A heatwave is promised for the next few days. Even Joseph's soggy hill will have drained down enough for it to be safe to drive across the grass to Plot 9, lower field, without the car sinking like a stone dropped into a quagmire and me having to find some kind of Functioning Telecommunications* to summon Joseph and his tractor to haul it out ... (*FT there consists of climbing to the very top of the hill, perching half-standing on the stile and waving the phone around until a bar appears.) No, I won't have to do that.
The toilet should have been installed. I say 'should', because nothing is certain in Pembrokeshire, not even (or especially not) promises. I'm not really fussed, to be honest. I'm usually happy to traipse forty yards across the field to the communal block, or go over the hedge in an emergency (only of one sort, you understand). But you have to keep up appearances in caravan sites. I learnt that years ago when I installed my patio, on sand, in three days, as opposed to others who had spent months laying foundations and installing fancy stonework and ornate steps, and sniffed when they saw my feeble effort (which is still in place, by the way, unless it got washed away by the snow). (Joseph also sniffed and opined that those patios were stronger than his tractor roads up the farm.) Also, an inside loo does attract guests.
It'll be fun to see if the fridge is still working. Also to film, with my spanking new camcorder, the springtime behaviour of the rabbits. And to walk the geological shore and the industrial archaeology up the valley. (I've written before about some of that, with this label.)
I can't wait to be there, in theory. So why am I so reluctant to go?
I will, and will report back next week.