I woke up cold on the floor of our tatty bed and breakfast room, with TPR five feet away tucked up cosy in bed. At least this proved that I’d slept.

It was the last day of our holiday and now it was time to set off back home again. We’d lost the tandem somewhere en route, so our only real option for the journey home was to hitch a lift south. We stuck our thumbs out whenever a car approached, and they all ignored us.

Eventually we hit a highland village, where a bus labelled Perth drew up to the post office. I tracked down the driver – a giant, who was at least eight feet tall – to ask the fare and the length of the journey. “£2.50”, he replied, “But you better bring something to entertain your kids. We call at every stop and the journey takes six and a half hours.”

TPR decided that catching bus would be a complete waste of time. He resolved to travel no further this day. Instead he unrolled his sleeping bag, changed into his black spider-web night-wear, and climbed into a temporary bed in the open next to a garage. More shocking to me was his confession that he would be booking himself into the tattoo parlour as soon as he got home.