On the first sunny day for many weeks, 28 January, Sue and I drove to Waltham on the Wolds to see Jamie and Nala. Ruth was at work in Derbyshire, and Joey was in school. After coffee and a good chat, we made our way to the Black Bull in Market Overton for lunch. It was just after midday when we arrived, making us the first patrons to order both drinks and food.

The pub is renowned for its excellent homemade pies, which Jamie and I duly enjoyed, while Sue opted for a thoroughly British plate of fish and chips.

On our return to Waltham for another coffee, we stopped off at Whymondham Windmill and Tea Room to browse the shops, climb the windmill, and stretch our legs along the sculpture trail that winds through a small nearby wood. We were suitably impressed and made a mental note to return in warmer weather.

Thanks to Jamie’s generosity, we headed back to Harborough with a bottle of homemade wine and a boot full of logs for the wood burner.

The saga of the incorrectly welded part on one of the new recliner chairs finally came to a satisfactory conclusion when I agreed to accept an £80 refund and keep the chair. After a little work with a hacksaw, I cut four new slots for the feet to locate into and, hey presto, in under an hour, we had fully functioning recliners with footstools in the sunroom.

After enduring a poor mobile phone signal from EE for the past year, and following a visit from a BT technician who was unable to improve our connection, we decided to switch providers to Smarty. I’d been using a Smarty SIM in my second phone and tablet for over a year without any signal issues, and it also offers European roaming. For £6 a month, I get unlimited calls and texts with 15GB of data. Both our mobiles are now on Smarty contracts costing £6.30 each, with unlimited calls and texts, EU roaming, and 24GB of data. By comparison, EE had been charging us £21 for just 5GB.

On the last day of January, Charlotte flew to Murcia in Spain to enjoy a few days of rest and relaxation with her former neighbour and friend, Sarah, who has recently moved there. Suraj and Ellis took her to Luton for her 6 a.m. flight before continuing to spend the day in London. Judging by the photos on Family Messenger, the weather in the Spanish mountains was a vast improvement on what we were experiencing in Harborough.

That morning, while digging up leeks at the allotment, I noticed a sizeable pile of logs left by the Council. I later returned in the Fiesta to ferry them back to Willow Bank, ready to be cut down to woodburner size over the coming days. That afternoon, I entertained Jim and Sean in the Garden Room to watch the Tigers lose to a youthful Saints side, though they did at least manage to come away with a bonus point.

With Charlotte away and Lucas at university, Suraj and Ellis continued their boys’ weekend with a trip to Bristol to collect a BMX bike Suraj had bought online. They then spent the rest of the day in Bath, visiting its famous tourist sights and finishing up by purchasing some eye-wateringly expensive fudge before heading home.

The following Tuesday, after my morning bike ride, I visited St Luke’s Hospital for a blood test, grabbed a bit of lunch, and then headed south to Luton to collect Charlotte from the airport after her R&R in Spain. The hour-and-a-quarter journey was through heavy motorway traffic in damp, murky conditions. Her flight arrived thirty-five minutes ahead of schedule, and I had only a ten-minute wait in the long-stay car park before her shuttle bus appeared. It began to drizzle as we left and continued all the way to Rothwell.

Charlotte was clearly excited about her sojourn in Murcia, bubbling over with descriptions of what she had been up to for most of the journey. On arrival, I declined the offer of a coffee and carried on to Harborough, arriving just a few moments before Sue, who had been attending a U3A meeting that afternoon.

We returned to Rothwell with Sue at six o’clock after a very kind invitation to share a curry with Charlotte, Suraj and Ellis. After an excellent meal, we left for home, leaving a very tired Charlotte to catch up on some much-needed sleep after a long day of travelling.

The following day did not start well. I set off late on my morning bike ride, only to come to a disastrous halt about a mile from home when the derailleur tangled itself into the spokes and one of the sprockets broke, rendering the bike unrideable. I pushed it home, changed clothes, and then wheeled the sorry machine into the bike shop in town to have a new set of gears fitted.

The rest of the day was spent splitting logs until the postman arrived with a sawhorse I had ordered online. The assembly instructions were poor, but I eventually managed to fit all the pieces together and gave it a test run with the chainsaw and a short log before calling it a day. Sue, meanwhile, had spent the afternoon watching the film Blue Moon at Harborough Theatre and reported that it was very disappointing.

