Holidays are good

Saturday September 24, 2005

It was entirely horrid saying goodbye and leaving poor Graham waving by the caravan. He didn’t want us to go, and we didn’t want to go.

“It’s only for two weeks,” I said. “And it’s not goodbye, it’s farewell.”

“Yeah. Well, just you drive safely, and ring me the minute you get home.”

“Promise,” I said. “And I’ll text you when I stop on the way, too.”

When we’d manouvred the pot-holed lane up the hill from the camp and pulled onto the main road I slipped my hand behind me to give Dolly a comforting scritty-scrat through the bars of her transporter.

“Right oh, Dolly,” I said. “Put your head down now and we’ll be home before you know it.”

Have to say, she was a little gem all the way home. I took it steady but the roads were comparatively empty so I made it in five hours including a short break for coffee and a really nasty motorway burger, and another even shorter break to pick up a sandwich from the Boston Tescos for my lunch. When I’d unloaded the car and let her out of the box, she made a short tour of the house to check that all was as she’d left it—it was—and then she took a major comfort break and, when done, came up to me for a quick cuddle and a long drink of fresh water from the tap.

Within ten minutes I’d phoned Graham, unpacked, and was sitting down for a well-earned but rather late lunch.

It was a little after six o’clock in the evening when I woke from my nap. I suspect there’ll be several out of schedule naps before I’m fully back on the ground once more.

I haven’t sorted out Somerset in my head yet, far less come to a reckoning of my holiday. Holidays are good. I enjoyed it, and I ought to do it more often.

But the real holiday will come in two weeks time when Graham returns to the fold and we’re all three of us back together, and under our own roof once more, even if it is only for a short while.


 
Sailing home
 

 

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