The higher we got the winder it got and the more it rained. Below us the fields were flooded and above us the skies were grey.
Once we reached St Michaels Tower at the top the winds threatened to sweep us away so we clung tightly onto our hoods and made our way back to the car as darkness fell.
We stopped overnight at my Uncles house in a nearby village. My cousin joined us too and later that night we all walked through the storm to the local pub where Mick Jaggers brother Chris was singing with his band.
We sat down to watch the show, in front row seats, embarrasingly about a metre away from the man himself (hence no photos!). At one point he tried to get me up dancing and I had to tell him he'd picked the worst person in the pub to dance with as I generally freeze if I have to dance in front of anybody.
The next morning we opened the bedroom curtains to find that the Somerset countryside had been transformed into a huge lake as the river had burst its banks.
It was time to set off for Cornwall, the most south westerly point of England. We drove for a couple of hours and stopped to visit the Eden Project. Half price after 3 pm! Of course there were the obligatory Japanese tourists in funny outfits:
Inside the Tropical jungle dome it was warm and steamy. My hair immediately frizzed up into a puffball and we had to tie our coats around our waists. There were waterfalls and streams, palms and jungle huts. We decided to take strip down to our skimpiest tops and take a photo in front of a hut, post it on facebook and pretend we were in Malaysia, but Skye couldnt get the photo right without hiding our sweaters and coats around our waists.
We climbed the jungle walkway which wobbled and swung, up to the viewing platform.
We admired the strange plants and flowers and studied the spices and eventually moved into the Mediterranean dome whihc was a bit too much like home to amaze us:
We explored the rest of the Eden Project as it got dark, before leaving to meet a friend who was putting us up for a night in an old haunted farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. We met him in a typically Cornish pub in a small harbour where waves crashed over the wall, threatening to soak us as hailstones bounced off our faces as we ran to the pub. Inside it was toasty warm, fires blazing and the smell of beer and woodsmoke in the air.
We relaxed with a drink in front of the fire before being led back to the farmhouse. It was so remote that it didn't register on a SatNav and was impossible to give directions to. As we drove down the scarily narrow lanes Carlo only had one thing to say to me..."If your father could see where you were taking this car he would kill you!"
We arrived safe and sound, raided the fridge and cooked up a pasta zucchini...(For some reason everytime we stay with these friend we end up cooking pasta), drank wine and painted for a bit before going to bed in a crazily sunken floored room where Carlo proceeded to roll downhill onto me all night long.
I woke up at one point needing the bathroom and went along the corridor with my eyes closed, terrified of encountering the ghost of the house, but nothing happened so I dived back under the covers.