It is half past two in the morning, but we are home.
We decided we would do it all in one massive haul, and since it was four in the afternoon before we even set off, it was a long, late journey.
Fortunately we slept late this morning, and lay in bed feeling mildly weary and somewhat fragile until all of the coffee had disappeared and the dogs could no longer be ignored.
We got up then and spent the rest of the morning walking on the beach. This was lovely. We walked down through the woods, which had the most fascinating collection of toadstools that I have ever seen. I wish I knew enough about them to know which ones make you understand the secrets of the universe, but I don’t.
We breathed in cedar scents, and the acid of fungus and fallen leaves, and it was splendid. Then we walked for ages along the windswept coast, gazing philosophically out at the grey expanse to the north, and obviously I went for a paddle. I do not see how people can go to the beach and resist the urge to paddle, although Mark did because he couldn’t be bothered to unlace his boots.
I was wearing flip-flops, so it was fine, and by the time I came out my feet were very cold indeed, but that was fine, because it is such a happy thing to be by the sea in October instead of only in August like everybody else.
We collected Oliver then, and listened to his stories of sailing and expeditions into the mountains, and school, and the things his friends were doing, and thought it all sounded exhausting. He does not think that he is going to join the Navy when he grows up, at least not unless they shower more often than you shower on the Gordonstoun yacht, which is not at all. He is of an age where he notices that it is not exactly lovely to share a cabin with several teenage boys, none of whom have washed or changed their underwear for a week.
I think I would have been making a swim for freedom.
He proved the point about it being exhausting by going to bed almost immediately, and staying there. He transferred to his own bed upon arrival here, and he is there now.
Apart from that everything almost went very smoothly, except that when we got back, wicked, wicked Rosie disgraced herself.
I unloaded the fridge from the camper van and dumped everything in a bag in front of the fridge in the house whilst I cleaned the camper van out.
Wicked, wicked Rosie, who likes eating very much, stole the butter out of it.
There are no words for a crime so terrible. I do not at all want a dog who can’t be trusted, and the consequences were swift and dreadful. Rosie had her nose rubbed in the remains of the butter and awful violence meted out upon her person. Then she was taken for her last walk of the night on a lead, which has never, every happened to her before, and which appalled her in its indignity. When she got back she was banished to the conservatory with the butter wrapper tied to her collar, to remind her of her wickedness.
She was very upset and ashamed. I should jolly well hope so. Butter costs a fortune.
We decided to leave her there for the night to contemplate her crimes. I almost relented in the end, because she was very sorry and alone, curled up by herself in the big empty dog basket, but Mark reminded me that butter has unpleasant consequences for the digestive system which would be better not added to the carpets, and so poor Rosie will just have to suffer solitary confinement for the night.
The digestive consequences will be an additional surprise for her later.
