City break

There isn't much hesitation when my husband asks what I'd like to do for the February half-term.

"A city break!"

"Lisbon?" he suggests. "Dubrovnik?"

Slight hesitation at the temptation of warmth, then quick resolve. "London."

We arrange to stay with good friends a stone's throw from our rented-out house. It's an opportunity to see a few more friends, catch a bit of culture and pound those pavements I'd longed to leave.

A trip to the ever-popular Natural History Museum in the middle of half-term isn't my brightest idea, and the buses and tube are still the buses and tube, but a change is as good as a rest, as they say. And I'm beginning to appreciate a side-effect of living so far away...

Overnight stays!

So long as we can persuade people to trek up north, or put us up down south, we get the added bonus of long wine-filled evenings when the kids are asleep, and breakfast in pyjamas with mates. Anyone fancy a visit?

Hooray for cricket

It's one of those days. Our tenants in London inform us their boiler's broken, our kitchen ceiling has an ominous leak, the car's playing up and we're nearly out of coal. A thick, cold fog envelopes our house and the kids get ratty.

Thank goodness my husband is working from home and thank Test Match Special for cricket. From the sunny climes of Dubai, via our invaluable internet radio, we hear the reassuring tones of England losing another test match and take a deep, calming breath.

Joe shows us how bowlers hold the ball: two fingers and a thumb pointing forward. "It's the sign for triceratops," he informs us.

Our landlady comes round and stabs our ceiling with a BBQ skewer, lancing the puddle of leaked water. She assures us that the plumber will fix it tomorrow. We arrange for a British Gas engineer to visit our tenants, book a coal delivery and send the car to the garage.

At some point, the sun manages to break out. We go outside to check the snowman and knock down some snow castles, and realise that the fog hasn't lifted - it's sunk... and we're now above it, looking across a shrouded valley to the next hillside.

I make a snowball to throw at Joe.

"Wait a minute," he says, and pops inside to get his cricket bat.

So I bowl snowballs at him, and I'm not sure what's more joyful: the snowball exploding on the upturned bucket stumps or Joe obliterating it with a straight drive.

Sledging update

Rosa: It's quite fun actually.
Joe: I like falling in the snow best.

Most awesome are the icicles. Freezing rain has lashed onto any walls, fences, sheep or vegetation in its path. We remove whole sheets of glass-like ice from stones and posts, and unhoop icy cylinders from twigs and thick blades of grass. The icicles are still hanging on the sheep though.

PLEASE can we go sledging?

SNOW! A Friday afternoon flurry. Enough for a white carpet, followed by a clear-skied freezing night. Perfect ingredients for a Saturday morning of sledging.

Finally the kids are wearing enough layers, albeit of inappropriate clothes (Rosa doesn't do trousers at the moment and Joe insists on wearing his all-in-one furry Thomas pyjamas). We head out the yard, over the cattle grid, up the sheep field and launch the sledge - first with me and Rosa, then with me and Joe.

Brilliant run. Nobody falls off. No sheep are injured. I run back up the hill to where Malcolm is patiently awaiting his turn, only to realise the kids aren't following. In fact, there's a definite air of mutiny. We have an uphill/downhill stand off. Then Rosa and Joe appear to come to an agreement. They're going home without us.

We watch in disbelief: beautiful sunshine glistening on the snow-kissed fields, our very own sledge run, and our children clambering over the cattle grid to get back home as quickly as possible.

Who needs kids anyway.

"Bags I sledge down the hill!"

"No, it's MY turn."

Jog in the fog

I'm beginning to get jogging, at least in this area.

We're surrounded by natural beauty and inclement weather.

Walking the moors has less appeal when it's cold, grey, drizzly and extremely boggy. Jogging along roads and farm tracks has the following advantages:

- it warms you up

- you don't need to put on five layers

- you're back home by the fire more quickly (and before it goes out)

- you feel entitled to that honey waffle with your mug of tea.

Of course there are also hurdles to overcome, namely:

- leaving the warmth of home in the first place

- braving the yard with the territorial sheepdogs

- feeling physically unfit and panting lots 

- getting past the hissing geese

- puddle hopping and mud skirting

- trying not to mind what passing drivers think.

I guess it's a case of matter over mind. Don't think, just do, breathe deeply, count the sheep and feel smug in the shower afterwards.

Sheep have caesareans too

It's bizarre how we can live on a farm in complete ignorance of farming. That's why I like talking to Farmer John.

The other night, while we were sleeping peacefully, he was across the yard snatching a few hours' kip in his car, waiting for one of the sheep's labour to progress. The early batch of lambs are top pedigree, artificially inseminated. One ewe needed a caesarean - an hour-and-a-half round trip to the vet's. Mum and baby are both doing well.

Are there any warning signs we should look out for in the lambing season? Apparently not. Farmer John has everything under control. The sheep are numbered in due date order and John's sideline in sonograms means he knows exactly what each sheep is expecting. Those carrying one lamb fend for themselves up on the hills. Those carrying two are lower down, with a heap of sugar beet. And those in the field next to us are carrying three or four. They get extra helpings.

I'm striving to share my newfound knowledge with my family. As the sheep obstruct the school run, I explain that they have baby lambs growing in their tummies. This leads to interesting questions such as "How do they come out?" and "Where are the Daddies?"

Meanwhile, Joe's been learning about babies at playgroup as well.
"When we were babies we drank milk from your boobies," he tells me. "It's called grassfed."

Frozen Planet

The pale winter sun is struggling to melt the frosted grass. Wooden gates and stone walls are fringed with crystals. And, in the kids' eyes at least, the iced-up puddles are in desperate need of being broken. Trowel and stick in hand, they set about a bit of natural destruction.

Last night we snuggled under a duvet on the sofa, watching the Spring episode of David Attenborough's Frozen Planet. Today we're recreating it in the farmyard: watching the meltwater trickle under the sheets of ice, building penguins' nests out of little stones and, of course, breaking up the frozen troughs to make threatening icebergs.

The BBC blurb warns that Frozen Planet 'may be the last chance to witness these great wildernesses before they change forever.' I fear that's true of childhood too.