The following Friday (the 6th), I had an appointment with my GP to discuss the results of my earlier blood test. At first glance, the PSA reading was quite concerning; however, it was felt that the test had been carried out too soon after I had completed a course of antibiotics for cystitis. As a result, it was agreed that I would be retested in six weeks, in line with the guidance for patients who have recently had a UTI.

The following afternoon, it was back to the surgery for an ultrasound scan to check my bladder and kidneys after recovering from the infection. Later, I returned home to watch England comfortably defeat a rather lacklustre Wales side in the Six Nations, in the company of Sean and Jim.

Over the past few months, Sue and I had grown increasingly concerned about an old friend whom we first met at college in the 1970s and with whom we had remained in touch over the years, occasionally exchanging visits when circumstances allowed. We had not heard from him for six months, and he appeared to have disappeared entirely from the online world. Feeling the need for a few days away from Willow Bank and its seemingly endless run of miserable weather, we decided to plan a short break. It seemed sensible to stay somewhere near Thornbury, where our friend Chris lives. We chose a two-night stay in the nearby Cotswolds at the charming sixteenth-century boutique hotel, the Ormond, in Tetbury.

Tetbury is the home of King Charles III and Queen Camilla and was an important centre for the Cotswold wool and yarn trade during the Middle Ages.

By 10 a.m. on Sunday (the 8th), we were heading south through drizzly conditions for the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Hunters Hall, a small village pub in Kingscote, just a few miles from Tetbury, where we enjoyed an excellent and very reasonably priced Sunday lunch. Hunger satisfied, we continued our journey in worsening weather, arriving at our accommodation at the 6 p.m. check-in time, which also coincided with the start of free overnight parking in a nearby car park.

Once we had settled into our room with a coffee, the rain eased, and we ventured out to explore the town, following a published town trail that I had loaded onto my GPS. The route was described as a short circular stroll around the pretty Cotswold market town of Tetbury. The Cotswolds are well known for their historic towns, and Tetbury is no exception, with many of its buildings dating from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The trail followed mainly pavements and tarmac paths, with just one short muddy section where care was needed in wet conditions. There were no stiles and only one simple, wide gate. Although the walk included a few hills, it promised no real difficulty for those prepared for a little effort, ideal, it seemed, for two somewhat crocked and ageing souls such as ourselves.

The walk proved thoroughly enjoyable, following the River Avon for part of the way and then the disused railway line that once formed the Tetbury to Kemble branch, which closed in 1965. We stopped frequently to admire and discuss the buildings along the route, grateful that the rain held off. As the light faded, we entered a church, signed the visitors’ book and spent some time reading a moving display commemorating local men who had fallen in the two world wars. Back at the hotel, we settled into the bar for refreshments before returning to our room to end the evening with biscuits, crisps and television.

Breakfast at 7.30 a.m. was generous and very good. Sue chose a full English, while I opted for Eggs Royale, along with the usual cereals and yoghurt. Two slices of toast with Marmite elevated the fare to dizzy heights, at least in my estimation.

It was a murky thirty-minute drive to Thornbury through rush-hour traffic, which, mercifully, flowed without causing any significant delay. On arrival, the house and grounds appeared tidy and well-maintained, with a Ukrainian flag fluttering from the garage. Sue stayed in the car while I rang the doorbell and knocked, but there was no response. I feared the worst. I then tried next door, where a lady answered and invited me in when I explained that I had once taken her dog for a walk with Chris on a previous visit. She reassured me that he was alive and well, but a late riser, and far too early to be up and about. She had seen him cycling at the weekend.

At that moment, Sue came to the door to tell us that Chris had arrived and invited us in. We spent nearly three hours catching up. He seemed little changed, although his hands were shaking, and he explained that he had a condition called essential tremor, a common neurological disorder that causes rhythmic shaking, most often in the hands and arms.

He went on to say that he had been removed from Facebook after making too many complaints about the content he was receiving. He had been asked to provide a photograph of himself within 180 days in order to regain access, something he had no intention of doing. As this had been our main means of communication, we exchanged WhatsApp details, promising to stay in touch and to call in again on a future trip south to visit Sue’s sister.

