Well, that was all rather fun. Neither of us had been to the ballet before, so when dad offered tickets we jumped at it. In fairness we were supposed to be watching it at the Opera Garnier in Paris, which is why we went to France back in May. That didn’t happen – no tickets.

Anyhow, it gave us a chance to see inside the Royal Opera House, which we’ve walked past so many times but never entered. It’s quite fab, and the view of the plaza from the terrace of the Ampitheatre Bar is the best view of Covent Garden going.

…and the view of the champagne bar downstairs isn’t so tatty, either. Good job we wore our smarts, not that we spent much time down there.

So, the ballet. We didn’t really know what to expect, which might have been a good thing, as we went with open minds.

It was the Bolshoi doing Don Quixote, so a pretty high standard for your first experience, and it didn’t disappoint. Well, not us, anyway, but dad had seen better (he’s seen a lot) and to be honest we could see where he was coming from when he said that the end of it would have been done better if they’d headed back to the village for the wedding scene.

There’s not a great deal of story to Don Quixote, and it seems to be a bit of an excuse for showing off how good a dancer you are – kind of like Cirque du Soliel on tip-toes – but that makes it all the more impressive. Random fact: when they pirouette on the tips of their shoes their big toes feel the force of 2 tonnes… and they did a lot of pirouetting.

Even if it weren’t for the ballet, the Opera House alone would be a good enough reason to visit. It’s truly beautiful building, with parts dating back to the 1700s. It’s also a lot bigger than you’d expect. The stage itself is fairly conservative (and only around a third the size of its rival in Paris) but the tiers and boxes seat over 2200 people, and everyone gets a good view.

Would we go again? Most certainly. We even looked up what was on at the Theatre Royal in Norwich last night…

So, Clacton to Frinton by foot. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I cycled it too many years ago with Trevor and Jon and really didn’t remember that Clacton to Frinton was any longer than the very manageable stretch from Frinton on to Walton.

Well it is. We paid for four hours parking and were late getting back, despite only walking one way. Fortunately the parking attendant was nowhere to be seen, perhaps on account of the fact that today was an official scorcher.

You really have no idea how far between the two resorts you are when you’re walking along by the water’s edge, one side of your neck slowly cooking in the sun reflected off the sea. More than once I was sure we were almost there, and on neither occasion were we even half way.

No matter; the sun was full out, the tide was high and the sea was blue and crashing on the defences beside the path. We couldn’t have hoped for any better.

It took over two hours to make it to Frinton, passing beach huts by the hundred on the way, and when we got there we fell into a greasy cafe for eggs and chips and mugs of tea. Never had so humble a lunch tasted so good.

There was no way we were going to get back to the car on foot before it found itself clamped, so we walked up to the station and bought tickets back to Clacton, only to find we’d not get there for another hour and a half on account of a limp timetable and an inconvenient change. So we headed for the bus, and a bit of a shock.

When it eventually arrived (we’d just missed one) it was £7 each for a journey of not more than five miles as the crow flies.

Hmmm. Still, cheaper than a clamp, and it was such a lovely day it was well worth the money.

I hadn’t been in years and Rich had never been. We hadn’t seen Ash and Roman since last September and we wanted to do some geocaching away from home. So many reasons to head down to Surrey and Box Hill.

We stopped at Sal’s for breakfast and sat on the decking eating cupcakes in the sun. Very decadent, but Will – who is clearly a three-year-old Worrall Thompson – had been making them since he’d got up. The ones in the green cases were ours, apparently.

Surrey turned out to be not nearly so far from home as I’d remembered and we were down there in a little bit more than an hour. We stopped in Leatherhead to smash any illusion I had of this exciting town from my youth (not very nice as it turns out), then headed to Fetcham, past my old scout hut, the place where we used to buy the papers, my old nursery… I was surprised how well I remembered it all considering I left the county aged nine.

We had lunch at The Anchor in Bookham for lunch and then headed up the hill by way of the Zig Zag. It’s just as steep as I remember, the only difference being that Sal and I used to climb straight up the front of it every summer with my grandmother. How she did it, I don’t know.

The view from the top is still one of the best in the south, looking down on Dorking and out over several counties. I wasn’t in the least bit tempted to roll down it like we used to. That’s what happens when you turn mid-thirty: you start thinking about the climb back up again.

We had a successful session geoaching, though. We found four stashes in all before heading back to Ash’s for tea and then out to Epsom for dinner.

Isn’t this what holidays at home should all be about: catching up with the things you’ve missed.

It’s years since I’d last been and since then they’ve smartened up Centre Court with a big noisy roof to keep the sun off the royal box let them keep playing through the rain.

So, no need for those pads you can buy to soften the seats any more, but plenty of need for rules explanations from PC Pro Tim who was on hand to keep me on track.

So, we watched Federer batting for Switzerland and Lleyton Hewitt pitching for Australia. Both won, despite the heat and stickiness. Very impressive games, particularly once you understand the rules.

Much unpleasantness getting there and back on account of the weather. Don’t get me wrong: I love the sun and the warmth but when you have to put on longs for the first time in weeks your legs find themselves somewhat shocked.

This is irritating.

Slightly more annoying, though, is having to give all sorts of information like your birthdate and your occupation when you report the crime. Why do they need that kind of information?

