As September began, with the nights drawing in and a chill in the air, the weather took on a distinctly autumnal feel. Daytime temperatures have remained mild enough to avoid abandoning shorts for warmer trousers, but most days have been marked by drizzle.

On the 15th, the builders were due to install glass sliding doors to partition the lounge from the sunroom, in preparation for a long-awaited makeover and to help keep the lounge warmer through the winter. However, a phone call informed us their arrival would be delayed while they replaced the battery in their van. An hour later, another call revealed that the replacement was the wrong type, and the correct one would need to be ordered. The installation has now been rescheduled for next week.

The latest news regarding Jamie’s Aston Martin is that he has obtained the logbook from the DVLA and that the car has been impounded in Northumberland.

Alice has an appointment in October to have the metal rods removed from her leg. Encouragingly, the photos she shared on family Messenger, showing her clinging to a climbing wall, suggest that the break has healed well.

After Sarah and her family joined a charity Elephant Hunt called Stomp Round Leicester, Charlotte and her family were inspired to take part as well. Not to be outdone, a week later, Sue joined a U3A group that spent much of the day seeking out the sculptures. The trail comprises 40 giant, beautifully decorated elephants, along with 82 baby elephants designed by local schools and community groups, plus several mini versions decorated by celebrities such as Greg Davies, Davina McCall and Stephen Graham. At the end of the trail, the giant sculptures are to be auctioned in aid of LOROS Hospice.

The conifer hedges at the rear of Willow Bank are trimmed once a year. In the past, I have usually done this arduous task on my own, and last year, to make the job easier, I reduced its height by a metre and employed Lucas to help me collect the trimmings and transport them to Harborough Recycling Centre. This year, Lucas is going to university and needs some spending money, so I gave him the job of trimming the hedges. With minimal help from me, he managed to complete the task over two days.

On the 18th, Sue and I met Joan and Phil in Oakham for lunch at the Old Buttercross. They had flown in from Italy the previous week to do a little sightseeing, catch up with friends, and purchase new glasses. Both looked exceedingly well, a fine tribute to the Italian health service and their continental lifestyle. Strict vegetarians, they surprised us by opting for that quintessentially British dish, fish and chips. A little indulgence is always forgivable when on holiday.

After relocating to their town-centre apartment, we enjoyed hot drinks together and caught up on all the latest gossip before heading home.

Not long after we returned to Willow Bank, Jamie arrived with five kits that, sadly, had not survived the loss of their mother. Despite his and Ruth’s best efforts, the poor little bundles of fur could not be saved. He laid them to rest in our garden, together with their mother.

On a brighter note, we learned that his Aston Martin has now been officially recorded by the police as stolen, confirming that it remains Jamie’s property. He can collect it from the police pound in Newcastle when time allows, though unfortunately, one of the keys and the service logbook is still missing. A few days after receiving the good news, he travelled up to the North East by train and collected the errant Aston, which, luckily, appears none the worse for its adventure.

On 17th September, the workmen arrived to install the partition between the lounge and the sunroom, as well as to replace two failed double-glazed units. They started at 9 a.m. and completed the job by 4 p.m. We are very pleased with the results; the lounge should be noticeably warmer in winter, and the ancient curtains it has replaced have been consigned to the bin.

The following day, I had an appointment with the doctor and came away with medication to ease the symptoms of my diverticulitis. That same day, Donald Trump addressed the United Nations, delivering a speech in which he admonished many countries, including the UK, on a range of issues. On a previous occasion, his antics provoked laughter from world leaders, but not so this time. The narcissistic fascist seems to view himself as the emperor of the Western world. It is deeply unsettling that the state of the world feels so precarious because of this one individual.

With the harvest season well underway, the freezer is steadily filling with fruit and vegetables. I’ve been busy juicing grapes and pears, as well as preparing several jars of pickled onions. Our resident family of badgers have been particularly fond of the little mounds of pear pressings I’ve left beneath the fir tree, and even the squirrels have devoured them with enthusiasm.

Although I hadn’t planned to make wine from the grapes this year, the harvest has been so abundant, sweet, and flavourful that we couldn’t keep up with drinking the juice. As a result, after three pickings, I’ve produced 20 bottles of ‘Vin Allo’, vintage 2025. The first tastings bode well for a rich, full-bodied wine.

