12th March 2017

The first week back from Nepal felt like a slow and reluctant slide into a dismal British winter. There wasn’t much we could do outside (not that we particularly wanted to) apart from trudging to the log store behind the garden shed. By mid-afternoon, as the sun slumped behind the bungalow next door and the chill began its sneak attack, we’d be lighting the fire. Even thermal underwear seemed to wave a little white flag of surrender.

Sue wasted no time plunging back into her U3A activities, and, not content with her already busy schedule, signed up for two more: Meditation and Pilates. Some days, she’s so busy flitting about that I barely catch sight of her. On the 9th, however, we managed a meal together at the Stag’s Head in Maidwell. We’ve also kept up our weekly Silver Screen outings at the Odeon in Kettering. On occasions when the film has been overly sentimental or what I’d call “chick-flitty,” Sue’s gone with Charlotte or Doreen instead, perhaps wisely sparing me a lengthy moan on the way back.

The 10th saw us hosting Ellis, Lucas, and Mia overnight. My Christmas gift to the adult Rothwells and Braunstones was a night away at a hotel in Milton Keynes, complete with a Murder Mystery evening. Lee was roped into the cast as a Friar for the Medieval-themed antics. Judging by the Facebook photos, they had a riotously good time, though their merry levels of inebriation might have dulled their sleuthing skills. They failed to unmask the murderer, but at least they looked fabulous while trying.

I introduced the boys to the card game of 3’s and 4’s, and they took to it with such enthusiasm that Sue and I found ourselves roped into playing it all evening. The only break I managed was when I took Mia out for an extended ‘poop and scoop’ mission. The next day, I had a club luncheon at the Rugby Club, which conveniently meant I wasn’t home when the medieval revellers returned to collect their offspring. Timing is everything.

Sue had been eager to replace the upstairs landing and corridor carpet for over a year, having firmly set her sights on laminate flooring. On the 22nd, we went to see the excellent film ‘Passengers’ in Kettering. Inspired by a burst of productivity (or possibly Chris Pratt’s DIY skills in space), we popped into Wickes afterwards and bought some oak laminate flooring that was on offer. By evening, the old carpet and underlay were history, ripped up and disposed of, ready for the grand flooring project the next morning.

After breakfast, I did what any modern handyman does: I watched a YouTube video. Feeling fully qualified after ten minutes of online tuition, I gathered the necessary tools and began ensuring the floor was level. And that’s where things started to unravel.

The first task was simple enough: hammer down any nails poking up and secure the odd board standing proud. Unfortunately, as I triumphantly washed my hands just before lunch, I noticed something the YouTube tutorial failed to mention: a small river was meandering down the wall in the downstairs corridor.

Panic set in. I sprinted to the garage, grabbed my jemmy (strictly reserved for legal purposes), and dashed upstairs. The sound of rushing water led me to the exact spot where a floorboard had been, until moments before, perfectly flat. A quick bit of jemmy action revealed the culprit, a heating pipe with a brand-new nail piercing straight through it.

Sue’s Meditation and Relaxation classes really earned their keep at this point. With her unnervingly calm assistance, I turned a small screw into the hole, which slowed the flow to a mere drip. Improvising with a plastic litre milk bottle, I cut a hole and wedged it under the leak. Crisis temporarily averted.

I shut off the mains tap and began the grand draining ceremony, opening every tap in the house (and there are more than a few). By the end of it, I’d come to two conclusions: first, DIY flooring projects should always involve a qualified plumber, and second, Chris Pratt makes it look far too easy.

Fortunately, we have a maintenance, service, and repair contract with EON for emergencies like this, covering everything up to the kerbside and possibly beyond if I’d thought to ask. I rang the emergency number and, three hours later, a plumber arrived. As Sue floated off to her Tai Chi lesson (serenity levels unshaken), he set about fixing the pipe. A couple of hours later, everything was restored to its original, pre-chaos state. Relief.

