Everything was picture-book perfect. By complete chance we had reserved the beautiful holiday cottage in Cornwall for the sunniest week of the season, and through the dormer windows of the massive loft conversion bedroom we woke to the most glorious, blue summer sky. We heard the wave before we saw it. TPR screamed “Tsunami!”, grabbed me by the wrist and pulled us to shelter in the bathroom. We agreed to take a deep breath as soon as the wave hit in the hope that we would emerge safely afterwards. Our plan worked! Later we observed the bikers’ wedding on the beach, greatly admiring all the custom-made celebratory red, white and blue bunting hoisted everywhere on flags, sailing boats and windsurf boards.

The next holiday was not so cheery: on bikes in northern France in a dark downpour. We sought the fastest route home.

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They were after me – again. I recognised the escape route through the undergrowth and then down the steep wooded bank to the loch. But where was the friendly talking bee? Last time it had passed on vital intelligence. I would be lost without him. Was he SJ in disguise, temporarily out of the country?