I woke up naturally this morning to the sound of birdsong and nothing else. I could probably count on one hand the number of times this has happened in the past fifteen years since motherhood began for me. Child number 3 (no fan of nightwear) has a habit of sliding her naked cherubic bottom dangerously close to my sleeping face as she climbs into bed to be the jam in the sandwich between my husband and I. Literally, a rude awakening! The reason for this morning’s delicious lie-in was a romantic night away at a lovely country house hotel in Goathland. Husband maintains we do this regularly but I’m not sure every three years exactly counts as regular.

 

The last time we had this rare treat, it snowed whilst we were playing cards in a cosy bar by a roaring fire whilst supping a delicious pint or two of Black Sheep. This is my idea of absolute heaven. I didn’t dare dream that this would happen again, so, whilst we had a lovely walk down a tree-lined avenue towards the village, I contented myself with the fact that the sweet air was utterly freezing, so we would still need to find a roaring fire to sit beside despite no snow.

 

Later that evening, as we were tucked up in a corner of the hotel bar, playing cards on a quirky Mouseman table, we saw ourselves reflected in a much older couple, also playing cards and laughing together. Whilst I was admiring the elderly lady’s chic country elegance, her husband pointed her gaze through to the hotel foyer windows, saying, ‘Blizzard!’ I tried to look nonchalant as I walked/ran through to the front door and out into the whirling snowflakes, illuminated for a split second each as they were caught in turn by the hotel’s lights. It was perfect! I so wished the children could have been here to see it.

 

I didn’t wake up naturally the following morning. A bare cherubic bottom came within raspberry-blowing distance of my face. Maybe once every three years is enough. Home sweet home.