After tea, I decided to fire up the central heating to check for any lingering issues and bleed the radiators. Everything seemed in good order, apart from one stubborn upstairs radiator that needed a quick tweak. Triumph was short-lived. As I switched the system off in the utility room, I spotted water trickling down the other wall of the corridor. S***t.

Luckily, the jemmy was still upstairs, practically waiting for its next adventure. With the kind of speed that would make a cat burglar proud, I prised up more planks. This time, however, the blame lay elsewhere. The leak was a relic from when the original floor had been laid. A pipe, resting atop a nail, had been quietly weeping over the years, just enough to stain the wood but not enough to blow its cover. I’d even noticed a faint brown mark by the doorframe years ago, casually writing it off as a stray coffee mishap.

Pressing down on the pipe stemmed the flow to a steady drip, and once again, the trusty milk bottle was deployed. I suspect the morning’s pipe-fiddling had shifted things just enough to widen the hole. The EON emergency line got another call, and after a polite negotiation, I postponed the plumber’s visit until morning. I was far too shattered for any more midnight DIY escapades. I calculated that the milk bottle would take about three hours to fill, so I dutifully set alarms for drip-check duty.

Sue was on a U3A walk the next morning, missing all the action. By the time she returned that afternoon, the plumber had fixed the leak, and I had moved on, laying down fibreboard in preparation for the laminate planks. I even hauled the heavy boards up from the garage, feeling quite the accomplished tradesman.

Over the next two days, I measured, cut, and laid the boards, finishing the job with cork and scotia. The landing was next. This time, every proud nail was carefully removed, none added for good measure. Miraculously, the rest of the project went without a hitch. Perhaps the floor sensed I was one nail away from surrender.

On the 25th, Sue and I headed back to Kettering, but this time it was rock, not wood, that occupied our thoughts. We went to see a band called ‘Purple Zeppelin’, who covered tracks by their more illustrious namesakes. The first half of the set was acoustic, pleasant enough, but lacking the punch we’d hoped for. Thankfully, the second half cranked up the amps and brought the house down with the electric energy we’d been waiting for.

They’re definitely worth seeing again, far more enjoyable than wrestling with laminate flooring, I can assure you. At least with ‘Purple Zeppelin’, the only nails involved were metaphorical.

Before February slipped away, Sarah came over for the day with Mia, and I took them out for lunch at the Black Horse in Foxton, joined by Charlotte. Sue, meanwhile, was off gallivanting on a U3A walk around Rutland Water, complete with lunch. She joined us later that afternoon at home, full of tales of distant horizons and sturdy walking boots.

On the 2nd of March, Sue and I set off for the Fox Inn in Great Barrington, nestled in the Cotswolds. We arrived in the rain, naturally, just in time for lunch. As we stepped out of the car, we were enthusiastically greeted by a large, soggy Old English Sheepdog who, as we later discovered, went by the name Chester. Chester had clearly appointed himself as the welcoming committee and took his role quite seriously (if somewhat damply).

We checked into a lovely room with a brilliant view over the River Windrush and the water meadow beyond. It was the sort of view that made you consider buying a sketchpad, even if your artistic talents peaked at stick figures. We unpacked our picnic lunch and enjoyed it in the room as the rain gradually lost interest, and the sun decided to put in an appearance.

It was all rather idyllic, though Chester, judging by his damp fur and general enthusiasm, may have preferred the rain to linger just a little longer.

We had planned a walk for that afternoon and, despite the earlier downpour, set off fully kitted up, heading south along the River Windrush. About half a mile in, we were joined by Chester, who had trotted ahead of a couple trailing some 100 metres behind us. After a quick pat on the head and an exchange of pleasantries, Chester dutifully returned to his people.

We continued, crossing a footbridge over the river and squelching along a muddy path towards an old mill. As I glanced back across the water, I spotted Chester’s companions waving him goodbye as they disappeared into their picture-perfect cottage on the opposite hillside.

A few moments later, Chester came bounding up to us once again, as if this were all part of the plan. We paused, briefly contemplating what to do with our unexpected hiking companion. Chester sat politely, giving us his best “I belong here now” look. We agreed he’d surely turn back once he got bored or felt too far from home.

