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At a tad under 3000 ft, Aran Fawddwy is the highest British mountain south of Snowdon, but it’s relatively unknown because of its isolation. It’s also, from my point of view anyway, a bit of a pig! The walk begins and ends in the valley of Cwm Cywarch so there’s no leg-up; you have to gain every inch of that height through your own efforts. The first stretch is a scramble over rock and streams. You look back and reap the first rewards of your hard work, but it’s only a brief respite before slogging on through very wet and boggy ground. There’s another scramble and then, some two and half hours after you’ve started, you reach the summit – and it’s shrouded in cloud. Find some shelter and reward yourself with sushi and a Mars bar. You descend out of the cloud base which is just as well as there’s a narrow ridge to cross with dramatic drops either side. As the clouds drift the sights take your breath away and make you feel utterly alive.

The main news this week is that Tom and I went out for a meal. Ooh, big wow! Well, it is extraordinary because we so rarely eat out, (a) because we’ve shaken every piggy bank in the house to within an inch of its life (b) why would I want to eat something that has fallen off the Brake Brothers’ lorry and into a microwave – and pay for the privilege? (c) Tom is a really stonking cook so anything else seems a bit pants in comparison (consequently, I haven’t cooked for about a million years. Hurray!). Anyway, Mrs & Mrs Next-Door have been telling us for ages that we really should try Cnapan (that’s the name of the restaurant, by the way, not some weird thing we do to pass the time in west Wales) and before we could fret about the cost, they booked a table. ‘It’s like your favourite granny’s country house,’ says Mr Next-Door. (Actually, I only had one granny who lived in a council house and wasn’t too keen on me. I suppose you can be a bit selective when you’ve got loads of gran...