Knickers and books

I've posted it.

* * * * *

I have bought ten new pairs of knickers and ordered books from the library.

That's my most important holiday prep done.

* * * * *

I have got into the habit of going up to strangers, usually men, and asking what sort of dog it is they have. Usually cockapoos as I suspected but wanted confirmation. All owners speak highly and recommend getting one.

Husband has become even more vocal in his insistence that we're not getting a dog. "I mean it! You'll have to do everything. You'll have to get up in the morning to let him out!"

Now, Husband is always up first and he brings me a cup of tea in bed but, apparently, even though he's up he isn't going to let the dog out. "He'll run away!"

I've tried to reassure him that not all dogs have a wanderlust like George did. (And Louie it now appears.)

My children and, in particular the grandchildren, are of the opinion I should just go and buy one. 

And here's a photo of George.

Under the whispering door

Trying to make sense of a legal document. Really no need to use whereas or whereby quite so often. Feeling rather tetchy with owner of the building next door to Zac's trying to claim things we didn't agree to.

Anyway, recently I found a notelet and envelope in one of my charity shop books. It's dated 2014 and it seems was meant to accompany a gift of a book of short stories. The envelope is addressed so I'm wondering if I should send it?

The problem is that the note mentions an appointment with a consultant. It was a reassuring report apparently but what if either the sender or recipient is now dead? What do you think? 

* * * * *

On the car radio I caught a part of the dramatisation of Noel Streatfield's The Growing Summer. In it, it's 1965 and four children are sent to live with their eccentric great-aunt in a run-down mansion on the west coast of Ireland. I was so taken with it I've ordered the book. Didn't we all dream of running wild and living in almost derelict mansions?

Then because I needed to order another book so I wouldn't have to pay postage I opted for Under the Whispering Door by TJ Klune, who wrote The House in the Cerulean Sea. 

* * * * *

And here's my latest article in which I disagree with Job.

Losing the remote

A bit late to the party but what Husband has been telling me for some time has just sunk in: I can borrow online audiobooks from the library. In principle anyway. I'm not entirely sure how it works yet but if I can manage it, it will make long car journeys much easier on the ear.

* * * * *

While our figs have been fabulous the same can't be said of the oranges.

And Husband tells me that's the best one he's ever grown.

* * * * *

So Count Binface lost but did amazingly coming in second and getting nearly 10,000 votes compared to HWSNBN's 22,000. The good news is that, the day after HWSNBN won, the parliamentary investigation into his dodgy dealings began again.

* * * * *

In Rough Edges on Thursday I was enthusiastically emptying drawers in the office and under the counter, rescuing anything I could use or we could use in Zac's. The rest went to recycling or in the skip.

At the end of the day Sean said, "Where's the remote to bring down the shutters?" (The only way to close up the sheds.)

"I always put it in the drawer," Kathryn said. "It should be there. Unless . . ." She looked at me.

"No, I wouldn't have thrown it away. Would I? No!"

I joined in the search of all the possible places. Definitely no remote. I was starting to get panicky. 

"If you had thrown it away, where would you have thrown it?" Sean asked.

"In the skip?" I said. "But I didn't, I'm sure."

I had. Fortunately I'd been throwing things in the same place and it must have been one of the last things to go so we found it easily. I did have visions of me having to stay there emptying the skip until I found it though.

It's puts a whole different perspective on the words 'losing the remote."

Inhale, exhale

Walked with Elder Son, GrandSon3 and Theo this morning. As it was hot I suggested the river path thinking that as we've not had any rain for weeks it would be dry.

It was mostly but there were still some boggy bits. The path has become very over-grown in places. As bits of it have been eroded away by the river and fewer people have walked it nature is reclaiming its own. So at one point we followed a trail, through bushes, and brambles, right up to a dead end! But we got back on the proper path eventually, though with Theo jumping in and out of the water and muddy puddles, and running back and for between us all, we came back filthy. And hot.

And to the discovery that I was already ten minutes late for the print workshop I was booked onto. No time to wipe my armpits or clean my legs, it was in, grab glasses, and out again.

I arrived mid breathing session. Inhale for four, exhale for five. Then it was down to the styrofoam printing. Chloe, who was leading us, encouraged us to practise before printing on the cards, and practice was definitely needed to determine the right pressure and the amount of ink. Megan, with whom I was sharing a table, and I were still practising when Chloe said, "Fifteen minutes left."

What?!!

