My famous FACE

A very odd of mistaken identity

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It is just after three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and we are walking up a steep footpath in the middle of nowhere.

‘I don’t like the look of that black cloud,’ says Mr Dear. ‘It said it was going to rain. Didn’t it say it was going to rain?’

This is not technically the middle of nowhere, I suppose, but it certainly feels like it. We are climbing to Dunkery Beacon on Exmoor, a feat that should not be attempted at our advanced age without safety helmets and a confirmed reservation with the air ambulance.

We are spending a couple of days in Devon with our friends Roger and Karen, who have come up from Cornwall. Just over two hours ago we were having a delightful lunch at a lovely little tearoom. This is payback.

‘Are you sure this is the right path?’ says Mr Dear. ‘I don’t remember it being this long. And surely we should be further to the right?’

As you might have gathered, Mr D is not quite at one with nature. Somebody kind might suggest that he is feeling his age. My theory is that he has eaten too much and is reaping the whirlwind.

‘It wouldn’t be so bad without the wind,’ he carries on. ‘It’s cold enough up here to freeze the b…’