Friday evening, 7pm, text one: “Stuck at Heathrow, can we delay until lunchtime tomorrow?” Olly had spent the previous two weeks guiding in the Tuscan hills and almost made his way back to the North East before the French workers (strikers?) had their way. I did my best to feel sympathy for a man who does for a job what the rest of us do for our holidays. Roll forward to 9am on Saturday morning and, as we were about to head up the M1 to Yorkshire, text two: “Still at Heathrow, now going to be bussed up to Newcastle. Can you do tomorrow instead?” At which point the kettle went back on and we reworked our plan again.
XC elbows through the bracken.