Ted Sherrell muses on life in his own inimitable fashion . . .

TO commence with positives. The weather was fair, the food splendid, the wine flowed like the Tavy in spate, the company delightful.

A family holiday (a goodly number of our scattered ‘tribe’, anyway), down in the Duchy. Matt and Avisa, with three of our grandchildren, jetted into Heathrow from Hong Kong; another grand-daughter, Jasmine, joined us from London, along with Avisa’s parents, Masoud and Soudi, plus Matt’s twin brother Dave who had crossed the Tamar from Brentor.

A ‘four star’ holiday home had been hired —and anticipation was high amongst all. Living nearest, Ann and I were the first to arrive in the house, on a hill near Wadebridge. We were due to take occupancy at 3pm and, to the minute, we were there. We were not alone; a lady appeared mop in hand, a startled expression upon her face, ‘Oh, you’re here already!’ We pointed out it was the appropriate hour as stated in the brochure, to which she re-joined: ‘Oh yes — well, I’ve almost finished the cleaning’ this turned out to be an exaggeration, as an hour later she was still beavering away with the hoover.

We took the sole course open to proud Britons — made tea, then went outside to leave the good lady in peace, expecting to enjoy a refreshing cup of Earl Grey, relaxing in the sun. Now, the beverage was up to standard but the resting side was not. There was a gent trundling up and down the lawn cutting, noisily, the verdant pasture; clearly his remit did not include work on flower beds, some of which sported weeds the size of triffids. He was not alone for also there was a fellow hosing the outside of the windows.

Eventually, all was done, and peace, inside and out, reigned — too much of it. For we had a call from the London contingent; they would be delayed for a couple of hours due to traffic problems. Eventually, though, they arrived; an enjoyable week together was both expected and realised — despite the deficiencies of our temporary home.

Whilst the building itself was a well built Victorian former farmhouse, the internal layout appeared to have been designed by a fitness instructor for the SAS; certainly relaxation was not to be tolerated. The dining room was a considerable distance from the kitchen, heading north, but the crockery and glasses were in cupboards towards the east. With 11 to cater for, a rota system of native bearers (mainly grandchildren) was compiled, they transporting whatever was required.

The cooking itself was superb (amongst my many good fortunes is to be married, father and father-in-law, to accomplished chefs), despite a dearth of essential utensils, plus rust in others and a cooker more temperamental than an Italian prima donna. After a meal, the washing-up; nothing to worry about here, as there was a dishwasher. But where?

After a long, exhaustive search, it was located in a far distant utility room to the west, so far away that the bearers (rota system still applying) needed a refreshment stop half way. Even then, though it was closer to the kitchen than was the freezer which, possibly to save electricity, seemed to be halfway to the Arctic.

It gets worse; next morning it was discovered that the main thing the machine did not do was to actually cleanse the dishes. Thus, once more, a long distance hauling of the chinaware back to the kitchen sink to be scrubbed in the traditional way. This done — eventually (there was a lot of it) time for breakfast.

On went the toaster and, after an age, up it popped; the problem was, a tourist would probably gain a greater tan from a holiday, in winter, in the Orkneys than did the bread.

The Dunkirk spirit kicked in — let’s get out of the house and have a barbecue; there was one on the patio. A further problem, though — it would not ignite, and even if it had, it was lathered in more grease than would be found in a dozen fish and chip shops.

Despite all, we enjoyed our days and slept well, even though the mattresses felt like paving slabs covered in linen. There were two avenues, however, where we could have no worries; we were never likely to oversleep as, ours seemed to be one of only two buildings in many square miles of countryside, the other, an industrial workshop, was sited next door — and work started, noisily, at 6.30am. Also our safety was assured; for there was a sign emblazoned on the wall - ‘In the case of fire, phone 999; nearest phone box two miles away in Wadebridge.’

Overall verdict. Family, five stars — house, ‘interesting’.