Just back from a very nice weekend down in part-sunny, part-rainy Osmington, Dorset. Close enough to Weymouth for Mr H to reminisce over every pub that he's been in / got shedded with the rugby boys / snogged some girl / thrown up down the outside white brick walls of a mate's house or worked at Pontin's as a Bluecoat sports Organiser, being jumped in the wrestling ring on by Big Daddy and Giant Haystacks (in the days when this was legal and non-Jimmy Savile-ish). What a delightful teenge / twenties era he had…
And we only had two whopping dogfights between Scrumpy and Clare & Andy Booth's dog, Roo. He may be 12 and old but still put our naughty furball in her place as she crowded him in the narrow cottage kitchen.. But the rest was dual spaniel bliss as we climbed hills (yes, even me) including one with a big white horse on it. And yes, tennis balls do roll away at remarkable pace if your dog doesn't clock it fast enough..
AND – even more miraculously, Hawksey enticed Andy & I down the 10 mile trek into Weymouth, along the very windy front, past the sand sculptures and the brewery and then back up the hill to our place. Indeedy – 1.2 miles of hill climb. On a bike. Me. Without stopping. And all before breakfast – no, I couldn't believe it either.
Janine & Ross also popped over for the Saturday night and a spot of BBQing, followed by a cracking Sunday lunch, so all in all – a top weekend!