Durham.

Durham is lovely, you know.



I mean, really lovely.



The weather was kind: a little snow on the drive over and back, a little rain while we ate delicious Italian food in the conservatory next to the 15th century bridge. In the darkness, the black river turned into watered silk as the raindrops struck it. It whispered on the glass overhead, and rustles the stately beeches on the steep riverbanks.

The next morning the sun shone. Brightly, strongly, adamantly, hurting the eyes. We walked along the river, passed by ducks and by University rowers, watched by jays and little bobbing yellow wagtails.

We talked, we rested, we relaxed.

I plotted a book.

Lovely.

One last thing to say, to the couple in room 16. Whilst we appreciated your sense of rhythm, and were frankly in awe of your stamina, if you are going to engage in an intimate activity on a squeaky bed that involves the headboard repeatedly striking the wall, could you have chosen a more appropriate time than 4.30am? We were going to give you a round of applause at the, er, audible climax of your activity, but, on discussion, thought that it might have spoilt your afterglow.