The best of a bad job. Good fun and relaxing though. (It's meant to be an orange by the way.)

Shooting stars

Waking at about half past midnight last night I decided I'd go into the garden and see if I could spot any shooting stars.

We see meteors/shooting stars as the earth moves through streams of tiny pieces of debris left by comets and asteroids, in this instance, the trail of the comet 109P/Swift-Tuttle - catchy name that. After a glorious day with clear skies cloud was starting to gather so my view was limited. Next door's garden light was also very bright but I plonked myself down on the sun-lounger and waited.

I didn't have to wait long. Over the course of maybe fifteen minutes I saw six shooting stars, four out of the corners of my eyes but two which were real 'Wow!' moments. According to the Natural History Museum, most shooting stars are dust-sized particles. Dust-sized? They also say that it's likely the earth will be hit by something of significant size eventually. But scientists are keeping watch so we'll have warning.

I'm not sure that is as reassuring as it's meant to be.

* * * * *

On my way home from Rhosilli I listened to a program about the Green Ham women. Sorry, nothing to do with Doctor Seuss. I mean Greenham.

The first Greenham women were mainly Welsh peace activists who marched there from Cardiff in 1981 and set up a camp. They were protesting the government's decision to allow American cruise missiles to be based on Greenham Common, near Reading. Originally there were some men who joined the camp but a year or so after its creation it was decided it should be women only for issues of safety.

From then on the camp and the words Greenham women came to mean more than peace activism. It was a fight for women's rights and against the power of the patriarchy.

In the mid-1980s we were living in Southampton and I joined a local group, Families Against the Bomb. My participation consisted of meeting with three other like-minded women and drinking barley tea. It was hideous. I also was a link on the phone chain, which alerted people to US manoeuvres so they could go and get in the way as much as possible. 

On a couple of occasions I visited Greenham with a friend. I joined the rota for cooking panfuls of hearty (vegetarian) soups and delivering them there. My motivation was purely anti-bomb and hearing on the radio yesterday how the focus of the camp had changed helped me make sense of the feeling of distance I experienced, a feeling of mistrust that made me uncomfortable. We were all supposed to be on the same side but it felt very much like us and them. 

Missing the eclipse

Inspired by something I read in The Road to Grantchester I led Zac's on the theme of the First Supper. After his resurrection Jesus walked and talked with two disciples on the road to Emmaus and they didn't recognise him. It wasn't until he joined them for supper and broke bread that they realised it was him. Which is pretty weird. 

So I got groups discussing times when they'd felt God hadn't been with them or when they knew he had been. I provided shared communion plates for them to nibble on while they chatted.

I think it was worthwhile. People on the whole seemed open and there was plenty of discussion going on. However it will probably be remembered for the time that one man told us his story of being hospitalised and in great pain. (He's actually told this story at least four times before, adding extra bits each time, this time it being while he was in agony the nurse wandered in 'smoking a fag'. No, I don't believe that either but I was very restrained and didn't say anything. He is the man I have mentioned before, not my favourite person.) Anyway to get back to his story. He couldn't remember the word so he said, "They stuck a caterpillar up my thing."

* * * * *

Yesterday it was Zac's retreat day at Rhosilli. We began with led prayer and contemplation in the church. That was good. I still have to work through some of the things raised.

Then we went for lunch in a nearby café - very yummy Welsh rarebit - followed by a walk out to the point. Not to the Worm itself. It was very hot and there were loads of people. I don't think I've been to Rhosilli on a hot summer's day before and I won't be going again!

We were given a mini art kit as part of the retreat so when we got out to this spot I sat down and painted the Worm. 

I can see now I got all the proportions wrong. But I enjoyed myself! Except it was quite breezy and the lid of my paintbox blew off the edge of the cliff. I'm sorry about littering but I wasn't going to scramble down the steep rocks to rescue it. I wouldn't even go that close to the edge of the cliff.

After that it was back to the church via the ice cream shop for discussion about the future. 

* * * * *

There was a great deal of excitement everywhere yesterday as we prepared for a partial eclipse in the evening. The sun was just about visible over the hedge from one corner of our garden so we duly rushed out to watch. 

I had my colander ready.

But then decided I'd watch it through my phone. Husband meanwhile was watching it by squinting through sunglasses. Yes, I know he shouldn't have done that but I've given up telling him to take expert advice: he is THE expert.

"Is it time yet?" I asked.

"What do you mean is it time? It's almost finished."

