If the traveller can find a virtuous and wise companion
Let him go with him joyfully and overcome the dangers of the way
But if you cannot find a friend or master to go with you
Travel on alone rather than with a fool for company

Whilst contemplating the complexities of human nature, I have observed a typology comprising two kinds of being: those who start each new day by throwing away the book and launching themselves in the unfurling storyline with such a cavalier attitude even D'Artagnan would be proud.

The others make lists.

Herein lies the oxymoron; in my heart, I always fancied myself as a bit of the former but mentally I must confess "my name is Lara and I am a closet list maker". Whilst truly believing life is an adventure, somewhere in the small dark recesses of my mind is the gentle, continuous tick-tick-ticking of the list machine - you know, just in case. The subconscious equivalent of packing a clean hanky, I suppose.

On rare occasions, these virtual lists even manifest themselves into an actual written document, such as happened a week ago in preparation for my expedition. However, this morning, said list was nowhere to be found despite frantic retracing of steps, every visualisation technique known to mankind and interrogating the usual suspect, ie, the Small Dog. On the plus side, I did find my driving licence and a twenty pound note.

Onto Plan B, which mainly consisted of opening the boot of the car and throwing everything deemed necessary for a week away in the countryside; chocolate, music, books, clean knickers and a small cache of IT hardware temporarily acquired from work - oh, and the dog.  A week of communing with nature, following creative pursuits, peace and spiritual restoration, here I come.

Thankfully, being able to read roadmaps (and that's without turning them in the direction I'm heading, I might add), the journey to the heart of Herefordshire was pleasant, uneventful and over in three hours. Orientation was an early learned skill as the child of a mother who doesn't/can't/won't read road signs.

As predicted by the weatherman this morning, it rained - torrentially and only, it seemed, over my car.  In the rear view mirror, the sky was black and the landscape peppered with the headlights of other vehicles. And yet, I was driving into a white cloudy sky so bright that I had to wear sunglasses for much of the journey. Signs of a wintry autumn were everywhere; great flocks of crows rising languorously from the fields, wings flapping like pairs of old leather gloves; water-laden leaves throwing themselves into the path of oncoming cars, almost as if they knew their life was over and just wanted to be done with it.

Once at the cottage, we were greeted by the owner's daughter who immediately fell for the small dog's Oscar-winning, tail wiggling, droopy eared "I'm just so-o-o cute" performance. This is, of course, just a ruse to sucker her in to a game of fetch and throw - the girl is doomed. The SD can play that one for-like-ever.

Anyway, the cottage was perfect, fully equipped and warm. After about ten minutes, once he'd explored everything (twice), eaten the pot pourri and found a paperclip (because he is just so special like that), the SD was sitting by the door, ready to go home.

As I write, three hours later, he is still sitting by the door, ready to go home. I think this is going to be along week for him.

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Apparently, there was a storm last night although I had slept like the dead and didn't hear a thing. Upon drawing the curtains, the big giveaway was the pile of branches outside the front room. Not having bothered to first find out how the electric shower worked saw me leaping out of the bath like a gazelle (using poetic licence here, I have all the grace of a three legged donkey) after an icy blast of water. A quick read of the instructions and normal service was resumed. However, forgetting I was in soft water country, I doled out the usual amount of shampoo; to misquote Lady Macbeth, "out, damn suds, out". Remember the marshmallow guy in Ghostbusters? You get the picture.

Eventually, the Small Dog and I set out to explore the local surroundings. Having assured myself there was no livestock around, I let him off the lead and he promptly vanished through a hedge. I'm sure all spaniels have a divining rod shoved up their noses when puppies; there was the usual crashing about, twig snapping and then a huge splosh followed by an ominous silence. A minute later and about a hundred yards further down the lane, he burst through another gap in the hedge looking extremely pleased with himself. He was also extremely sodden, a uniform colour brown and back on the lead.

The sunshine didn't last long and, just after eleven, raindrops as large as marbles were crashing down around us. Not wanting to waste the day indoors, we returned to the cottage by which time the SD was washed clean.  Wrapping him up in a blanket, we got into the car and headed out, windscreen wipers on full speed. Fully embracing the philosophy of "life's an adventure" (okay, so I temporarily mislaid the road map), I decided that every time we reached a junction, whichever of the back seat the dog was on would be the direction we turned.

Somehow, we ended up in Ledbury. "This doesn't look promising, dogster," I muttered, as we pulled up into the car park behind a briezeblock leisure centre with a corrugated roof.  The SD volunteered to guard the car whilst I was sent out into the weather to carry out a reccy.

Ledbury is one of those towns that closes on a Sunday, however, I did find an independent book shop that was open for business.  The ma'am-ish proprietor look at me over the rim of her half-moon glasses disapprovingly, as I made a rather spectacular entrance; havng first tried to push when the door sign clearly said "pull", then not minding the step as instructed by the next notice.  I am, evidently, my mother's daughter when it comes to sign reading.

to be continued...