The outhouse was, frankly, a bit horrible. On the outside, I mean. The woman who lived here before, and had since the 1940s, hadn’t done much to the house until she decided to sell it, at which point she got someone to come around and slap a coat of paint on everything.

EVERYTHING.

Any plants that got in the way were simply painted over. Result: a patchy wall. Doubly so when the big hydrangea that covered one wall of the outhouse, and the ivy on the other walls, curled up and died last summer.

This was the mess they left behind:

Pretty nasty, eh?

So yesterday we set out to sand them down and paint them. And do you know what? It wasn’t nearly so bad as we’d expected. I’d go so far as to say we had fun. The sun was out, the radio was on, we broke for an excellent lunch, and the four of us – me, Rich, Andrew and mum – worked on something together, with fantastic results.

Looksie:

That’s enough to make you feel good about the day, isn’t it.

Admittedly the whole outhouse is now so clean that it looks a bit like a static caravan, but it’s so much better than it was before. The patio is a whole lot more pleasant to sit at, and I think we can all feel satisfied at a job well done.

Our exploration of the Essex Way continued this weekend as we strode out in Great Leighs.

Now it’s years since I’ve been through Great Leighs. Through, rather than to, you note. Before the fast road opened it was the best way from Chelmsford to Braintree, and in all honesty I’d probably been spending more time looking at the traffic ahead than I had the surroundings.

What a shame. Turns out Great Leighs is very nice. We parked up at the village hall and struck out across the fields, through some woods and a wood yard, along the backs of some cute smallholdings populated by chickens, bantams and guinea pigs and down to the river, which we followed for three or four miles.

We should have followed it further, unfortunately, but got ourselves mixed up (we were eating Creme Eggs at the time and it’s easy to be distracted) and turned right one road too soon, putting ourselves on a long loop up through the centre of our route.

In fairness that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing as we were starting to flag, and it means we can do the other half another time. We did find this dinky spring by the side of the road close to Great Leighs church, on Cole Lane. You can see where it is on Google Maps by following this link.

So we went into Halfords for an air freshener. Somehow we came out with a tent.

Yes, if you’re counting, this is my third tent. But what a lovely tent is is. Its wide, it’s long, it’s tall. Tall enough to stand up in without bashing your head on a lantern hanging from the roof support. And not just any lantern, either: a free lantern. To go with the free torch, the free sleeping bags – all four of them – and the two free double airbeds (I’ve always been a bit anti-airbeds when it comes to tents, but I have to admit that they felt very nice).

Oh, and the free compressor to blow them up, too.

It all packs into a nice big kit bag you can throw in the back of the car and was a bit of a bargain. Less than half price, all told. When you add up the cost of the air beds and the sleeping bags alone they come to £19 less than the tent. Add in the compressor, the torch, the lantern and the kit-bag and they’re paying you to take it off their hands.

Even at full price it would have been a good deal.

Cannot wait to get out and use it – likely towards the end of May when the weather is warm and the mozzie netting will come in handy.

Which of course means I have my old six-man tent to sell as you really don’t need two-, four- and six-man tents in your collection, do you.

Anyone want to buy it?

Yesterday wasn’t actually mum’s birthday. It was a few days ago. And yesterday wasn’t really like the queen’s official and actual birthdays – it was just a far better day for us all to get together and celebrate.

Sal and Dan were over for the weekend, with Will in tow, obviously. Viv came down on the train. Therese and Peter drove over; Kim and Mikey drive down, and everyone converged on Galleywood. Even the sun put in an appearance, and we all started the day sitting in the garden on chairs that haven’t seen the light of day since last summer. They’re already talking of a barbecue summer, so I’m hoping that was the start of it… but then they said that last year, too, didn’t they. Look where that got us.

Sun aside, it felt very much like Christmas, chiefly on account of eating far too much. There was lots of chat and laughter and some game-playing, and Rich and I headed out for a walk mid-afternoon, around the more rural parts of the village. It’s surprising how many people have chickens. We counted four houses into whose gardens we could see, so I guess we could safely double that when you consider how many we couldn’t.

We were the last to leave in the end, taking the traditional platefuls of food with us, which will see us through a few eats for the rest of the week.

Much fun.

A bit of a sinking feeling, fortunately averted.

Rich’s mum came over for mothers’ day weekend, with Ean and Vikki and we’d booked ourselves into the Saracen’s Head for lunch.

A bit of a spur of the moment booking after the other places we tried were either full or had gone ‘family friendly’ and installed ball pools. Still, it looked nice and the menu was good.

Then we had to change our booking, and that’s when I found the reviews. Terrible, terrible reviews. And even worse, an episode of Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares in the kitchen there when it was called D-Place. Lots of Ramsay swearing and then, apparently, it went bust.

According to the News of the World:

In Chelmsford, Essex, D-Place went bust just two weeks after the cameras left. Owner Israel Pons said: “The menu Ramsay came up with was extremely poor. We dropped 50 per cent in sales. He wasn’t the saviour everyone seemed to think he would be.”

This, I kept quiet about. It was far too late for us to go anywhere else.

I’m so glad I did. The service may have been a little slow, but food was excellent, and Ean even declared the pate the best he had ever tasted.

If I could remember where I’d read the reviews I’d head back and add my own, refuting them.

Out of five? A good four.