We had a lovely time on holiday in Lancashire. I knew the Forest of Bowland was beautiful, I went there on a school trip or two, but I didn't really know how beautiful, what kind of beautiful.
We got some good tips from Tim and Beth, who came over to help us check out the local pub, which turned out to have a bottle of raspberry Sambuca with our names on it. Who'd have guessed? I was topping up after an indulgent family birthday lunch at the Inn at Whitewell (which I heartily recommend, should you be passing, though it does have a touch of the hunting lodge about it) so didn't take much persuading, but I was impressed at the fortitude of my companions on what was, for them, a school night.
I was woken just after 7am not, as I'd half expected, by one of them falling out of the bunk beds or down the insanely steep stairs, but by a rumbling that shook the whole cottage. My first thought was that Tim must have a seriously noisy electric toothbrush, but it turned out to be next door doing some early morning hoovering. They like to keep things tidy up there. I left a warning in the Visitors Book.
That day didn't amount to much, being mostly spent rehydrating in the miniature bathroom and finishing the sensationistly-named but actually Very Good Emergency Sex And Other Desperate Measures. Once normal service was resumed we visited the churchyards, the War Memorial, the Post Office (who kindly offered to get us the Guardian in), the Village Shop (who already knew where we were staying -- M said 'wow, do you know our names?' and she said 'no, never asked'), the chair factory, and the local cafe, which I have in my mind as the Cobbled Cob, though that can't really be its name. Between the last two, we took our first Public Footpath, which was basically a right of way across a bog.
It's not dry round here is it, said M. Ha! I said. Things can only get wetter.