Leaving Thornbury in rain showers, we made our way to the isolated Newark Park.

Sir Nicholas Poyntz, a courtier to Henry VIII, built this state-of-the-art hunting lodge around 1550. Its dramatic and secluded setting was ideal for entertaining guests in style. Each subsequent owner added their own embellishments to keep pace with changing fashions, particularly the Clutterbuck family, who worked with several architects, including James Wyatt, responsible for the striking stained-glass window.

The house and gardens fell into decline in the mid-twentieth century until an American architect, Bob Parsons, invested time and money in restoring Newark Park to its former glory. Today, the National Trust continues to care for and conserve the house, gardens and surrounding parkland.

Sue produced a newspaper voucher for free entry and, as a bonus, we were also given free parking. It is amazing what kindness can be inspired when two pensioners smile sweetly. With the afternoon advancing, we quickly joined a guided tour already in progress. The guides were knowledgeable, enthusiastic and keen to engage us in conversation.

While gathered in the wine cellar, our guide mentioned, half-jokingly, that she hoped the resident ghost would behave itself with the lights. It didn’t. As she began her explanation, the lights started flickering. Someone tried the wall switch, but after a few seconds, the flickering resumed. A loose connection, I thought. Yet when we later passed the open door, the lights were steady and unflickering. Spooky? Perhaps.

We finished our visit with a short walk through the gardens and surrounding woodland, enjoying the fine views and admiring snowdrops pushing their way through the undergrowth.

On the return journey to the Ormond, we passed Hunters Hall and, on a whim, pulled in for food. We enjoyed two meals with drinks for just £20. Back in Tetbury, we again made use of the free overnight parking and spent a cosy evening in our room, surfing the internet and watching television as rain poured down outside.

After another substantial breakfast, Sue once again chose a full English, and me opting for eggs Benedict, we checked out and set off under grey skies and light rain for Chedworth Roman Villa.

I had already noticed on a recent trip down the M1 that the road surface was the worst I had ever experienced, riddled with potholes. This journey through Gloucestershire was no better. On every category of road, the tarmac was crumbling, and reacting to each hazard required constant concentration. It was often impossible to tell whether a dark patch was merely a puddle or a pothole full of water. Given the mild winter we have had, with few frosts, the damage could only be down to poor maintenance.

Despite the weather, the drive to Chedworth was a delight. The scenery was beautiful, with honey-coloured, golden and soft grey limestone buildings that seemed to melt into the landscape rather than stand apart from it. On a damp winter’s day, it was genuinely uplifting.

We waited patiently in the linear car park beside the villa as staff arrived and prepared the site for opening. At exactly 10 a.m., we went in. Sue once again produced a newspaper voucher, and this time, parking was already free.

Chedworth is one of the largest and most elaborate Roman villas discovered in Britain, and one that remained occupied beyond the Roman period. Armed with headsets and audio guides, we explored the site, stopping at numbered points for detailed explanations. One guide, in particular, spent time sharing additional insights with us. The scale of the site offers a real sense of Roman wealth and luxury. Historians continue to debate whether Chedworth was a villa rustica or a religious sanctuary and hostel, as evidence exists for both, though the prevailing view is that it was the home of a very wealthy, though unidentified, Romano-Briton.

Best appreciated on a warm summer’s day, winter’s short daylight hours and our journey home meant that we could not linger. All too soon, we set off again to face the nation’s deteriorating roads, thankfully arriving home unscathed.

On the 11th, Sue, Charlotte, Jamie and Sarah attended a Psychic Table Night at Donnington Manor. The event promised “fantastic mediums, hand-picked and highly recommended, gifted, sincere and professional in their approach”, with the reassurance that no one would leave disappointed. It was billed as a friendly, relaxing and sociable evening, which sounded reassuringly confident for an activity involving messages from the other side.

According to Sue’s report the following morning, it did indeed prove to be a friendly, relaxing and sociable evening, and she seemed keen to repeat the experience at some point in the future. I remain profoundly sceptical of such events and will not be joining them, preferring to keep my conversations firmly within this world.

Meanwhile, on the same evening, Suraj, Ellis and I attended an equally satisfying event at Avatar, where we enjoyed a superb Indian–Nepalese meal. No psychic intervention was required to predict that we, too, would be very happy to repeat the occasion.

