27th June 2025

On a day when the temperature soared to a stifling 38 °C, following my morning bike ride through the sun-scorched fields of Leicestershire, Sarah, Charlotte, and Archie arrived at Willow Bank. Our two daughters had decided to take their father out for lunch as a belated Father’s Day treat. I suggested we dine at the Shoulder of Mutton in Foxton, having been impressed by the fare there a couple of weeks earlier.

Sue had kindly agreed to look after Archie while we enjoyed our meal at the pub. As soon as they arrived at 11 a.m., I accompanied the girls to the allotment, where I helped them fill containers with woodchip and compost for their respective gardens. We then returned to Willow Bank for a coffee.

By midday, we had made our way to the pub and opted to sit inside, away from the glare and heat of the midday sun. We all chose the two-course option, starting with pâté, followed by a selection of mains. I had the pie, Charlotte went for the roast beef, and Sarah enjoyed a carbonara.

Our conversation meandered through various family happenings, including the idea of a possible holiday together later in the summer. Upon returning to Harborough, Sarah collected Archie before the sisters headed back to their homes.

20th June

With temperatures once again soaring into the 30s, Alice took part in her school’s annual sports day, finishing a creditable second in the sprint race. On the same day, Jamie had rather less to celebrate, enduring a sweltering three-mile walk home after his Lamborghini ran out of fuel. Running out of petrol used to be a fairly common occurrence, and I often found myself heading out with a jerry can to rescue him. This time, however, it was Ruth who came to his aid, though only after he’d completed the long, hot walk home.

23rd June 

A few weeks ago, Sean picked me up from Willow Bank for a pleasant jaunt to the Hellidon Lakes Hotel. Sue and I had enjoyed a thoroughly relaxing stay there not long before, and now Sean and I were again testing out the facilities, though with slightly less spa chatter and a lot more “manly silence”.

As with Sue, once we’d parked up, we set off on a ramble through the hotel’s golf course and out towards the charming village of Priors Marston. Though the sun was giving it some welly, a refreshing breeze made the walk along the escarpment quite pleasant. The path, however, seemed to have been largely forgotten by humanity and maintained exclusively by nettles and brambles. In hindsight, shorts may not have been the wisest choice.

Previously, when visiting with Sue, I’d met a couple walking a Tibetan Terrier and we’d had a lengthy chat about their rather unusual hound. Today, we encountered the dog again, though this time he was out with just his master, perhaps giving the other half a well-earned day off.

Partway through a field, we encountered several sociable horses who believed we were there solely to administer pats and ear rubs. Naturally, we obliged. It’s rude to ignore the locals.

Upon reaching Priors Marston, we were treated to a delightful spectacle: a swarm of schoolchildren zooming about the playground on tricycles. Some stuck to the painted ‘road’ on the tarmac, but most favoured a high-speed, pedal-powered version of dodgems. The class teacher stood by the fence, looking as though she’d rather be anywhere else. I must admit, I’ve never heard of a school investing in a full fleet of trikes; it may have been the work of an enthusiastic PTA or a local philanthropist with a soft spot for chaos. Either way, it looked like tremendous fun, though I’m not sure Ofsted would approve.

We moved on to explore the village church, giving both the interior and graveyard a respectful once-over, before stumbling upon a chap in his workshop busily repairing wooden pallets. He explained that, in his retirement, he earns a few quid by salvaging broken ones, repairing them, and selling them for between £1.50 and £2, a bit more if they’re the deluxe model. He had a tidy stack of fixed pallets and another pile waiting to be cannibalised for parts.

As it happens, Sean once had to deal with pallet pricing in his former job, and the two of them were soon deep in discussion about dimensions, load-bearing strength, and timber types. I listened politely, my interest gently ebbing away like a slow tide, until it was finally time to move on.

The final stretch of our walk took us back up the escarpment, where we paused briefly on a conveniently placed bench to admire the view. Unfortunately, the local insect population had other ideas and took an enthusiastic liking to Sean’s bare legs, prompting a swift and slightly undignified retreat to the hotel, and then on to the car.

