Aunt jaunt

An extract from a diary of someone travelling with a memorable aunt

When Aunt said, ‘All we need is a tandem and a tent,’ the die was cast. There was no escape and within a week we were bound for Exmoor and her favourite book location. Ascending Porlock Hill was sheer hell, as was waking up under a collapsed ridge tent all because Aunt insisted on putting the pole spikes into the ground instead of the eyelets. There was little to see in the Doone Valley: no waterfall cascading over cliffs into a black pool, just soggy sheep and boggy moor with Aunt complaining all the while, ‘If the weather man hadn’t said it would be sunny, I should have said it was wet.’ Indeed it was. We were soaked to the skin on reaching Oare where, peering through the church window and seeing Aunt in front of the altar, I found myself thinking of Carver and wishing I, too, had a pistol.