellent game of squash, our first in two years. I felt that he was clingy for the next three days, but Pete says I was imagining it.

The whole event was utterly exhausting, but fun. Some sleeps were better than others, but that’s what I expect from life these days. And believe it or not, I would go back there. I don’t think it’s a question of having lower expectations these days, but that “fun” comes in new formats now. If it isn’t babycentric, then we certainly aren’t going to be able to enjoy it. But if it has soft play areas, baby equipment, and fresh air, then we’re all likely to have a whale of a time. I actually look forward to going there with a bigger child, who will be able to take part in more of the activities, alongside us. Being in a family is just awesome.

For Graybo.

Wednesday All ready to set off in time for Bernard’s nap. Plan worked perfectly: he slept all the way to Frome. We strolled around, had lunch, and then he slept pretty much all the way to the cottage. We are on the Cotehele estate, in the grounds of the mill. Very beautiful, hoping it stays this sunny.

Thursday Went to the beach at Looe. Bought yellow buckets and spade (including larger spade for Daddy), then walked a long way in the wrong direction. Crossed harbour on small ferry boat and finally found beach. Hired a parasol, and Pete dug a moat all around our small piece of beach. Bernard spent the day in the moat, and had sand for lunch. We had fish and chips, and I supplemented the baby’s lunch with possibly the most public breastfeed ever, but no-one noticed.

Had afternoon tea back at Cotehele Quay, followed by dinner in the garden. Bernard took ages to get to sleep. Amazed he wasn’t tired after such a busy day, plus he is working on standing up from a sitting position, which he manages sometimes.

Friday Went to Plymouth, which felt a bit weird in the company of my Pete and our son. Walked around the Barbican and the Hoe, noticing things that have changed and things that have stayed the same (like Cap’n Jaspers). Lots of regeneration and development. Had lunch at the China House, and Bernard ate most of my sea bass, which was good because I didn’t really like it. He was bored in the National Marine Aquarium, but Pete enjoyed it. We saw sharks and turtles, and bought a book and some bath toys for the boy.

Bought eggs from one of the roadside stalls on the way home, and had omelette for dinner in the garden (better when B drops most of his food over the side of his chair). Played Bomberman on the PS2. Huge spider. I mean, HUGE.

Saturday The Eden Project was inspiring. We want red hot pokers for the garden. Surprised there are so many lifts, and the packet of fudge we bought in the shop contained individually cellophane-wrapped fudgelets. But on the whole we really took in the whole Regenerate Repair Refuse thing, and were so absorbed that we lost track of time. So Bernard had a tantrum in the restaurant because he was so hungry. First time I’ve been embarrassed by his behaviour, but don’t blame him, blame myself.

Very hot day, and he finally ate some pasta carbonara and fell asleep in the rainforest biome. We found out via txt that Pete’s best friend is in Torquay for the weekend. Bernard refused fish (whiting) specially bought and prepared for him at tea-time. We took him down to the meadow behind the cottage for some nappy-free time in the grass. He loved it.

Sunday Went to Torquay to meet up with C&L, who had their hearts set on having a cream tea. However it was lunchtime so we also had lunch, then no room for cream tea, but ate one anyway. Only managed half an hour on the beach, then the tide came in and anyway it was the deadline for getting B back into the car for his homeward-nap. Poor baby really had yet another day of sitting in the pushchair.

He ate a large helping of chicken korma (Seeds of Change jar sauce, for future ref), and we all went for a good long walk around Cotehele grounds after dinner.

Monday Tried to make pancakes for breakfast using Cotehele flour, but no functioning scales in the kitchen, which is why they stuck to the pan. Nothing to do with my poor technique. Had the emergency pastries instead, very sticky sweet decadent continental breakfast.

Went to Dartington Cider Press Centre, where Pete bought a guitar for B; then to Teignmouth (via heavy traffic, in which B wailed constantly). Obligatory family visit to my uncle, aunt & grown-up children (who were not much bigger than Bernard the last time I saw them). They have an impressive garden with a seaview, and gave us a nice lunch which B refused to eat.

Returned to cottage via pasty shop. Walked up to weir after dinner.

Tuesday Went down to Portwrinkle beach. Steep cliff, grey shingle beach, rock pools, not too busy, very pleasant indeed. Good lunch in a pub in Crafthole, which we assume is, in the Cornish way, pronounced crawfle. Then drove to the Maize Maze, and sat in the car having a polystyrene cup of tea, while B finished his nap. Spent an hour and a half wandering the maze, collecting stamps – it was enormous and great fun – we found them all!

