I keep quoting from Eliot in these post titles. Avid fans may have noticed I didn’t publish my promised sum-up of America. As Zhou En-lai said when asked his opinion of the French Revolution, “It’s too early to tell.” Though he was probably talking about the more recent Paris riots of 1968.

Anyway, it’s Easter and I still haven’t taken Willma on to a pitch yet. There’s a family gathering at Rosie’s sister’s place in Lancaster, to get the six children, their parents and grandparents together. Sue is catering for sixteen at a time; I’ve gatecrashed the party. She will be exhausted. We’ve been to the Castle and the Police Museum, blown the cobwebs away at Sunderland Point and paid our respects at Sambo’s grave.

Most of us spent a day at Sue & Rysz’s caravan on Ullswater. The grandchildren were blown away by the scenery; and William the farmer gave some instruction on the realities of sheep farming on the hills; at times a bit graphically. We saw him bring a ewe into the lambing shed, and watched him help with a breech birth of a lamb, that was in some distress. “Aye, it’ll make it or it won’t; if it don’t we’ll put another lamb in there.” Another ewe was in the process of dropping her second, while we watched. Our Lily’s comment was “Well it’s bit strange for a six year old to watch lambs being born!). She did enjoy making friends with the sheepdog, who let his tummy be tickled; and feeding one of the orphans. She’s not so sure she wants to be a vet now.

On the way home, stopped off to see Rachel in Chorlton, near Manchester, which is quite an artsy suburb; we had lunch at a tapas bar, accompanied by live samba. We’ve known each other for over thirty years now; always a pleasure to meet up. Then went on to a Camping Club site in Crowden, in the north of the Peak District, next to the Woodhead Pass that links Manchester with Sheffield. I thought it might be wise to try it out before travelling round France. From pitching up to cup of tea, 40 minutes. Still got it.

Next day, I went for a walk, hoping to find my way down to the reservoir, but the pathway was impassable, so the notice said. The site manager had warned me that the second night of my booking looked wet. “The map looks like the sea – blue all over!” As I walked, I pondered. If I stayed a second night, I’d be driving home in the wet. And no-one said it had to be an endurance test, it’s supposed to be for pleasure. So I bid farewell to the manager, and wended my way, through beautiful scenery, across to the Great North Road (the A1) and back home down south.

There’s a bit of electioneering to be done, plus some wedding planning where I’m required; then off through the Tunnel to France. Planning is getting real.