We have been going to the same holiday cottage in Wales for the last three years. Perhaps we completely lack imagination, but we have found somewhere we love, and couldn't possibly risk going anywhere else.
Just before we left to come back home this morning, after our eighth visit, I grabbed the visitor's book to make an entry. I had a flick through and rather embarrassingly I found that most of the entries were ours. Feeling self-conscious about leaving yet another comment about our children's latest milestones, this time I got Betty to draw a picture of a fairy.
Now that the kids are older, I haven't felt the need to go for my early morning escapades to the headland. These days, they will mostly wake up, get themselves a cereal box from the variety pack, fight over who has the Coco Pops for half an hour, play with the pot pourri, and then go off to play with the boy they have befriended who lives next door. Meanwhile Tom and I sit in bed reading, and pray they don't tire of the robot and alien roleplay games before we've managed to finish our cup of tea.
After our first couple of visits to this cottage, I noticed several menacing-looking foxes roaming around, and so I am now more than happy for Betty, Dolly and Tom to accompany me on my walk to the lighthouse, and at a more reasonable hour. Those 6am starts, although seemingly vital to my sanity at the time, now seem like a ludicrous way to spend a holiday.