Down to Cotehele Quay for ice cream after dinner. B magnetically drawn towards the edge of the quay.

Wednesday Packed up and took long route across Dartmoor, via Two Bridges, which took much longer than I expected and turned out to be a mistake, because B woke from the carsleep before we reached Street. Stopped there for lunch and shopping at the Clarks Village. B woke again about an hour from home; I was driving so Pete deployed toys and songs to entertain him, with reasonable success.

I think the main danger would actually be putting out the eye of a fellow passenger, but if your needles are plastic or bamboo, then surely you can get them on to a plane? Baggage x-rays won’t pick them up, and a bamboo needle seems no more dangerous than a chopstick or a toothpick. Check-in staff might also consider whether the needles are being carried on board by a harmless little old lady, or an evil towel-wearing terrist, although of course the wise terrist could prime the old lady to take the needle-weapons on board for him.

My regular carry-on luggage includes a corkscrew in a plastic case, and a pair of folding nail scissors. I have never had a problem with these, because on the x-ray, the scissors look like a round, flat metal object; and the corkscrew doesn’t look harmful when they search for it. This, of course, is completely daft; but then so is metal cutlery in first class, and selling swiss army knives in duty free.

Gulyasleves [gooyash-levesh] = goulash soup. You really can’t go to Hungary and not try this; it’s nothing like the meat stew that is described as goulash in english-speaking countries: not a stew at all, but a rich soup, with much emphasis on the paprika. One variety is bogracsgulyas [bogratch-gooyash], which means it comes in a small cauldron, although the literal translation of bogracs is kettle.

Bableves [boblevesh] = bean soup. May be listed as Jokai Bableves. Smoky, creamy soup which often has large lumps of pork fat in it. Still nice, though.

Raguleves/csirkeraguleves [cheerka-ragu-levesh] = chicken soup, slightly thicker than a broth, usually has a lemony flavour, and yet more sour cream. Did I mention the sour cream? There will be some of this in anything you order. This soup may be described as tarkonyos, which means tarragony. One of my favourite things. This could also be pulykaraguleves, [poika-ragu-levesh] which would be turkey.

Hagymaleves [hojma-levesh] = onion soup. May be served cipoban, which means in a bread roll, which is a novel experience. Definitely point to this one on the menu, as a slight mispronounciation will cause you to order onion soup in a shoe.

Fokhagymakremleves [fok-hojma-krem-leves] = garlic soup. This stuff is amazing. It was the only good thing to happen to me in a town called Gyor.

Gyumolcsleves [joomolch-levesh] = fruit soup. This is served chilled, and has actual cream rather than sour cream in it. The usual variety is a sour cherry soup. Yes it’s a dessert, but it will be listed with the soups and served as a starter.

And now some manners:

In Hungarian, there isn’t really a sentence structure equivalent to I would like the goulash soup, please; you just have to make a polite face while telling the waiter what you want, which will probably be lost on them anyway, and certainly won’t be returned.

Here’s what you say: A gulyaslevest kerek [o gooyash-levest kayrek, where the o is as in hot]. This means I want the goulash soup. You put the t on the end of the word gulyasleves to mark it as the object of the sentence, but really, don’t worry about this, just do it.

When the surly waiter brings you your soup, you can say koszonom [kersernerm], which means thank you. All of these hungarian words are supposed to have accents on them, but I fear that WordPress will just explode, so go with my phonetic renderings instead.

There are occasional readers of Rise whose hungarian language and soup skills are far superior to mine, so do check the comments box for addenda and correctia.

Two hours wandering around a french shopping centre [purchased first baby outfit: l'arche des animaux d'hiver little cute playsuit that should fit him sometime in September, when it will not actually be winter. Never mind]. The two hours could surely have been reduced if a) I didn’t have the cheapest and most unchangeable ticket; or b) the bump was a little bit more sympathy-inducingly BIG.

Three and a half hours with client, including snack lunch and generally useful meetingy stuff. In terms of their commitment to social responsibility, this client is so far ahead of the class that no-one should ever buy from anyone else. Unfortunately I can’t tell you who they are. It’s an absolute pleasure to deal with someone who actually wants to make a difference, rather than pacify the NGOs and present a glossy image to the public.