At the end of the month, Sue, Charlotte, Jamie, and Sarah attended a “Haunting” at nearby Broughton Hall, a birthday present for Sue from our rather random children. They gathered at the hall, along with several other like-minded thrill-seekers, for an 8 pm start, with proceedings continuing until well after 1 am. Each was provided with a handheld device that measured various levels of spookiness, and they even consulted Ouija boards several times in an attempt to contact the departed. Apparently, my mother made contact and was looking after Lucas at university. It seems they had a fantastic time and are already keen to repeat the experience.

The beginning of October brought a letter from the NHS confirming that my eyesight is now stable and requires no further treatment, although a helpful phone number was provided should any future concerns arise. On the same day, I also took Sue for her pre-operative consultation at Leicester General Hospital in preparation for her procedure at the end of the month. Perhaps in sympathy, her car promptly flashed up a warning that the brakes needed replacing. The following day (Friday 3rd) it went into the garage for a full service and brake change. The very next day, Sue and I went to the surgery for our annual flu jabs.

During the week, Jamie flew out to Turkey for a short holiday with some friends and phoned to ask if I would bury under the ginkgo tree, another rabbit that had died. While I was decorating the lounge, a tearful Ruth arrived late in the morning, carrying the unfortunate creature. As I dug the hole, Ruth explained that their other rabbit had killed it, and most likely the kits and their mother as well. It seems we may have a serial killer in the family!

On the 6th, Sarah posted a photo of Alice’s leg on the Family Messenger group. It showed that one of the pins in her previously broken leg was bulging next to her knee and causing her pain. The following day, she was taken to the hospital, where it was decided that the pins should be removed as soon as possible.

It was on the 10th of October that Sue and I set off north to the Staffordshire Peak District. A couple of months earlier, I’d booked Throwley Moor Farmhouse for a family long weekend. Sadly, Lucas was struck down with the flu at university, and Joe was visiting his stepfather, so neither could join us.

Our accommodation was described, with estate-agent enthusiasm, as “a spacious Victorian farmhouse built from local limestone, sleeping up to 13 people (plus two cots), perched high above the Manifold Valley.” It’s a working farm and part of the Throwley Hall Estate, close to the southern entrance of the famous limestone gorge of Dovedale, a magnet for walkers, anglers, and anyone brave enough to climb Thorpe Cloud, that perfectly shaped flat-topped hill.

October in the Peaks can be a meteorological lottery, but we hit the jackpot: four days of fine weather, with morning mist dissolving into cloudless, warm skies.

As usual, we arrived early, midday for a 4 p.m. check-in, and were delighted to find the farmhouse key safe ready and waiting. So, like seasoned trespassers, we let ourselves in. We planned to eat the packed lunch we’d brought, possibly in the car, before heading out on one of the walks I’d plotted on my GPS. The rest of the family was due later, depending on the whims of work and school schedules.

As we tucked into our sandwiches and watched Bargain Hunt in the lounge, the farmer’s wife appeared to check that we were indeed the legitimate occupants. Once reassured, she kindly recommended one of her favourite local walks, which, of course, we immediately decided to attempt.

At around 1 p.m., we set off on foot up the very same farm track we’d driven down an hour earlier. Our three-and-a-half-mile ramble took us past Throwley Hall, Staffordshire’s only surviving large medieval manor house. It was first recorded in 1203 when Oliver de Meverell settled there, though it had probably been around a while before that. Traces of a deserted medieval village can be seen nearby, and the Meverells, an old Derbyshire family, remained in residence for generations. (Thomas de Meverell; married Agnes in 1278). The Cromwells were also in residence at one time.

The faded information boards within the ruins were only partly legible, but we gleaned that the hall had once been grand, later chilly, and eventually uninhabitable. The estate passed to the Earls of Cathcart, one of whom had the Great Hall demolished in 1830, presumably deciding that Yorkshire needed the stonework more. The ruins remained inhabited, apparently by servants and farm workers, until 1877.

After a thorough exploration (and a bit of guesswork about what was what), we set off again, only to miss a turning and discover our mistake 500 metres later. This resulted in a steep, undignified scramble uphill that had both of us questioning our life choices. Once back on track, we were rewarded with glorious views over the Manifold Valley, dotted with peacefully grazing sheep.

