Two days of near bliss in Cornwall. Everything fell into magical place. The weather was on duty, startlingly clear blue skies, crisp winds to push away the odd rain clouds, but never brisk enough to make walking the eye-poppingly glorious coast path a battle.

Other than the owner of the Bed and Breakfast, I had no sustained conversations with anyone both days, which is what I yearned for. I talk all day, it's my job to, and a tongue and a brain need to rest eventually.

All I heard was thebusy chatter of birds flitting in and out of the hedgerows, the cluck of Blackbirds, aerial Skylarks, weeping, crying gulls, and the sound of the country I love more than any other, busy, raucous Rooks.

I saw no one either. Even at Lands End, which I had half expected to be like a Tesco's barn (it was n't), the handful of workers there, outnumbered the even smaller numbers of tourists. For maybe twenty minutes, I was the most westerly Brit on the mainland on Thursday morning.