300 miles and 6 hours after leaving London, your me(ish) correspondent is now safely ensconced in a remote farmhouse in Swaledale, in the Yorkshire Dales.

Since we arrived in the dark, I can’t tell you how gorgeous the scenery is in these parts, but I can tell you that they do a jolly nice pint of Black Sheep in the local (1/2 a mile away down a dark country road) pub.

The wind is buffetting the 3ft thick walls of the house, and the only thing missing from this scene is a roaring fire - we need to sort out getting some wood tomorrow. Definitely.

It’s weird being somewhere so dark and so quiet. I know that as the week goes on, I’ll enjoy the silence and the thick darkness - but right now it’s a bit weird. Having said that, it’s always a bit weird when you’re in someone else’s house. It smells different, and everything’s in the wrong place.

But then, that’s what holidays are for, isn’t it? Getting out of your everyday, doing something different, escaping.

We thought about jetting off somewhere exotic - but with a big trip-of-a-lifetime thing planned for february/march, and with the amount of time I’ve spent on planes over the last few months, the idea of going somewhere under our own steam for a total change of pace - some hibernation, open fires, good books, nice pints, chilly walks and plenty of tea - seemed pretty appealing.

So we found a cottage (farmhouse) on the side of a hill in Swaledale, from which we can explore various places in the vicinity. Bonus: it’s got broadband.

Anyway, the kettle’s boiling. Just wanted to explain why blogging may drop off a bit this week. Of course, if it’s too wet to hike to the pub, the opposite might be true…