We stumbled upon a curious stone structure not marked on the OS map. I initially thought it was a limekiln, but the downward-plunging opening didn’t quite fit the bill. It’s since gone on my personal list of “Unsolved Countryside Mysteries.”

Back at the farmhouse, coffee in hand, we were soon joined by Sarah and her family, followed by Charlotte, Suraj, and Ellis. Darkness had fallen by the time Jamie and Ruth arrived around 6 p.m., Jamie fresh from Wembley after watching the England v Wales friendly, Ruth having retrieved him from Grantham train station.

That evening’s dinner was a superb Bolognese, accompanied by enough pasta and garlic bread to feed a small regiment. Afterwards came conversation, board games, and some spirited table tennis. By 10 p.m., the dogs were walked (and had thoughtfully rehydrated the lawn), and everyone had drifted off to their rooms to unpack and sleep.

Alice and Archie made sure Sarah and Lee’s night was anything but restful, while poor Harry’s distress kept Charlotte, Suraj, and Ellis semi-conscious. Jamie and Ruth fared little better thanks to an overly alert Nala. Meanwhile, Sue and I, entirely oblivious, slept like logs.

The next morning, after breakfast and a quick wander around the farmyard, we decided to drive to Reynard’s Cave in Dovedale. With mobile signal in short supply, navigation proved challenging, and we promptly lost Charlotte and family en route. Thankfully, they reappeared twenty minutes later at a heaving National Trust car park.

All eleven of us (Alice in her wheelchair) set off along the River Dove. The valley, carved over three miles between Milldale and Thorpe Cloud, attracts around a million visitors a year, all seemingly there that same day. At the famous stepping stones, Harry slipped dramatically into the river, rescued gallantly by Suraj. Alice gamely crossed while Lee carried her folded wheelchair, which earned him several admiring glances from passers-by.

The path to the stones and a stretch beyond is wheelchair-friendly, but soon becomes a rugged obstacle course. Sue stayed behind with Sarah and the family while the rest of us pressed on to Reynard’s Cave, a prehistoric shelter once home to hunters around 13,000 BCE, later Neolithic tomb users, and Bronze Age visitors. (Not yet listed on Airbnb).

The final climb to the cave was steep enough to demand all fours in places. Harry, bless him, made it halfway before gravity and common sense prevailed. The cave itself was shallow, but the view from its mouth made every gasping breath worth it.

On the way back, Charlotte, in wellies, took the lead in helping Harry recross the stepping stones, this time without drama.

It was decided, upon our return to the car park, that we should pay a visit to the nearby town of Ashbourne, famed for its winding cobbled streets, its Market Place dating back to 1257 AD, and its handsome Tudor and Georgian heritage. As luck would have it, it was market day. After a spirited bout of parking-space hunting (not unlike a medieval tournament, though with less chivalry and more muttering), we finally regrouped amidst the bustle of the market.

Having given the stalls a thorough inspection, purely in the interest of research, of course,  we found a picnic bench in the town park to enjoy some excellent vegetable samosas I had procured from one of the food vendors. Once appetites were satisfied, we took a leisurely stroll into the cobbled town centre, which was in the midst of an ambitious rejuvenation project.

As shopping enthusiasm is not my strongest trait, I volunteered for canine duty and retired to the dog-friendly George and Dragon for some much-needed refreshments. Before long, I was joined by Suraj and Ellis, and later by Jamie, leaving the rest of the party free to browse to their hearts’ content, blissfully unencumbered by our four-legged companions.

Thirst quenched and retail therapy satisfied, we reconvened back at the farmhouse for a relaxed evening of pizza and games.

Later, Charlotte, Jamie and Sarah, fresh from a recent ghost-hunting evening near Kettering, persuaded Ruth and Ellis to join them on a nocturnal visit to the ruins of Throwley Hall. Armed with a ghost-hunting app (and Jamie’s Range Rover headlights), they returned an hour later, claiming to have made contact with “Edith,” a friendly spirit who apparently “looked after the hall” and rather enjoyed her job.

After a few drinks and some laughter over Edith’s apparent good nature, most of us were in bed before 11 p.m., warm, content, and already plotting tomorrow’s adventure.

