So, I’m back from the wilds of the Yorkshire Dales, where I

• boggled at jaw-droppingly gorgeous scenery
• ate home-cooked ham and locally-produced cheese on crusty brown bread
• walked some of the Pennine Way
• took a thousand photos, a very tiny proportion of which are showing up here over the coming days
• never really managed to switch off 100%
• explored territory both familiar (we spent several summers in Wensleydale when I was a kid) and new (Swaledale is incredible)
• played gin rummy with P until we ran out of paper to keep score on
• drank delicious local beer (Black Sheep)
• discovered cheese mines (OK, Butter Tubs) and hunted down disused railways and hidden viaducts galore
• enjoyed being properly chilly for the first time this year
• built expert fires which belted heat out into the farmhouse
• fell in love with pretty much every other cottage for sale I saw

Highlight of the week?

Walking the half-mile down from the farmhouse on the hill to the pub on Wednesday night, after a chilly day exploring and taking photographs, swaddled in michelin-like layers of fleece, wearing a daft hat and gloves, with the moon so bright that it made distinct shadows on the ground, and we could see the whole dale - sleepy sheep, ancient barns, soft folds of fells and drystone walls - clearly, bathed in soft blue light. Above us, a million, billions stars twinkled. Our breath came in plump billows, and the silence was absolute. We got to the pub - instantly doubling the number of customers in that night - and drank good session ale and ate local homecooked food in front of a crackling fire.

Hard to think that much else matters, when you find yourself in a place - mental, geographical - like that.