The weather is even worse today. I have been tempted to search for a cheap, package holiday, somewhere hot and, away from Hampshire. I am presently wearing a jumper. It is 1st July. I am actually considering lighting a fire.

Wimbledon today will be a challenge – for the tournament organisers and punters alike – with more rain forecast on and off. Centre Court will have the roof on and, at least, we will see some action on tele. Hugo, my son, who is working at the shop on Court number 1, says that the shops and restaurants are heaving when it rains.

Yesterday, I wrote about our summer holidays in Norfolk. They were often chilly, perched on the slate-grey North Sea. On the other side of this stretch of sea is Scandinavia. I am part Swedish – through my Dad, and Geoff part Norwegian – through his Mum. I have always fancied myself as bit of a Viking, and it is comforting to think that Geoff and I share some tenuous ancient lineage. That connection always felt stronger when we visited Norfolk. And our golden-haired children reminded us of that link.

When Stan was battling with cancer eight years ago, I took myself off to Stockholm to find a bit of myself and him. I felt completely at home amongst the Swedes, much more than anywhere else in the world, apart from Sydney. The locals obviously thought that I was one, as these people who looked like Abba greeted me with ‘Hej’ (hey) – hello in Swedish. There is a magnificent stretch of tiny islands, the Archipelago, dotted around Stockholm. Very urbane, sophisticated Swedes turn their backs on the modern amenities of the mainland, and head out, en masse, in the summer, to live with Mother Nature on these idyllic islands. And they live very basically.

This is a bit like life on the Norfolk coast. There is a little house, not much more than a shack really, that is (0r was?) perched on the tip of Blakeney Point. We knew an extended family that holidayed there each year. It had no electricity or water, so they lived like Robinson Crusoe for a week or so each year, catching seafood, cooking it on open fires, sailing and getting pretty sea-salted. Their hair was like dreadlocks after a while.

We were invited to go and have drinks with them one evening. This entailed walking for an extended period of time through black, squelching mud. I rarely had a pedicure in those days, but I indulged in one just before my holiday. What a waste of money! After this pilgrimage to the shack, my feet look like pig’s trotters. It took weeks for the ingrained mud to wear off. There was something wild and romantic about what this family was doing. Facing the elements, together, was bonding.

Norfolk is wild and untamed. It is brooding, vast and eternal. It is not manicured, groomed or done.  It is sparsely populated, as it is on the way to nowhere. Somehow you felt better for smelling the sea air, eating the local fare and being blown away on the beach each day.

But it was always good to get back to Wandsworth and ‘civilisation’.

Today I am going to have to do some serious gardening at the Old Rectory. It is looking like a jungle out there.