Sunday began shrouded in a thick mist that hid the surrounding landscape as if someone had misplaced the scenery. Sue and I slept soundly again, and our canine companions seemed to have enjoyed a far calmer night themselves. Alice and Archie, of course, were up at some unholy hour, ensuring that Mum and Dad were too, though I guess they were expecting it.

By the time breakfast was over, the sun had burned away the fog, revealing once more the rolling hills of upland Shropshire. Before long, the Palmer clan was back on the narrow lanes, bound for the picturesque village of Ilam, which nestles charmingly beside the River Manifold.

Ilam is straight out of a storybook, with Alpine-style cottages, a handsome church, and the dramatic backdrop of Bunster Hill, Thorpe Cloud, and steep pastures liberally sprinkled with sheep. Ilam Hall, now a youth hostel, sits within Ilam Park under the care of the National Trust. Despite being late in the season, finding a parking space was a test of both patience and geometry, the pleasant October sunshine having enticed hikers and tourists out in their droves.

We rendezvoused by the ancient bridge leading into the village. Those wearing wellies promptly paddled in the shallow river, while the rest of us stood ready with cameras to immortalise any unfortunate slip; sadly (or perhaps fortunately), there were no mishaps to record. From there we wandered on to the Church of the Holy Cross, curious to see the tomb of a hermit and king with a tragic story, St Bertram. However, a Harvest Assembly was in full swing, complete with hearty hymns, so we diverted to inspect an archaeological dig just beginning by the river. The dig leader, clearly delighted to have an audience, kindly explained that they were searching for a long-demolished building once associated with Ilam Hall, its stones long since “recycled” for other projects.

We later approached the Hall itself, though any hopes of a nose around inside were dashed by an ongoing event. By the time we returned to the church, the congregation had dispersed, so Sue and I seized the opportunity for a quiet look within and to learn the tale of St Bertram, the 8th-century King of Mercia. He had travelled to Ireland in search of spiritual enlightenment but, rather inconveniently for such a mission, fell in love with an Irish princess. They eloped and returned to Mercia, but tragedy struck: while Bertram was away hunting, his beloved and their newborn child were killed by wolves. Stricken with grief, he renounced the world and lived out his days as a hermit. His reputation for holiness grew so great that a shrine was raised on his grave, and today a medieval altar stands on the site within the church.

Lunch had been booked for 2.30 pm at the Bentley Brook Inn, near the village of Fenny Bentley. En route, we paused at the impossibly pretty village of Tissington, home to the FitzHerbert family for more than four centuries. Their splendid Jacobean hall forms the centrepiece of this picture-perfect settlement. Tissington is famed for its annual Well Dressing Festival, a delightfully eccentric English tradition dating back hundreds of years. Although the festival takes place during Ascension Week, and today the wells stood bare, each was accompanied by an information board displaying photographs of this year’s floral artistry. Fittingly, the first well we came across was called David’s Well; one likes to think he was well pleased.

In the heart of the village, we found a bustling little café, where we enjoyed refreshments in the warm autumn sunshine before finally making our way to the inn for a well-earned lunch.

Arriving a little ahead of schedule, we took advantage of the fine weather to sit out in the garden with a few more refreshments, while Alice and Archie made enthusiastic use of the play equipment. Meanwhile, the staff were busily preparing our table for what was to be a rather large party. We’d opted for the carvery, an inspired choice, as it turned out, with generous helpings of roast meats and all the trimmings. Several of us made entirely justifiable return visits to top up plates with our favourite tasty bits.

Back at Throwley Moor Farm, the afternoon took a more leisurely turn. Most of us settled into the lounge to relax, some surfing the internet, others playing cards with the children,  while Jamie and Ruth, in a burst of energy, set off on a brisk walk up the hill. Lee, not to be outdone, sent his drone soaring above the farm before the light disappeared.

For supper, the family unveiled a magnificent array of cheeses,  a dream come true for the Palmer turophiles.

Jamie and Ruth took their leave around nine o’clock, heading back to Waltham on the Wolds, duty (and the alarm clock) calling them to work the next morning. It had been another full and cheerful day, and by ten most of us were tucked up in bed, content, well-fed, and faintly redolent of Stilton.

