Home Farm: Sandsend

The journey to Sandsend from Blackburn is about three hours. "Collect the keys at 3:00pm," they said. We arrived at 2:59pm. Aha - a good omen. A small dog called Otis appeared, as the repeated but ineffectual repeating of it's name testified. He charged about like a golden ball of fur pretending to be in a pinball machine. "Well he's not very well behaved." The booking office had been very keen on our somewhat larger dog being of a well behaved disposition.
We unpacked our stuff into the cottage and started oohing and ahhing over the large kitchen and all its culinary toys. "What do you think this is for?" asked Phil holding up a chrome something-or-other. We shook our heads in bewilderment.
Outside we have our own little network of gardens and paths overlooking a little pool-stream-waterfall ensemble. Harry is very impressed. We spot a young Moorhen swimming about. Debbie comments that one of the fat balls she has hung from the bird table has been dragged onto the table top. Weird. Could our neighbour have done that? The bird table is on the fence between us and next door.
Deb and Phil go out for a walk to scout the nearby lay of the land. Before-long they ran into a beastie. "Is that a cow or a bull?" The beastie starts to move towards them. They run and before you know it some more beasties have joined in the fun and we have a full scale cow chase on our hands again. Actually this happens quite a lot.
We have a sandwich and discuss the latest cow chase. I go and inspect the on-suite wet-room. Debbie examines the slightly sloped floor and the drain beneath the shower fittings and expresses skepticism over the room's drainage potential. Later Phil decides that he has to experience the delights of the wet-room in full flow. He blithely enjoys himself for a few minutes before having to abort abruptly. Debbie was right to be skeptical as we narrowly avoid a major flood. On further testing we discover the system can only handle one of the shower jets at half power. Any more than that requires a swimming certificate or at the very least some well inflated water-wings.
Choosing bedrooms is easy. I'm the downstairs bedroom next to the flood-potential-room. Phil is upstairs and has the run of several bedrooms including a cosy loft option. A large bang rings out from up there as Debbie nearly brains herself on the low roof beams. Looks like we are having an Inspector Clouseau day though thankfully my involvement so far is limited to a little tea spillage. Debbie decides to stay on the couch as Harry isn't used to sleeping alone and he definitely isn't allowed on the beds. I stay up very late reading ghost stories and wrestling with the memory foam mattress. I eventually call it a day and switch the lamp off. Whooah. Pitch black. Not used to that. There is always a streetlamp nearby in all the houses I've ever lived in. Some time later I get to sleep. I'm woken maybe an hour later by some scritching and scratching. "Whassat?" Maybe it's a fox messing about outside, I think. I'm too tired to investigate and the memory foam says, "Don't even think about sitting up." Anyhow it can't be a fox because the noise is coming from above. Debbie pads in and says, "Can you hear that scratching? Is it a rat?" Who knows what it is. Debbie abandons the couch and gets Phil to come down and keep Harry company. Phil says he hasn't heard anything. Will the mystery be solved? Find out in the next blog entry coming soon. Sleep tight.