I saw absolutely nothing that resembled any sort of eclipse. I've since seen peoples' photos and it's very impressive. So it's official: I missed the eclipse.

Figs and roses

Well that was a shock to the system.

I got up and out to Sainsburys early (9.30). I haven't been on a big shop there for ages relying these days on delivery or Click & Collect. They've changed locations and labels and, oh, you know, there were people. It was quiet when I got there and very quiet at the far end of the store by the time I reached that. But then I had to go back to the beginning to pick up something I forgot, and the noise, and the people. Urgh.

It's back to delivery for me. I only went this time because I'd forgotten to do an order and needed things for this evening.

* * * * *

I don't know if anyone's following events in Clacton this week. The current MP stood down to avoid a parliamentary investigation into his finances. I refuse to mention his name but he was leader of the Reform party and is a thoroughly horrible chap. Since being MP for Clacton I am led to believe that he's not held any constituency meetings and his appearances in parliament have been rare, as he prefers to go to America to show his support for T***p. Enough said. 

Anyway having resigned and necessitated the expense of a by-election, he's standing again. The other major parties refused to put a candidate up against him and his main opposition comes from a man in a dustbin. Count Binface has stood as a joke candidate in any number of by-elections but this time he actually has a chance of winning. One poll put him ahead of he-who-shall-not-be-named (HWSNBN) and I don't mean Voldemort. 

Count Binface is actually an Oxbridge-educated writer and someone who would do a good job. Sadly it's not really very likely that he'll win but HWSNBN will either lose to a bin or re-become an MP and have to face the investigation - and possibly end up in prison. They say he thought that if he resigned and then was re-elected he wouldn't have to undergo the scrutiny, which is why he pulled this stunt.

* * * * *

Countering culture

One good thing about blogging is that when I think to myself, "Why I am so tired?" I can look at my blog and say, "Ah, that's why I'm tired."

Daughter and family were out for the afternoon yesterday so she asked if we'd take Louie for a short walk so he wouldn't be alone too long.

These photos seem to have a funny 'texture'. Do they look weird to you? It was cloudy but very warm. That's Pobbles (foreground) with Three Cliffs behind, and just a tiny glimpse of Oxwich in the far distance.

Church this morning asked some hard questions about how the church can be countercultural in today's society regarding sex, money, and power. I was asked what countercultural meant.

This coming week I have writing group Tuesday afternoon but I've managed to get someone else to lead as I'm leading Zac's in the evening. Then on Wednesday we have a trustees' retreat day. Oh, and next Saturday I'm going to a print workshop. In between I'll be getting ready for our next trip to Italy.

I've just finished reading The Road to Grantchester by James Runcie. It tells the story of how Sidney Chambers ended up as vicar there. It is a very well-drawn and realistic, I think, war story as well as a tale of faith and hope. Highly recommended. How anyone went through the war and stayed sane is beyond me.

A funny old week

It's been a funny week. I haven't felt like blogging and that is most unusual. Let's have a quick recap.

Monday: did nothing.

Tuesday: Had phone call from lady from department of works and pensions. As it happened we'd overslept and I'd only just taken one mouthful of my weetabix when she rang. She offered to call back but I said no. Easier to get it over with.

She was very nice, not entirely sure what she was doing. Apparently she was new to the team dealing with pensions. She said if it had been benefits she knew all the questions - and answers - off by heart. It was very straightforward anyway. Mostly names and dates of birth of birth of husband and children. But then she said, "It seems your wages dropped by £3,000 a year in 2005 and then by £4,000 in 2007. Can you explain why?"

Seriously? That's twenty years ago. I can barely remember what I did yesterday. I think we worked out that I'd cut my hours once but there was no explanation for the other drop. She said it was probably okay but if it wasn't they'd call me back. No-one's called so I guess it didn't matter.

In the afternoon I went for ice cream - in Fortes as Verdi's is still closed following the fire - with Elin, a young doctor, still in training who was traumatised after spending six months in intensive care. Definitely her least favourite department.

Tuesday evening Zac's. Monty had put his talk together over the course of two days and managed to speak for one hour, virtually non-stop. I don't know how anyone can do that. No, actually I know several people who can talk.

Wednesday: Went for coffee that turned into a walk around the park with Jordan, our church pastor. He gave me most excellent feedback, and we had a wonderful discussion about scripture, bible study, church, and stuff. Then, when we'd completed about seven eighths of the route he said, "I want to ask you a question."

Oh oh, I thought. But he wanted to know if I would consider becoming a deacon. I hadn't expected that.