It was dark, foggy and very early when Sarah and her family appeared downstairs for breakfast. It was a school day for Alice, and with an hour’s commute to Newbold Verdon ahead, they were up with the lark, or rather, before it. They were soon followed by Charlotte, Suraj and Ellis, who left the farm a little later, leaving just Sue and me to linger over our coffee and tidy up before departing Throwley Moor Farm at 10 a.m. The fog hadn’t quite taken the hint to clear off, but unlike the rest of the family, the sun had at least put in an appearance, and visibility had improved. The early travellers had reported heavy traffic and delays on the motorway, but by the time we joined it, the worst of the sluggish flow had melted away. We rolled home by two in the afternoon.

A couple of days later, Jamie and I set off for North Wales to visit Aunty Josie and to pay our respects at Caergwrle Castle, where my mother’s memorial bench stands. Jamie collected me from Willow Bank in his Range Rover, and after a brief detour at the Shropshire Ironwork and Sculpture Centre, we arrived in Brymbo.

Josie was home and expecting us, kettle already on, naturally. My cousin David turned up shortly after, and we spent a pleasant couple of hours chatting and leafing through old family photographs. During our visit, Josie had a call from the district nurse for her daily diabetes injection, which appeared to be doing its job nicely; she looked well and was far sprightlier than on my previous visit.

It was only a short drive to the castle, where I discovered that Nan’s memorial bench had acquired a companion, a new bench in the next alcove commemorating a gentleman from the village who had passed away earlier in the year. After a bracing climb up to the ruins, I was pleasantly surprised to see that much of the grounds had been cleared and the old, weather-beaten information boards replaced with shiny new ones. We spent a while exploring, reminiscing about Nan, and admiring the view before I rang my cousin Cerys, who lives nearby, to see if she was free for a visit. Sadly, she was at lunch with a friend about half an hour away, so we pressed on towards our accommodation for the night, Peckforton Castle.

Sue and I had stayed there before, a rather grand Victorian country house built in the style of a medieval fortress, nestled among the woods at the northern end of the Peckforton Hills, just a mile from the village. It’s also doubled as a film set on more than one occasion, which adds to its charm.

After checking into our rather sumptuous room (the very same one Sue and I had last occupied, as luck would have it), we set off to explore the public rooms, pausing for a well-earned drink in the cellar bar. Having perused the hotel’s restaurant menu and decided our wallets might prefer a little adventure, we opted instead for the local pub in Peckforton, where we enjoyed a hearty meal of spare rib starter followed by a comforting beef pie.

On returning to the hotel, we made a beeline for the Cellar Bar and spent the rest of the evening chatting, sipping, and soaking up the ambience.

Breakfast was booked for 8 a.m., which, given our leisurely approach to mornings, was optimistic. We woke late and made it down with seconds to spare, slightly dishevelled but victorious. Jamie went for the full English (naturally), while I chose Eggs Royale, attempting some balance in the universe. Despite there being only a handful of other guests, service was glacial. Several gentle reminders to the young waitresses later, our breakfast finally arrived. Let’s hope they’re new and merely in training rather than genuinely operating at half speed.

Back in the room, we showered, something we’d skipped in our heroic dash to breakfast, then packed up and checked out.

A short drive brought us to the picture-perfect village of Peckforton, where, nestled in a hedge beside a garden, stood a huge stone elephant carrying a castle on its back. This extraordinary creation was carved by the local stonemason, John Watson, in 1858, apparently in his spare time. Legend has it that the industrious (or perhaps insomniac) Watson toiled after dark, his sons holding candles to light his work. We paused for the obligatory photo and noted a planning notice proposing to move the elephant, an idea that seemed almost as absurd as the sculpture itself, before heading south to the Shropshire Ironwork and Sculpture Centre.

Parking up, we wandered among as many sculptures as time allowed. The place is vast, an outdoor art safari of sorts, and we saw only a fraction of what was there. Jamie bought a fireguard from one of the workshops, while I resisted the siren call of several statues, my wallet remaining stoically in my pocket.

On the way back to Harborough, we detoured via a meat wholesaler in Coventry that Jamie knew. There, we each emerged clutching a carrier bag of assorted meats, a fittingly carnivorous end to our Welsh adventure.