Client tells me that Lille has an impressive Grand Place, but all I’ve ever seen of the place is its station, the adjacent shopping complex, and the business park where the client is based. This might well be my last trip abroad for a long, long time. I nearly fainted on the hideously crowded train to Waterloo this morning, so perhaps that’s a good thing.

Then she made a telephone call to the Secret Apartment, where she takes all visiting colleagues from the UK and America, to buy handbags and watches with dubious designer labels…

We met another colleague, and then Taiwanese colleague had to go off on an emergency errand, leaving me and Chinese colleague to browse through an amazing selection of belts and bags and other leather goods. She had given us guideline prices, so when we had piled up everything I wanted, we decided on what we considered to be a good price, which was RMB600 [remember, 15 to the pound].

The Secret Shop’s Secret Assistant rattled the prices she had decided on into her calculator, and came up with a figure around RMB3000, at which point Chinese colleague started to argue. She had never been to the Secret Place before, and she was terrified, but she argues like a good ‘un, and we eventually walked out. This is what you do. Secret Assistant followed us to the lift, and I raised the price to RMB700. Chinese colleague was disgusted with me. Secret Assistant begged me for a little more so I said 750, at which point the lift arrived and we got into it. I gather this is all part of the proceedings, and I needn’t have gone up to 750; in fact it would be better if I hadn’t, because among the many counterfeit items in the Secret Apartment, were the counterfeit RMB50 notes – which was what they gave me in change.

Nonetheless, I’ve got 2 watches, 2 handbags, 4 purses, a belt and a silk tie, all with very good fake brand labels, for fifty quid. We left the Secret Apartment feeling like we had been had, and met up with Taiwanese colleague again; she reviewed the haul, and said I hope you didn’t pay more than RMB1000 for this. Very pleased with our handiwork, I can tell you.

We crossed the road (which is a horror story in itself), and went into Lohou Commercial City – like a giant indoor market crammed with little stalls selling all kinds of tat. As we walked through the aisles, all the shopkeepers called to me Hey! Missy! Looky! and offered their wares: watches, dvds, silk scarves, manicure-pedicure-massage, everything under the sun.

We shopped and shopped until we could shop no more, then went for more food. I had my first chopstick disaster, when I dropped a dumpling into a bowl of oil and soy sauce: splat.

I’ve taken lots of photos today – you will have to wait until I get back before you can see them.

There is very little information about how to get around these parts, because it is strictly not a tourist destination. On Wednesday we visited a factory in the next city, and the drive took two hours; yesterday we were at a factory in Shenzhen district, and the drive took two hours. There are skyscrapers as far as the eye can see, in every direction.

Driving is crazy here. Lane markings are treated as general guidelines, so where there are three lanes marked, the traffic will be five cars wide, changing lanes at random right under each other’s bumpers. Pedestrians cross roads anywhere, even on a major intersection, and wander as slow as they like – traffic just stops for them. Bicycles, tractors, small cars, all merrily drive up the wrong side of the road, and slip roads are a directional free-for-all.

A smart innovation: when we’re lost, we look out for guys on motorbikes beside the road. For 20RMB they will guide you to your destination. Could’ve done with that when I was in Essen last week.

Haven’t taken any photos yet, because really I have been working too hard and haven’t seen anything pretty.

In the morning, we had to be roused by the farmer�s wife, who had grown impatient that we were not downstairs by 8.30. We were glad to have missed the other people at the table, and made the most of our last wonderful cooked breakfast of the week.

We commenc�d the long journey home, stopping first at Rheged to buy Cumberland sausage for our Sunday dinner. Thereafter we detoured to Malham Cove, which one last walk to our holiday. The towering rock face that was once a waterfall was most impressive, and P took photographs. He then drove all the way home, sensing that I was disinclined to take over the wheel. I repaid him in back massage and telling him he was wonderful, which he is. We had a great number of letters awaiting us at the house, including my final divorce papers; and there is a wasps� nest in the garden.

Thence back to the farm and a most comfortable big bed. I awoke early to the smell of baking bread, and noticed that the skies were at last clear. After a time, Pete also woke up, and though we were reluctant to leave the soft warmth of the bed, breakfast did smell quite delicious. To our dismay we were obliged to share the breakfast table with an old couple from Cambridge, who would insist on making conversation.