It seems he's had me in his mind for the role for best part of a year. I am tempted to do it because he wants me too. It is so lovely to be appreciated. When I left my previous church to concentrate on Zac's they had me up the front to pray for me. I was asked to say a few words so I started to say that Sean had made me one of the study leaders but that as the rest of the congregation were addicts or disillusioned or mentally unstable (or words to that effect) , "Then you were the best of a bad job. He didn't have a lot of choice," the then leader of the church chimed in. 

I mean that's what I was going to say but it's one thing me saying it and quite another when my church leaders says it, to a huge laugh. Not that I'm bitter or anything!!!

So I need to find out some more about what being a deacon entails. I think he wants to get me in because he knows I think as he does on questions of vulnerability and honesty, maybe more so than the other deacons. I was going to say older but I would actually be the oldest one! I meant those who've been there for years.

In the afternoon I went to the memorial service for a Big Issue seller who had a stand in Sketty by our local shops. He was a lovely man although I didn't know him well - he told me he loved my chilli when I used to make it for Zac's - and there were lots of beautiful tributes from local people who valued his smile and friendly words.

Thursday: The organiser of a retreat day came to see me to discuss what we want to do at our retreat day. It's happening next week for Sean, the heart behind Zac's, Stu, the manager and future of Zac's, Colin, a prospective trustee, and me, trustee.

Then it was off to Rough Edges for the day to help sort out out what's left after the two big closing down sales into things for recycling, things for salvage, things for a charity shop, and miscellaneous. We're going to need another skip sadly.

Friday: went for an early morning swim at Pobbles with Daughter and GrandDaugher2 (and Louie). We took our body boards as there were waves yesterday but today it was just about flat. A lovely swim though.

I kept spotting little purple blobs around the garden.

Husband explained it's the poo of birds who've been eating blackberries.

And that's done

Last night I dreamed I was due to preach in church this morning but I'd gone to a different church and, for some reason, we were climbing up a very tall tower. It wasn't even a stone tower but a soft cloth one. We were at the top when I realised I was supposed to be preaching somewhere else. So, no, I wasn't stressed at all.

I've been quite calm in the run-up but was a bit trembly this morning. I'm pleased to report it all went okay. Jordan, the pastor, said I was brilliant - but he would say that - and Monty, the reason I'm in this church, approved of what I said, and agreed with my slightly off-topic add-in about the infallibility or otherwise of the scriptures.

I also managed to get my article off to the editor before the deadline so I can think about other things now.

I remember, I didn't tell you: there was a fire in Verdi's! That's the ice cream parlour that my friend and I always meet in. It's very strange: over the last few years there have been fires in the pier chip shop, the pier café, and now Verdi's. Maybe it's an arsonist who doesn't like tourists/people who eat chips/people who eat ice cream. 

The dilemma it causes: where shall Vivien and I meet now?

* * * * *

Tomorrow I plan to do some gardening and start work on bringing together the writing group's writing for Ukraine. Did I tell you that we're planning to publish a small book of writing to raise funds and, primarily, remind people that the war continues?

* * * * *

I harvested the rhubarb yesterday afternoon. Made a rhubarb and raspberry crumble for us and took the rest to church for others today.

* * * * *

In case you're interested, here's the recording of my 'sermon' this morning. 

Liz Hinds · preaching on 2 peter

Books and blooms

I have got through a slew of Icelandic books over the last few weeks. I noted them when we were there and finally got round to getting them from the library or the shop.

Butterflies in November by Audur Ava Olafsdottir is about a road trip around Iceland a newly-single woman takes with her best friend's deaf son. She is a linguist who doesn't want children, and one of her reasons is my favourite line in the book.

"Your kids vanish into the bushes of camping sites, without even giving you a chance to browse through a thesaurus in peace by the entrance of the tent, because you're always on watch duty I imagine."

Farewell Mr Puffin by Paul Heiney is about a sailing trip to Iceland and into the Arctic Circle, and back. It's more sailing info than I would like and not as funny as I expected. That said there are entertaining moments. He goes in search of puffins, 'the jokers' of the bird world, but comes across only one resulting in a rather depressing theory.

The other two, The Quiet Mother by Arnaldur Indridason, and The Mysterious Case of the Missing Crime Writer by Ragnar Jonasson, are both crime novels but not as gruesome as some Scandi noir. I preferred The Mysterious Case.