How wrong we were.

When we arrived at the mill, we discovered the route ahead didn’t match the path plotted on my GPS. As I stood frowning at the screen, Chester nudged my leg and, with a tilt of his head, indicated the way forward. He trotted ahead about 20 metres, then stopped and turned to give me a look that clearly said, “Well, come on then!”

I ignored him, still fiddling with my technology. Chester, evidently unimpressed, repeated the performance; this time his look unmistakably said, “I literally just showed you the way. Honestly… humans.”

So, we followed. Naturally, he was right.

Chester continued to guide us like this for the next 7.5 miles. After a few more instances of him patiently correcting our course, I gave up on the GPS entirely and simply followed his lead. I still have no idea how he knew which of the many paths and deviations were part of our plotted route, but I can confirm, Chester is one remarkably clever dog.

On a couple of occasions, our path led us down narrow country lanes. Whenever Chester heard an approaching vehicle, he trotted back, pressed himself against my leg on the hedge side, and waited calmly for the car to pass before continuing on his way. It was as if he’d been on every health and safety course going.

As we neared the village of Great Barrington, Chester subtly suggested (by walking that way and ignoring our intended path) that we take a route behind the cottages rather than down the main road. This was a favourite of his, and, as it turned out, a shortcut straight back to the Fox Inn.

It seems Chester knew the best routes, the safest paths, and even the cosiest shortcuts. A tour guide, bodyguard, and navigator, all rolled into one very damp but delightful bundle of fur.

When we stepped into the bar, the barmaid barely batted an eyelid at Chester’s triumphant return. Escorting wandering tourists on countryside adventures was just part of his routine. “Oh, he does this all the time,” she said, laughing. “Everyone around here knows Chester. We get calls regularly from people letting us know where he’s turned up.”

Moving on, we strolled the full length of Burford’s main street, first making our way down one side, then crossing over by the river at the bottom of the hill to tackle the opposite. For once, this usually bustling town felt quiet, the only people about seemed to be locals hurrying through their daily routines, far too busy to pause and admire the honey-coloured cottages they probably stopped noticing years ago.

We took our time, gazing into shop windows, marvelling at both the charm and the eyebrow-raising prices of the properties displayed by estate agents. A brief detour into several antique shops saw us rummaging through treasures of varying degrees of usefulness.

Eventually, as the rain drummed insistently against the cobbles, we found ourselves sheltering inside one particularly well-stocked establishment. There, subtly nudged by the dreary weather, we were persuaded to negotiate for and ultimately purchase an umbrella stand.

It felt like the right thing to do.

We made our way towards Cirencester, and thankfully, the rain was kindly redirected to more deserving regions of the continent. Parking in the heart of the town, we set off to explore, unsure of our exact destination. However, after a fortifying pasty from a stall in the market square, we decided to track down the Roman Amphitheatre. Half an hour later, thanks to Sue’s persistence, we found it, though navigating the slippery slope into the arena was no easy feat. Once at the centre, we could almost feel the weight of history around us. The muddy path was treacherous, but then again, the Romans probably faced more than just a few slips on their way to battle.

We returned to the car and drove a short distance to our accommodation at the Stratton House Hotel, just outside Cirencester’s city limits. After checking in and reserving a time for dinner, we had a bit of downtime in the room.

Dinner was an absolute treat, hats off to the chef. For once, Sue opted for the bar/lounge, chatting away with a couple from Portsmouth while I watched the Tigers v Exeter match on my tablet. The Tigers were, unfortunately, humiliated. In hindsight, I should have joined Sue at the bar for a more uplifting evening.

The following morning, after another sumptuous breakfast (the food here was exceptional), we suited up for a walk. The sun was out, but a cool breeze made things brisk, especially when exposed. Our goal was Alfred’s Hall in Cirencester Park. Without Chester to guide us, we relied on my trusty 7.5-mile GPS route. The walk took us through fields and forests before we stumbled upon the pristine, polo-filled landscapes, or should I say, “polo pitches”? After several long stretches through the fields, we entered the forest again and unexpectedly discovered the ruins of King Alfred’s Hall. It’s off-limits, securely fenced, and covered with rattling corrugated sheets. Not exactly inviting, but we respected the site’s boundaries.