On the 13th, after meeting a few clients over lunch in London, Jamie dropped Nala off at Willow Bank in preparation for his trip to Austria with Ruth and Joey. With the Winter Olympics in full swing in Italy, they had booked a week of snowboarding.

Disaster struck on the 17th when Jamie managed to rupture his ACL (again) while attempting a 360° jump on his snowboard. A painful visit to a doctor and a heavily strapped knee brought his time on the slopes to an abrupt and rather undignified end.

On the same day, I paid a rare visit to see Roger Woolnough, freshly returned from his sister’s birthday celebrations in Bristol. He recounted an amusing tale of becoming indisposed in her bathroom when the lock fell clean out of the door, trapping him inside. His inventive solution was to deliver a kung-fu kick to one of the door panels and crawl through the resulting gap to secure his escape. Not quite the birthday entertainment his sister had planned, I suspect.

Happily, there was better news the following day when my little Fiesta sailed through its MOT with flying colours. I celebrated this triumph of automotive reliability by digging over the two raised beds in the garden, ready for the coming planting season.

There is a certain grim irony in the timing of events surrounding the 66th birthday of Prince Andrew, who was reportedly arrested and questioned by the Metropolitan Police. One might reasonably argue that, were he ever to face formal charges, misconduct in public office would be an apposite description, selling out one’s country being a particularly egregious manifestation of it.

One can only hope that any proper legal scrutiny would expose further uncomfortable truths, not least the full reality of his relationship with Virginia Giuffre. Likewise, the long and troubling associations involving Peter Mandelson, Jeffrey Epstein, and the murkier international influences that surrounded them might, at last, be laid bare.

It was therefore scarcely surprising that, only a few days later, the much-criticised former British Ambassador to the United States, Peter Mandelson, was also reportedly arrested and questioned over his links to Epstein and the alleged passing on of sensitive information.

Were such matters to be pursued to their proper conclusion, the word Great in Great Britain might, for once, feel genuinely earned. Whether the United States has the appetite to demonstrate the same resolve, and to inject a little greatness back into its own public life, remains an open question.

On Friday evening, while Sue went to Harborough Theatre to watch Marty Supreme, the true story of a table-tennis player, Charlotte and Sarah arrived at Willow Bank to take me out for a meal. Sarah had originally booked us into the Coach and Horses in Lubenham, but on arrival, we were greeted by a sign informing customers that the kitchen was closed due to unforeseen circumstances. We therefore moved on to the Shoulder of Mutton in Foxton, where I enjoyed a splendid gammon steak with my two daughters, accompanied by some very enjoyable family banter.

An injured Jamie and his family returned to the UK late on Saturday (21st), calling in briefly to collect Nala on their way home. Earlier that day, I had endured watching the debacle of England’s 21–42 loss to a very ordinary Ireland. I watched the match with a couple of rugby chums in the Garden Room, thankful that we had not chosen to travel to London to see the game in person. Sipping post-match refreshments in the hostelries of Twickenham alongside jubilant, drunken Irishmen does not bear contemplating.

Frustratingly, I have come to the conclusion that the current England manager is not up to the job. The game has moved on, yet he continues to promote the kick-and-chase tactics of five years ago by persisting with Ford at fly-half. The squad is undoubtedly talented and capable of playing a fast, handling game, but it was painfully obvious that they are not suited to repeatedly winning good ball only to see it kicked straight back to the opposition. He has to go.

It seems that in response to the storybook that I created as a Christmas present for Archie, Alice has decided to write one of her own.

With Jamie’s return, the weather has also warmed up, with daytime temperatures reaching the teens. This encouraged me to tidy the garden and plant up a dozen pots with spring and summer blooms. At the allotment, I dug out five large currant bushes, turned over the soil to create another vegetable bed, and mulched the remaining beds with leaf compost, gratefully supplied by the council.

On a warm Sunday afternoon (22nd), I accompanied Sue to Harborough Theatre to see Hamnet. The story imagines the life and death of William Shakespeare’s son and the emotional aftermath for his family. Set in late-16th-century England, the plot centres largely on Agnes, Shakespeare’s wife, a fictionalised version of Anne Hathaway. It was an excellent production, with a finale that helps to explain the emotional origins of Hamlet. Very much worth watching.