And I've just started on a Grantchester novel - although actually it appears to be several short linked stories - which is easy reading and I'm enjoying it.

* * * * *

The day before we went to Italy back in April three plants I'd ordered online turned up. I stuck them in the ground quickly and hoped for the best.

They were achillea (I had to check my order to see what they were) and they've all flourished. Here's the pink one next to my sole dahlia success.

Before going on holiday I also came across two packets of seeds I'd forgotten to plant so I scattered them willy-nilly in a spare patch. The marigolds have come up beautifully. I shall plant those again next year.

I think the other packet was Cosmos but they haven't appeared.

Meanwhile the roses seem to love the dry weather.

* * * * *

Another 'before I went on holiday' story but this time before I went to Cornwall. I received a letter from the DWP (department of Works and Pensions) to say my state pension is being reviewed. 

Apparently I have been chosen at random and I have to be available next Tuesday morning to answer a call from them, in which they will ask me questions to check I am getting the right amount. 

I am not looking forward to this. I go blank when asked questions about work, finance, dates, anything formal. Husband will have to sit alongside and tell me the answers.

I spoke too soon

After saying I'm only a bit under the weather yesterday I had a slump. They keep coming and going, hot flushes, rough feelings. I think I have a summer cold. That's what they say isn't it? That's what they call them?

Are summer colds different from winter colds? And why do we call colds in winter just colds, not winter colds? Maybe we should have spring and autumn colds too. Now I'm thinking about it, I'm wondering do they actually call them summer colds? Or have I made that up?

I was thinking about these things in the shower. I thought, "I'll google that." Then something else came into my head and I decided I'd google that too but I can't remember what it was. From there I went on to thinking about stream of consciousness writing.

I slept well last night apart from the most stressful dream just before I woke up. And I've finished my jigsaw.

Yes, I do get a bit obsessed once I start. A 1000 piece jigsaw in one day. There were lots of dates on it so that made pieces easier to place.

* * * * *

Oh yes, Debra commented on my previous post that it was wars and things that made rich land-owners rich and able to acquire/build fine houses. In the Prideaux Place story it was largely marrying rich heiresses that kept the family in the style to which they wanted to be kept. 

* * * * *

A posy from the garden.

* * * * *

According to AI, summer colds in the UK remain low and at expected seasonal levels, driven primarily by baseline circulation of rhinovirus. A different article said it's more likely to be enterovirus. 

Then again yesterday AI told me that Annapolis was named after Princess Anne, daughter of Queen Elizabeth, who later became Queen Anne.

1066 and all that

It must be weird being the king/queen. I mean, not just because of the attention and stuff, but the fact that you're going to go down in history for children to learn about in school, or watch in television dramas, like Henry VIII. I wonder how history will look on our current incumbents.

I was thinking this as I started my jigsaw. I'm struggling to sleep, partly because I'm under the weather*, and partly because my head is full of sermons and articles. Rephrasing them in my head in the middle of the night is enough to keep me tossing for hours. So I decided to jigsaw as an antidote. (I know jigsaw isn't a verb but it is now.)

The jigsaw is a pictorial of British history. Which would be easier if I had some idea of British history. I mean, I do have some idea but when it gets to specifics, well, I kept putting pieces in the middle of the space because, "they're somewhere around there." Two things strike me: we've had an awful lot of kings and an awful lot of wars; and the monarchy is very boring when it comes to choosing children's names.

But history brings me nicely to what will probably be my final holiday post - but don't bank on it. One day Husband and I visited Prideaux Place, an old manor house. It was a lovely day and, as I've mentioned before the cream tea rated highly, in fact Husband said it was a clear winner.

As we arrived it was feeding time for the deer so we had a wonderful sight of them. The deer herd is one of the oldest enclosed herds in the country, dating back to 485AD and only beaten by those in Royal parks.

The house has been in the same family for hundreds of years and the current inhabitants have spent a lot of time renovating the gardens, which had been left to get overgrown.

I liked this statue, Boy with a thorn in his foot.

The guided tour of the house was excellent but no photos allowed. It's a family home that's only open to the public for the summer months. the original house was built on the site of an ancient monastery and there are some real treasures inside.

*I decided 'under the weather' is the perfect description for how I feel. I'm not ill exactly but not where I would want to be health-wise.

A Cornish sketchbook

You may recall that, a couple of weeks ago, I bought a small sketchbook so I could doodle about our holiday in Cornwall. Well, we arrived in Padstow and almost the first thing I saw was the bookshop window display.

