It’s raining in Cornwall. We drift off to sleep at night with the rain beating against the roof, echoing around the beams of the rafters and wake with it pattering softly against the windows.
The sun has peeked out once or twice, but has disappeared as swiftly as a shy maiden. I’ve never seen a more dismal weather forecast, but yet we are happy.
We’re cosy inside our cottage. The walls are thick and the radiators warm. We’re eating toasted crumpets dripping with good Cornish butter, playing Scrabble and doing this crazy thing called talking to each other. My coffee addiction will be in full-swing by the time we go home, there seems to be a fresh cup every hour.
The clock ticks as we flick the pages of our books, virtual and physical. Lucas has taken to sprawling over the sofa, an old Beano annual propped on his chest looking every inch a teenager. It’s a slightly terrifying glimpse into our future. I’ve ploughed through two books already and am happily working on my third, “The Mermaid’s Sister” and Dave is whistling through his backlog of comics.
This quiet and cosy holiday has turned out to be exactly what we needed.