The warm weather continued into the following week, prompting me to drive with Sean to the Red Lion in the Welland Valley to sample one of their lunchtime meal deals, as recommended by Sue. At £27 for two 10 oz steaks and a bottle of wine, it seemed a most agreeable way to spend a Tuesday afternoon. Appetites duly satisfied, we rounded off the day with a game of pool in the garden room.

Meanwhile, Sue had joined her U3A Architecture group to enjoy a talk on N. Corah and Sons Ltd, whose hosiery factory was once based in Belgrave, Leicester, close to a school where I had previously worked. Founded in 1815, the factory closed in 1990, and in its later years, many parents of the children I taught were employed there.

Charlotte’s recent CT scan results were reassuringly negative. She is convinced that her persistent cough is a legacy of Long Covid and that her low iron levels are the result of drinking too much tea. Her carpentry skills have also been put to good use once again, this time in the creation of a very professional-looking shelf unit made from a scaffolding plank.

On the 26th, the Newbold Verdons enjoyed a lovely day in the garden, tidying the greenhouse and borders. The following day, a very excited Archie attended his first day at pre-school, proudly wearing his uniform. Later, Sarah reported on Messenger that he had had a “brilliant” day.

Unsurprisingly, not long afterwards, the dull, damp and dispiriting British weather we had endured for the previous four months returned. In Harborough, we experienced more than forty days when it rained at some point during the day, with scarcely a glimpse of sunshine on the few occasions it did not. Vitamin D supplements became essential in combating the lack of sunlight. The River Welland has flooded frequently, causing Sue some anxiety, but unlike in previous years, it has never appeared close to breaching its banks. The river authorities and the council are now far more vigilant, regularly maintaining and monitoring the watercourse and keeping it clear to aid the flow. Despite the number of new houses being built locally and concerns about the potential impact on flooding, the opposite currently seems to be the case, at least on our side of town (upstream).

Before Covid, the family would regularly gather at Willow Bank on a Friday evening for a meal, usually prepared by me, and it is much regretted that this tradition has not resumed since. On the 27th, however, we once again hosted the family for a meal and get-together. Before Christmas, I had bought a large batch of pies from Brockleby’s, intending to enjoy them together over the festive period, but a horrendous bout of cystitis put paid to that plan. It therefore seemed high time for another gathering of pies and family. The only absentee was Joey, who was staying with his stepfather for the weekend.

I cooked a simple meal of reindeer (venison) and Maharaja (curry) pies, served with chips, baked beans, mushy peas and onion rings, with chicken nuggets for Alice and Archie. Dessert consisted of cheesecake, sticky toffee pudding, and a walnut cake complete with candles. As my birthday falls on 4 March, it felt like an appropriate moment to celebrate with the family. A rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” was both unexpected and much appreciated.

After the meal, we moved on to the serious business of the evening: playing silly games. Although I was never entirely sure of the rules, once the table had been cleared, I joined a game resembling musical chairs, in which players had to leap onto coloured tiles scattered across the floor, dictated by the spin of an arrow. There was much laughter, along with a fair amount of jostling for position. Mia and Nala, seemingly unsure what was going on, sensibly kept well clear of the human contestants-turned-combatants.

Earlier in the week, Sue had booked herself a seat at Harborough Theatre to see the film Rental Family, leaving us to our frivolity shortly after the meal. On her return, she reported that she hadn’t enjoyed it, finding the plot rather too silly.

On a more concerning note, earlier in the week, Sue had arranged a walk and lunch with her friend, also called Sue. When she arrived to collect her, she discovered that her friend had forgotten the arrangement and gone shopping instead. This had happened before. More worryingly, her friend had recently travelled to Leicester General Hospital for an appointment to investigate possible dementia, but became confused on arrival, was unable to find the correct department, and returned home. With her husband and son both deceased, and no close relatives apart from a cousin in Canada, her situation is particularly sad and troubling. Sue has decided to accompany her to future appointments and to keep a much closer eye on her.

Ironically, as I published this blog, the United States and Israel began a major military assault on Iran, marking a significant escalation in an already volatile region. I can’t help but wonder how MAGA supporters will respond to draft-dodger-in-chief and self-styled peacemaker Donald Trump now.