DairyLand (no really)

Sound the trumpets: We have been in the UK one month today. And during those four short weeks we have schleped, packed and unpacked into two hotels, one flat, one long-term rental and now, one vacation home. But it has been surprisingly manageable and a jolly good time thus far (short one bureaucratic snafu.) 35 to go.

Since arriving in Cornwall, a verdant landscape with sheep on EVERY bend (a cow, udders full, was heard mooing in our kitchen this morning. I thought the kettle was ready, my mistake), Charlotte has longed to be one with the livestock.

To help her in her noble quest, Paul took the kids to DairyLand (it is really called DairyLand, I couldn't make that up), where my daughter got to live-out the ultimate little girl dream: she rode a pony. A PONY! Harry needed some prompting, but he too mounted a tiny steed. But really, what moved him were the pint-sized tractors, which he got to drive himself, from pedal to steering wheel, around a little farm track. Really, truly boy bliss.

Charlotte's Aunty Jessica (Paul's sister), is no stranger to the jodhpur crowd, not long ago having purchased a horse for her then 16-year-old daughter Sarah. She says we're "in for it." I am already researching how old children must be to join the Cambridge pony club. When in Rome, I say. Or mabybe it's mom who wants to saddle-up again (I still have my tiny velvet helmet). My thighs quake at the prospect, and not in a good way.

Mom wasn't at DairyLand, instead on a mission of girlfriend mercy, in neighboring Truro with The Bean, who has had a last minute job interview scheduled for Thursday in Paris and needed something other than shorts and a tee to wear. You think? We are very cross at the headhunters who are working to ruin her vacation here in Cornwall, but very hopeful she gets this dream job.