Hot Tubs and Puppuccinos

Sunday

I am escaping for four whole days this week and leaving behind a bereft Mr Young who waves at me from the doorstep as I set off, his dear little face wet with tears; I speed away and watch him chasing my car in the rear-view mirror, shouting my na-

No, of course that doesn’t happen. He’s back inside before I even fasten my seatbelt, making himself tea and toast and double-checking what time Arsenal are due to kick off this evening. Still, me and Ruby don’t care. We are off to the Pennines, to stay with Lucy and Holly, her dalmation, in an Air B&B with a hot tub. I’ve packed an eclectic assortment of items; flip-flops and a swimming costume, hot water bottle, walking boots, Prosecco, a heavy-duty sports bra and home-made lasagne.

I know Lucy will already be there when I arrive on the outskirts of Holmfirth, an incredibly picturesque little Yorkshire town where they filmed the Last of the Summer Wine. My Volkswagen staggers up and down winding cobbled streets, causing much panicked squeaking from both Ruby and the sensors on the car, until I finally manage to shoehorn ourselves into a spot close-ish to our holiday home.

With relief I call Lucy to tell her I’ve arrived.

‘I’m a couple of minutes away,’ I say, ‘so I’ll walk down and find you.’

‘Well, I’m standing outside and I can’t see you,’ she says. ‘Send me your location.’ I have a sense of foreboding as I do so.

‘But you’re miles away,’ she says, sounding bewildered. Privately, I don’t agree, but for the sake of mother/daughter relations I obligingly put the address into my sat-nav again. To my surprise, I don’t appear to be anywhere near the house after all, which is annoying. I decide to not exactly agree with her, but set off again, accompanied by more panicked bleeping from all sides as we navigate up steep inclines and around cobbled hairpin bends before finally emerging onto an open road.

‘Where are you going now?’ says Lucy on speakerphone, sounding increasing impatient. ‘You’re just driving even further away. You’re practically on the outskirts of Huddersfield now.’

‘No,’ I say, trying to maintain a dignified I-know-what-I‘m-doing tone whilst performing a 57-point turn in an extremely tight cul-de-sac because I seem to have gone down a farm track, ‘I think you’ll find that I’m just taking the scenic route around Holmfirth.’

This conversation goes on for another fifteen minutes or so until I’m eventually manoeuvring the car into place with Lucy flagging me down as if she’s part of a runway ground crew team. Without wasting time, she settles me in the hot tub with a glass of Prosecco to distract me before I can go rogue and start careering off towards another distant Yorkshire moor.

But she doesn’t have to worry. I’m not going anywhere.

Monday

The reason – in case you’re wondering – for the heavy-duty sports bra is that Lucy has booked an online session with her personal trainer, Tom, and I’ve agreed to join in. His tiny face is smiling brightly at us from the iPhone, which is strategically propped against the teapot in the kitchen.

Of course, the agreeing to join in bit took place before the Prosecco in the hot tub bit and I am now hoping that tiny Tom can’t see me skulking about on the iPhone camera so that I can get away with under-performing the inevitable squats and burpees. Much like PE at school, come to think of it.

No such luck.

Forty minutes later, I’ve lunged, squatted, pressed-up, planked and burpeed an impressive number of times. By my standards, anyway. Holly has either been trying to join in or decided to sabotage my efforts by hovering over me during my leg-raises and farting ferociously. Ruby has just watched unsupportively from a safe distance next to the fridge, clearly the best place to stand in this chaotic thrashing of limbs and sulphurous odours. I give her a meaningful stare when we’ve finished; Woman’s Best Friend, indeed.

In the afternoon, we drive to Dovestone Reservoir for a bracing walk; it’s slightly misty as we leave Holmfirth. By the time we reach Saddleworth Moor, this has become a fog so dense, it’s like wading through whipped cream. If the weather was regularly like this in Emily Brontë’s day, there’d never have been a Wuthering Heights because none of the characters would ever have been able to find each other. More like Whithering Heights. (Oh, come on! Literary pun with archaic adverb? Oh, all right…)

But as soon as we drive down to the reservoir car park, it clears and the view is spectacular. Wet of course – because as we all know it’s rained every single bloody day this year so far – but spectacular. After an hour of navigating muddy craters and marvelling at the impressive landscape, Lucy collects Holly but I can’t see Ruby anywhere so we decide to take a chance and grab a small black dog who happens to be nearby and wrestle it into the back of the car. It is no-nonsensed to the kitchen sink by Lucy who scrubs it down, despite the long-suffering look on its face. Much grey water later, Ruby emerges looking startled, white and clean and does a victory lap of the house.

Me and Lucy celebrate with a glass of Prosecco in the hot tub.

Tuesday

Lucy has booked another session with tiny Tom, which would not be top of my To Do list, if I’m honest. My legs are ever so slightly sore and I am feeling ever so slightly jaded. (Probably something to do with the chemicals in the hot tub). Holly has fortunately decided to remain upstairs in the sitting room this morning while I do my leg raises, and Lucy thoughtfully reminds me to watch my head on the low ceiling beam when I do my burpees (after a near-miss yesterday) so I think overall it’s a pretty successful session.

We high five each other and decide to reward ourselves with an early glass of Prosecco in the hot tub. Best thing for tired muscles after a good workout.

Wednesday

Another walk, this time to Digley Reservoir, and the rain is much heavier so we have to give up after half an hour. We’re confident this time that the little black dog is ours as nobody else is daft enough to be out in the torrential downpour.

It doesn’t put us off having a glass or two of Prosecco in the hot tub though…we just have to drink them really fast before they get too diluted.

Thursday

This is the only day we haven’t been to The Cheese Shop, which is our favourite place in Holmfirth. We don’t go for the cheese, haven’t even bought any cheese, or tasted any cheese. Haven’t actually eaten any of their delicious looking-cheese all week. It’s been a cheese-less week. However, The Cheese Shop is still our favourite place, and barely an hour goes by without our mentioning its name. It has the best coffee, the best pastries, the best staff, the best bread, the best pasta, and the best name.

And the dogs love it too because it does Puppuccinos.

So it’s our last day today and we will miss the hot tub, they will miss the mud, and we will all miss The Cheese Shop.

We get back into our respective cars and set our sat-navs for home.

No doubt I’m sailing off in the wrong direction and Lucy’s watching me with a resigned expression on her face.