Soaking up the greenery in Royal Windsor

Today was a British bank holiday Sunday, complete with heavy rain showers and crowds of people off work. Just how I remember such weekends.

We found ourselves at Windsor Great Park, the Queen’s back garden. DH, though not with us, was very much in my thoughts because he’s always telling me that Windsor, the picturesque setting of the royal family’s Windsor Castle, is practically joined to nearby Slough, a sprawling town he remembers fondly from childhood.

The reality is Slough is ‘da hood’ that Ali G pokes fun of and the suburban location of the comedy series The Office. But since DH is always trying to find excuses for us to visit Slough, I usually nod in agreement.

But back to Windsor, this afternoon we found a gem amid the beauty of the royal park. The Savill Garden is well worth a visit, even if, like me, your knowledge of garden plants stops at daffodils and daisies.

The boys ran through the hidden, interlocking gardens with wild abandon while I enjoyed a greenery fix. We followed the sculpture trail and couldn’t quite believe the price tag on this stainless steel eagle: £16,670 (that’s US$27,230)!

Some elderly folk, who were coo-ing over a baby girl, only looked mildly aghast when oldest son screeched through the otherwise quiet glasshouse in express train mode, and my green-fingered mother managed to keep her scissors in her bag: she famously took a cutting from a plant while attending a garden party at Buckingham Palace with my father and actually managed to grow it in our garden!

So nice is the Royal Borough of Windsor it made me want to move there. But, alas, we’d never be able to afford it.

Oh well, there’s always Slough. It’s more or less merged with Windsor, you know.

I even stopped to smell the roses!

Wildest Wales: We survived!

Five adults, four young children – all related – sharing a holiday home in a remote part of North Wales. What could possibly go wrong?

The adults sipping wine, watching on as the children play happily in a grassy field. Long walks through beautiful countryside and tired kids falling into bed at the end of the day.

Well, no. Not exactly.

But it was, mostly, lovely, and everyone enjoyed our time en masse.

I discovered, however, that being taken to deepest Wales at least 10 times while growing up in no way prepares you for going as a grown-up and having to think about things that never even cross our minds in Dubai, like wellies, water-proofs, fleeces and socks. Things that, in North Wales, stop your kids from getting hyperthermia. Things that my mum, thankfully, remembered every time I forgot.

Here are some more important lessons I learnt (and sorry to my friends on the blogosphere for some repetition here, it’s all still sinking in!):

>• The road trip there is short by American standards, but long when you factor in the whining from the back, Shaun the Sheep on a loop on the DVD and Electronic Eddie’s devious short cuts along winding mountain roads so narrow they only fit one car.

>• You’ll need to pack at least five bags for every outing to carry the necessary wet-weather gear, plus spares of everything – and, even then, your kids will end up in their swimming stuff (the only dry clothes left) for the ride home. Spare pairs of wellies are also a good idea because when water comes over the top, they take a week to dry.

That's MY bed! (but since you're both so cute and quiet when sleeping, I'll have to forgive you)

>• The kids (mine) will not happily settle into a routine of a set bedtime and 12 hours’ sleep. They’ll go to bed late, join you in bed and get up early with excitement. By the end of the week, you’ll be on your knees with sleep deprivation. The younger one will power nap in the car while everyone else holds onto their seats on those mountain passes, then he’ll wake up thinking it’s morning and keep going for hours. His delight at all the farmyard animals will go a long way towards making up for this, though.

>• You’ll marvel at your brother’s kids, who go to bed when told, get dressed when told, don’t snack, eat their meals and walk for ages without a whimper – both utterly lovable kids who are a joy to have around. But you’ll find you can no longer claim your own kids’ bad behaviour is a temporary blip when it lasts all week long (not to mention, end the holiday with a parenting crisis).

Child-proofing not a priority here then

>• Just when you think you can relax and enjoy a picnic, the two-year-old will find a stone wall to climb and walk along, a big stick to poke you with, or be irresistibly drawn to a pile of poo. Even in the house the kids will keep you on your toes by choosing the most dangerous area to play in – this really odd open attic, high above my bed, that became the games club.

>• Your knowledge of all things related to the countryside will let you down spectacularly because you’ll be stumped by oldest son’s questions, including: Why are there no trees on the mountains? Why are the cow pats so big? (is it because cows have two stomachs, or is that camels?) Did the chicken or the egg come first? Where’s the swimming pool?

Perfect trap for little feet

>• You’ll find that people with bigger feet have a much easier time at the cattle grid we had to lug the kids and 10 bags over every day to get to the car – parked a long way down a stony track because the access to our holiday home, over a teeny-tiny bridge that gave my brother’s car a flat tyre, was better suited to mountain bikes.

>• The alpha males of the group will attempt to keep the pack together, but find this increasingly difficult as the females are sidetracked by shops and the kids all run off in different directions.

>• You won’t enjoy having one bathroom for nine people (the horror!), the novelty of rain will wear off, and will really miss your husband (in Florida), who makes everything so much easier. But you’ll absolutely love the amazing scenery, seeing the kids enjoying the steam trains, the castles, the seaside, the cool air, the pies, the fudge and your own childhood memories it brings back.

Because North Wales was, without a doubt, the perfect antidote to summer in the desert.

Train driver-to-be: The hat stayed on all holiday

Trekking from the house to the car

Why I had to eat my words…

There we were enjoying the sights and sounds of the countryside when all of a sudden the peace was shattered.

A buzzing helicopter was hovering in the air. Circling around our valley as though looking for something. Then coming down to land in a next-door field of cows, its rotor blades whirling round at high speed and stirring up the grass and cow pats.

The police, maybe? Had English looters crossed the border and started raiding Welsh holiday homes now? Or perhaps a celebrity arriving by helicopter for a quiet break in an interior-designed shepherd’s cottage?

Our valley and the scene of the helicopter show


As it took off again, a flare was dropped, setting off what looked like a fire, and we concluded we were in the middle of a search-and-rescue training exercise. How exciting, I thought, enjoying it even more than the boys (in my mind I’d decided it was Prince William, you see – I’ve heard he rescues walkers in these parts).

While all this was going on, BB was surprisingly quiet, which really doesn’t happen very often. Most of the time, he’s exceedingly noisy and asks thousands of questions. I have to admit we’ve struggled to answer some of the things he’s pondered this holiday, like: Why are there no trees on the mountains? Why are the cow pats so big? (is it because cows have two stomachs, or is that camels?) Did the chicken or the egg come first? Where’s the swimming pool?

I chortled at the last one and reminded him of our whereabouts, ie, far from Dubai, then, to my surprise, had to eat my words a little later that very morning, when we stumbled upon, of all things, a Welsh swimming pool. Sorry if I sound so amazed – I honestly didn’t think it could ever get hot enough here for outdoor pools (but, then again, I have become a complete cold-water wimp since moving to Dubai).

Here’s the spring-fed pool – my two boys and their cousins loved it, despite the freezing cold water. Apparently, if you’re really lucky you get to see a brown trout swimming through. Now that you don’t get in Dubai.

The local lido