What I Did On My Holidays

After all that drama we finally got away from London to spend (almost) a week in the grounds of the rather lovely Shropshire-based Combermere Abbey with a mixed group of friends – partly the University crew and partly from the Boy du Jour’s circle, all brought together by J and B, the only couple brave enough to organise such a diverse (ed: crazy) group of people.

The grounds of the Abbey included not only an extensive garden, woods and honest-to-God maze, but also a large lake where the braver members of the group swam on sunnier days. Unfortunately I watched Lake Placid one too many times in my misspent youth and preferred to keep away from the murky waters, sticking instead to exploring the woods and climbing trees in an inefficient and deeply inelegant fashion.

The relaxation schedule was pretty intense. A small group of slackers took a day off to head to the local spa, while a few more dedicated individuals had treatments done in the comfort of their own cottages (an on-site service provided by the Abbey’s staff). Another great convenience of the holiday was the honour bar facility where you could pick up all of life’s little essentials, from beef bourguignon and potato dauphinoise to local wines and beer, sticky toffee pudding and all the ice cream in the world – 24 hours a day. (The beer ran out on day two and wasn’t restocked for almost 48 hours; I’m not sure they’d really expected the Boy and friends.)

Another brave posse ventured out on Thursday to the Hawkstone Follies, expecting an easy two hour stroll with some nice caves to explore at the end. How wrong we were! Hawksmere is not only atrociously mapped (and very, very easy to get lost in), it’s a three hour round trip that’s uphill all the way.

The caves, once we found them, were very fine, with all the winding underground passages and mysterious caverns you could ask for – but by the time you’ve slogged out there and realised there’s no quick route back, the heart does rather sink. Still, we held it together 'til the very last minute, when one of the party went missing after a rash decision to take a route marked “short cut”.

Alas, if there was one thing we’d learned by then, it was not to trust the signs. Some time later a sad little text arrived as the rest of us sat in the sunshine outside the visitor centre, eating ice cream. “Lost in hills and attacked by trolls. What now?”

Eventually we gave up and sent the park rangers in with their Land Rover to pick him up. Really, at a time like that, surely even a man can ask for directions?

All in all, an excellent holiday. Time to start planning the next one, methinks...