Cold Comfort Farm

There's a great big bath in the cottage in which we stayed. It is deep with a roll top and claw feet, designed for indulgent Flake-inspired long soaks with lots of bubbles and heavenly scents. Unfortunately, such inactivities require a certain amount of hot water. We were completely out of it. Not a drop. The boiler had packed up and no amount of prodding it was going to convince it otherwise.

The plumber looked a bit nervous when he answered the emergency call-out to find 6 eager women huddled under a duvet. He backed out slowly and only delivered the news that he wouldn't be able to get the spare part until Thursday when he was within jumping distance of his van.

We comforted ourselves with perpetual bowls of crisps, dips and chocolates, enjoyed beside the lovingly tended coal fire, our only source of heating, notwithstanding all the hot air that only half a dozen women can generate sans chaps.

The weekend (not our armpits) went hummingly, bracing headland walks, sheltered woodland hillsides stretching down to deserted windswept beaches, pub grub, pounding waves, lazy hours reading magazines, uninterrupted back-to-back Colin Firth, Hugh Grant, George Peppard ( young and bare-chested) and local ghost stories. I'm not sure if that's what left me feeling so refreshed and invigorated or the real cause of excutive stress is simply having to blow dry one's hair on a daily basis.