Yes, someone beat me to it and published a Cornish sketchbook. How rude. And how depressingly good.

Nevertheless . . .

They might not be good but they're my memories.

* * * * *

Next Sunday I'm 'preaching' in church. Quote marks to make it seem less terrifying. I have spoken in church before, but that was before I joined the church and people didn't know me. Now they do. And then it was on topics I was confident about; this time it's on a piece of scripture 2 Peter 1:15-21. So I've had to do lots of research, and I'm not sure I entirely agree with some of it so most of my talk will be along party lines with maybe a curve ball thrown in at the end. By then people will have stopped listening so it'll be fine.

The deadline for my next magazine article is the following Wednesday so I've started thinking about that too. Now the problem is making sure I don't get the two topics mixed up.

* * * * *

I was afraid my newly-planted tubs might have suffered during our week away - no rain there or here - but they seem to have survived remarkably well on the whole. One or two casualties but those looked a bit dodgy when I planted them.

* * * * *

Still disgusted with whole Burnham business. Am deliberately ignoring him.

A week in a post

An evening outing to Harlyn Bay. More jellyfish along the tide line than you could shake a tentacle at.

The children enjoyed body-boarding but the breeze was a bit too cool and strong for me.

A cliff walk for Husband and me at Bedruthan Steps, renowned for its rock stacks.

Harbour Cove - I'm told though it's not like a cove or a harbour - an off-lead dog beach so ideal for walks and swims.

Husband, GrandDaughter2 and I took a trip to Tintagel to see the castle, allegedly the birthplace of King Arthur. It's built on an island and until recently getting to it involved going down down down steps and then going up up up steps. Now they've built a bridge, which we used to access the ruins.

There wasn't much of the castle left and it was heaving with tourists. It definitely wasn't worth the roughly £50 we paid to cross the bridge.

The views were lovely but we could have seen them for free, unlike the statue above. Gallos, representing a ghostly knight wearing a crown, was erected on the far side of the island and is only visible once you're on it. It's an 8' tall bronze sculpture by Rubin Eynon. Worth seeing but not at that price.

It wasn't until we were scrambling over the rough path that I remembered I'm not that good with heights. Especially with GrandDaughter2 skipping around and Husband trying to frighten to me. (He's liable to falls but still kept going close to the edge.)

Below the island is Merlin's cave - but that was full of water as it was high tide. But we had nice chips (GrandDaughter2) and pasties. 

Dogs are allowed on Trevone after 6 pm and we enjoyed a couple of evening swims here. Also in the nearby sea pool.

Alternatively you can take a dip in the hot tub back at the house.

A week in Cornwall

Bad stuff first. GrandDaughter1 was very poorly with a horrid throat infection and spent most of the week in bed. By the end of the week, Son-in-law and GrandSon2 were brought down. And GrandDaughter2 and I have come home with sore throats. Plus I only had two ice creams the whole week!

But apart from that, how was your holiday, Mrs Hinds?

Good. Lots of sea swimming, pasty eating, and cream tea judging.

We sampled four cream teas altogether. In reverse order, at no. 4 we had the Harbour Café. Disappointing scones and not proper jam. Didn't really expect anything better as it was in the very touristy on the harbour area. We'd just arrived, too early to get into our accommodation and we wanted to use the toilet!

There wasn't much to choose between the other three.

At no. 3, Rest-a-while café. Very good home-made scones, no complaints.

No. 2, Prideaux Place manor house. Home-made again, and excellent presentation. Sitting eating them with a view of the deer park lifted this above no. 3.

And at no. 1, Bedruthan Steps National Trust café. At first I thought the scones were going to be too hard but I found I enjoyed the contrast of the crisp outside with the soft middle. Lots of cream (all places served clotted of course), lots of jam, and a pleasant cliffside garden in which to eat.

As it was lunchtime we shared a plate of crab sandwiches and a cream tea.

And the inevitable ice cream photo:

Padstow lies on an estuary, and used to be a small fishing village, full of narrow lanes and little cottages. It gained fame when Rick Stein, a television chef, opened a restaurant here. And a chip shop. And a bistro. And probably the corner shop as well. Now it is incredibly busy.

We were six adults, five children, and two dogs, so the house we booked was quite big, the same one as last year.

It includes a hot tub and a snooker room, and it's in the grounds of an adventure park, to which we had access, so the boys spent a lot of time there. Some of us preferred to sit in the shade though.

Lots more to follow but I'll try not to bore you.