A short drive brought us to the Red Lion in Hellidon for lunch. With dinner already booked at the hotel, we sensibly opted for something light from the sandwich menu. This turned out to be both an excellent and surprisingly hearty choice; clearly, “light” is a relative term in Northamptonshire.

Back at the hotel, we popped into the bar for a quick restorative drink after our earlier run-in with the local wildlife, then checked in. Our room had a lovely view across the golf course, and Sean managed to sneak in a quick nap before we dug out our swimming trunks and made our way to the spa.

Sue had spoken highly of the spa during our last visit, and we were keen to see what all the fuss was about. We began our journey in the showers, each one seemingly designed by NASA, with an array of confusing settings promising various ‘experiences’. We pressed buttons until something happened, then moved on.

The spa boasted three different sauna rooms, each delivering its own unique form of heat, all seemingly designed to turn you into a puddle. From there, we floated off to the main pool and finally into the bubbling spa, which was populated almost exclusively by people our age, most of whom looked equally baffled by the technology. Still, after two hours, we emerged feeling relaxed, refreshed, and possibly a little overcooked.

We returned to our room to change before heading to the restaurant. Sue and I had been impressed with the food on our previous visit, and once again it didn’t disappoint, beautifully presented and delicious!

The evening was rounded off with a gentle game of pool and a couple of beverages in the bar, a fitting end to a very fine day.

24th June

Hungry and keen to hit breakfast, Sean woke me from a very deep sleep at 8 a.m. Feeling more than a little groggy, I managed to pull myself together and accompanied him to the restaurant buffet. It was another bright and sunny morning, with the view across the golf course once again suspiciously devoid of golfers; perhaps they’d all hit the snooze button too. With batteries fully recharged, we packed our bags and checked out.

A short drive brought us back to the Red Lion in Hellidon, where we parked across the road and set off on a planned five-mile ramble to the tiny village of Charwelton. The outward leg followed the Jurassic Way, an 88-mile long-distance footpath that tracks a limestone ridge from Banbury in Oxfordshire to Stamford in Lincolnshire, though we didn’t have quite that much ambition for the day.

Not far into the walk, we encountered a wonderfully eccentric scene: a bathtub, complete with taps, installed beside a scenic little lake with an accompanying picnic bench. Naturally, T-shirts came off and a photo op in the bath ensued, when in Rome! A little further on, we stumbled upon a curious sight: a modern-looking abandoned building set beside a disused railway line, right at the sealed entrance to a tunnel. Military? Government secret project? We were deep in speculation until we met the only other walker of the day, who explained it had been part of an experimental electricity generator, using airflow through the tunnel to produce power, until Covid brought it all to a halt. Fascinating stuff.

Charwelton itself, sadly, was something of a let-down. Aside from a charming 13th-century packhorse bridge, the village offered little else. The River Cherwell, which runs through the settlement, appeared to have recently flooded, judging by the temporary barriers still fixed to several front doors. To add insult to sogginess, the village pub shuts on Tuesdays, information that would’ve been handy beforehand. With no refreshments available, we plodded on.

The return route to the Red Lion was well-trodden, and while many of the fields were planted with crops, the farmers had kindly cut paths through, rendering my GPS largely ornamental.

From Hellidon, we drove fifteen minutes to Napton-on-the-Hill and The Folly pub, nestled beside the Oxford Canal. There, we enjoyed a leisurely lunch of generously filled sandwiches in a pub that could only be described as delightfully ‘Old British’, complete with a soundtrack of classic blues that gave the place even more charm.

On the ceiling of the ‘snug’, there was a map of the world, with luggage tags dangling from various countries. Patrons were encouraged to add their own, and when the landlord noticed that Greenland remained unclaimed, as I have been, he invited me to rectify the situation. Never one to shy away from cartographic mischief, I obliged, scribbling: “Trump, keep your hands off!” A small gesture, but one for the diplomatic archives.

Fully recharged once again, we made a short hop to The Cidery nearby, where we sampled a few of the offerings and I walked away with a case of rather strong cider. The return journey to Harborough was uneventful, and though we arrived just before teatime, neither of us felt remotely inclined to consume yet more calories. For once, restraint won the day.