This morning we walked up to Aira Force then to High Force and on to Dockray. The paths were none too crowded, and the woodlands verdant; and after several days of rain, the falls were in lively flood. We have many photographs, including several of a sheep with a small black lamb. It will look like they were nuzzling each other sweetly, but in fact the sheep was butting the lamb quite nastily with her hard white horns.

Next we motored down the lake to Hartsop, where I was tricked into climbing a steep path to Hayswater. P suggested that it was a mile�s walk to a pretty reservoir, but was vague about the steep incline of the path. I try my best to keep up with his seven league stride, and often I feel that I hold him back when he wishes to race ahead of me. All the same, it is delightful to walk with someone who will take account of my slow pace, and give me time to catch my breath and look around. I find that walking gives me a lot of time to think, and in my head I have been planning something that I might write.

We are at 480 metres, sitting above a deserted reservoir in the shade of High Street. A family of sheep have come down to drink in the water, one of which must have escaped during the shearing, as he wears a woollen blanket only over his hind quarters, the rest of his body being shorn.

We carried out many last minute chores for Aunt S, and finally got away, and just in time, for we passed the florist�s van on our way through the village.

We took the northern road out of Grasmere past the Travellers Rest and over the crest of the valley, beneath the Lion and the Lamb. Thirlmere stretched green and silver alongside our road, and we were obliged to pause at one of the many lay-bys to take photographs of a pretty waterfall across the lake.

We parked in Keswick and took our lunch down to the shores of Derwentwater, where we sat on our coats upon the grass with the lowering might of Skiddaw behind us. Foolishly we had left our cameras in the car, for the view of the lake and its islands was exceptionally pretty. As we watched, a group of girls rowed backwards away from the jetty, chanting Rooney, Rooney, as though this might make it easier to plough the stern of the boat into the currents.

We took a pretty, shady road around the very back of the Lake District and down into the village of Loweswater, where it was easy to find the Kirkstile Inn, as there is little else there. We were shown to our room and delighted to find not only a four poster bed but also a low wooden beam across the room, not set against the ceiling, but sunk solidly into both walls.

After showering, we decided to walk around the lake, but took several wrong paths before finding ourselves in the right direction. This was from not checking the map or trusting our own sense of internal north. We saw a rare red squirrel scampering down the road ahead of us.

Near the lake, we detoured up to look at Holme Force, a small uninteresting waterfall surrounded by much foliage. The path then led us through some ugly aforestated woodland quite some distance from the lakeshore. This held little interest for me, and I was glad when we reached Waterend and turned towards home. Loweswater itself is somewhat unspectacular, but grants the occasional superb view. At this point we were caught in an almighty downpour and trudged along the lakeside become increasingly soaked, but not unhappy.

We changed out of our wetted garments and repaired to the bar for a warming drink. The wine and the rib-eye steaks proved most acceptable, and we read our books together in the warmth for some time.

We watched the final episodes of Frasier, and they were neither thrilling nor disappointing.

This morning we woke to a hazy view of Mellbreak�s single peak, rising into heavy rainclouds. We breakfasted well and packed up our effects. I have not packed as lightly as I might have, for I was obliged to bring such clothes as would be suitable for warm weather as well as wet. It has been mostly wet.

We took a route past pretty Crummock Water and Buttermere, and up Honister Pass. This treacherous way afforded many sights of waterfalls and streams, and we stopped to inspect these, but the elements were wild around us, and we returned hastily, shivering, to the car.

At the top of the pass we made a more determined effort, parking the car and walking around some of the mining museum. The wind whipped around us and chased us once more back to the car. Driving down the pass towards Derwentwater gave us more splendid views, but behind us Great Gable and Scafell were shrouded in stormy cloud.

We crossed the county to Penrith and took a cup of tea in a small insalubrious caf�. There was little in the town to entertain us in the rain, and we did not need lunch, so we soon came on to the farm where we are staying. I think perhaps P questioned my wisdom in billeting us somewhere so remote; but the farmhouse was welcoming and pleasant, in the heart of the Dalemain estate.

We ate some biscuits which the young farmer�s wife kindly provided us, and then walked over to Dacre, perhaps a mile away by the farm track. The pub there was quiet, and the wine came from a tap on the bar. They closed at three, so we walked another couple of miles in the rain to Pooley Bridge. It is not cold, but the drizzle is persistent, and I am glad of my little peaked cap, to keep the raindrops from my glasses. We walked a little way along the eastern shore of Ullswater, but spotted no Orcs.