Essex

We* usually go away at about this time of year. Just for the weekend. Nothing serious. A break between the burning heat of summer in England, and the festive cheer of Christmas. Anything to break to monotony of November.

This year we've been particularly bold and forsaken the West Country, the North, the South and the Heart of England and gone for Essex. Which is, to be honest, a lot quicker to get to from London, which is important if you can't leave until after school on a Friday. The calculus of children, eh?

Observations. It's a lot nicer here when it isn't raining, sleeting and blowing a gale. Creeksea Place Barns come highly recommended, whether for a weekend of walking or a Hen Party (that's what next-door are up to). And they are repairing the roof on St Peters-on-the-Wall. Scaffolding. Wherever I seem to go, there is scaffolding. I think it's a genetic thing, passed down from my father. Who was, once-upon-a-time, a scaffolder.

A photo, you say?  

* select group of world-travellers