Yesterday, we had the heaviest downpour I can remember at teatime. I was so glad to be inside. It bucketed down. The outside was eclipsed in a vertical sheet of water that dropped from the heavens. Everything was left soggy. I popped down to the local shops, and everyone was on their high horse about the weather. And excited about our new Prime Minister, Theresa May.

In the morning, Patrick and his crew, including his wolf, and Domino and I, headed for the South Downs for a walk. Of course, it rained on and off. Still, we had pleasant walk with spectacular views, as far as the eye can see, amongst the pretty meadow fields. It reminded me of summer holidays we had at his chalet in Verbier, where we walked by the Bisse du Levron, a stream that runs to the Luberon Valley. It tinkles and trickles away during the summer, with the sound of cow bells accompanying it. In winter, it is buried deep under the snow. As it passes the scenic restaurant, La Marmotte, the fields are covered in grasshoppers in the summertime. I remember Hugo trying to catch them in his hands.

It also reminded me of walks we had at Corn Close Cottage in Paxford, in the heart of the Cotswolds in 2000-2001. Part of the day, was always spent on a pretty walk somewhere. It was a tonic to be in the countryside, after a decade in a terraced house in London.

I love the architecture of the Cotswold towns; the houses and shops are made of sandstone, just like in down town Sydney. Wealthy wool merchants established these attractive mellow-yellow towns: from Burford, to Broadway, to Stow, to Chipping Camden, to Chipping Norton. Many have an old wool exchange in the middle of the market square. And there are coaching inns, which now serve hearty food to motorcar travellers, not to dashing gentlemen on horseback or elegant ladies in carriages. Perhaps there were a few dashing women on horseback, but I doubt it somehow.

The first weekend we moved into the cottage, we stacked the car full of ‘weekender’ stuff that we would need: a huge paddling pool and pump, bicycles, picnic gear, bed linen, television and video casette player, and a fold up table and chairs. We also had to take the hamster.

The drive out of London on the M40, beyond the M25 which encircles the London metropolis, gets better and better, and then just before Oxford the vista opens up below to reveal a patchwork of fields, hedgerows, church steeples and lambkin clouds. Onwards, we continued to junction 9 on the M40, where we then thrashed across country past Blenheim Palace in Woodstock to Chipping Norton, and finally on to Moreton in Marsh. The cottage was a stone’s throw from Moreton.

The wonderful thing about Moreton, was that you could park outside any shop you wanted. You didn’t have to drive, pay and display, extract the children and then face hordes of shoppers. Moreton had no high street stores back then (I believe it has ASK now). It had Dillons, a good butcher, a toy shop, a few pubs and loads of antique stores. Dillons was our staple stop. You could buy a newspaper, hire a video and buy the chidren an ice-cream. And you could park right outside – for free.

On that first journey to the cottage, we arrived in Moreton at dinner time. I had no food. So we bundled into a pub and had hearty food. When we squeezed back into our laden station wagon, we realised that the hamster had escaped. We eventually found him under the front seat. But it wasn’t as stressful as if it had happened on a busy street in London, with cars and pedestrians jostling nearby.

Today, one of my friends is making the trek to the Old Rectory. Geoff is coming tonight with Hugo, who has finished at Wimbledon, as we have the polo tomorrow.