To Kettering, and a rest

Your faithful correspondents report today from the lobby of our hotel in Kettering, which we are pleased to announce has, so far, proven a good and righteous place. However, do not be concerned, dear readers: we have many a tale of woe to regale you with that met us on our way to this sanctuary, this place of rest and recuperation.

Our journey from Morcott began in the most surprising of manners: with a shut garage and a very nice chap at a little chef. The garage, where we had hoped to purchase a morsel of breakfast to see us through the morning's perambluations, had sustained a break-in the previous night resulting in its closure. We must admit, our hearts rather sank at the thought of nine miles with only the measly peanuts and flapjacks we had thought to pack for emergency scenarios such as these. But never fear, dear readers, never fear! Just when we thought or breakfast quest was thwarted, a Little Chef appeared to us rather like a divine revalation, with its promises not only of sustenance but of the very best kind of sustenance: vegetarian sausages, hash browns, and mushrooms in, of all the wonderous things, the marvellous concoctions, a bap! How we praised the friendly waiter whilst sipping on the tea of his generosity during the time it took our food to cook. We are also surprised and pleased to announce that the Little Chef hash browns, in contrast to our expectations, were the best quality and best cooked of our journey to date.

But darker times were to come.

Yes, dear readers, your dire warnings that we scorned when you gave them proved true. Your pleas with us that fell on deaf ears should have been heeded, and your looks of alarm at our stubborn adherence to our plans despite your well-intentioned advice were most warranted. The Northamptonshire town of Corby does indeed turn out to be all you feared and worse. A more disappointing, shoddy and at some points downright scary town has not been sighted on our walks before and, we beg it be granted, shall not be sighted again. We arrived on the outskirts, surrounded by industrial factories (the majority of which seemed to be involved in the production of Weetabix). It only went downhill from there (in a metaphorical sense. We can't quite remember, but it seems more than likely that the dastardly town itself sprung some literal uphill walking on us. It would be just like Corby to do that). Our search for the town centre revealed only one run-down street with a few shops, that seemed to have been converted to a shopping centre from an old council estate. Our search for a pub in which to recuperate resulted only in a cafe attached to a fish and chip shop, where the waiting staff seemed unaware of most of the dishes advertised on their own menu. To be fair, they did manage to supply us with a nice apple pie, but we had to pay extra - extra, would you credit it? - for the ice cream.

Our relief on leaving this godforsaken place was palpable.

On, then, your travellers continued. Through the burning sun, through, well, the more burning sun (really, the weather could have helped us out more here. Does it not realise that there should have been some driving rain in there, and some biting frost, to add to the sense of drama?). Shandy O'Clock occured in a nice little pub in the village of Gretton (or something like that), where Ewan was mocked by locals whilst Gill hid. Then on again, through to Kettering, where your weary travellers at last arrived in the pleasant, clean hotel. Today, friends, we rest. We will be updating you on a few important issues throughout the course of the day, as we are aware you have not been notified for a long time on the progress of the tasks you have set us. But for now, goodbye.