We continued along a logger’s track, eventually emerging at more immaculate polo fields, all deserted, of course. By the time we returned to the hotel, rain began to fall, following a small stream that wended its way past quaint Cotswold cottages.

The rain was short-lived, so we decided to continue our walking plans, driving into town for the “Town Trail,” which I had found online. It was pleasant enough, though the lack of informative signage meant we spent more time hunting for blue plaques than actually learning anything. Plus, the trail forced us to retrace part of the route, lazy route planning, if you ask me!

After completing the trail, we decided to add a little extra to our journey, exploring streets we hadn’t yet visited. It was my birthday, so we ended the day at an Indian restaurant in town. We were the first customers on a Saturday night, but by the time we finished our desserts, the place was packed. Back at the hotel, we spent the rest of the evening chatting with the couple from Portsmouth until far too late.

Sue was eager to visit a few spots on the way home, so after breakfast, our first stop was Northleach. We tried to visit its imposing church, but as it was Sunday, there was a service underway. We moved on to Bourton-on-the-Water, which was packed with Chinese and Japanese tourists snapping photos of everything, buildings, ducks, bridges, you name it. We spent a bit of time chatting with some locals who eagerly shared their life stories. It was all very interesting, though, oddly, we hadn’t asked. But then again, the Cotswolds folks are nothing if not friendly.

Our next stop was Stowe-on-the-Wold. Just as we reached the middle of the town, the heavens opened, so we ducked into the Porch House, the oldest inn in England, for some refreshments while the rain did its thing. Once it had passed, we returned to the car and headed off to Moreton-in-the-Marsh. We did a quick up-and-down of the main street and popped into the church, but as the chill set in and daylight began to wane, we decided it was time to make our way back to Market Harborough.

On the 7th of March, Sarah and Mia popped around for the day. In the evening, Sue, Sarah, and Charlotte ventured off to see Psychic Sally at the Lighthouse Theatre in Kettering. Naturally, I drew the short straw and stayed home with Mia.

The following afternoon, we set off for Sarah’s in Braunstone, where we had a lovely walk in the park with Mia. We then treated Sarah and Lee to a superb Persian meal at the ‘Do’ restaurant on Welford Road. Persian cuisine was new to me, but it was absolutely delicious, like Greek or Turkish food with a few extra twists, a real treat!

On the 10th, Sue and I took ourselves off to Harborough Theatre to see ‘The Beatles: Eight Days a Week’. It was sensitively filmed, and we got a good dose of nostalgia. The 11th saw me at a VP’s luncheon at the Rugby Club, followed by England giving the Scots a good hiding at rugby (61:21). Definitely a memory for the books!

Jamie has returned from Amsterdam with his girlfriend, Ashton, and it seems he’s doing rather well at Binary Trading. He now even has his own website. I’m beginning to think he’s starting to get the hang of this adulting thing!

Sarah and Lee have finally nailed down their honeymoon plans: South Korea, Vietnam, and Thailand. Meanwhile, Sarah is having a bit of a Barcelona adventure in April. I’m not sure what she’s got up her sleeve for her wedding day, but a helicopter experience day with Lee sounds like it’ll be one to remember.

Charlotte’s gardening business continues to flourish. She’s practically living in the soil! Tadpoles have also arrived to amuse the boys, one way to keep them busy, I suppose. Suraj informs me he has traded up his car and that his job in the NHS has taken an interesting turn. I assume that means it’s ‘slightly’ more exciting than fixing old computers now!

Future Plans:

• Pwllheli: Rock weekend (16-19 March)
• Cyprus: Property viewing (20-27 March)
• Cotswolds: The Return (23-25 April)
• New Zealand: Road trip (2-18 May)
• Peru: Machu Picchu (28 May-8 June)