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I know what you’re thinking; that’s not a very seaside-y picture up there is it? Well, that’s because it wasn’t a totally seaside-y holiday. We’ve just spent three days near the north Norfolk coast with Steven and Anthony, and although the days weren’t all full of sandy beaches, the coast did feature quite a bit. With unseasonably warm and sunny weather, it could well have been the middle of summer. Of course, it also made three nights under canvas last week much more bearable. They hadn’t been before, but our non-camping friends enjoyed it so much that they may will chuck the tent in the car again next year.

For camping virgins they did very well with their kit. The stoves and pans were fast at cooking, and the tent was the perfect size. We’d bought a new six-man one, which once it had taken four of us to get up, was in all honesty, more than a little too big. Two small cars could easily have fitted inside with room to spare, although it did make for cosy evenings with all four of us sitting around the table to eat by wind-up lantern. There was room to stand up in it, too, which easily beats crouching down to do everything in the two-man tent. The only downside was the lack of groundsheets and broken poles, which made putting it up more interesting (and longer - Steven and Anthony’s 80 minutes were positively speedy) than it should have been.

The groundsheet problem was easily sorted, though, with four well-chosen tarpaulins from a local army surplus store. They were essential. At night, it was so misty, that the moisture from the ground was rising and making the inside of the canvas roof wet, making it appear to rain in the open spaces of the tent. September was definitely the latest camping should be done, with April probably the earliest. But, there are new poles winging their way to us as I write this, so we should be able to use the marquee (sorry, tent) again next year.

It was a relaxing three days. They were slow, starting with a tea and scrambled eggs on toast breakfast, followed by gentle ambles to the north Norfolk coastal towns. Cromer welcomed us for a spot of geocaching, while we rode the charming steam train from a bygone age on the Poppy Line at Sherringham, which took us to Holt for a spot of lunch. There were laughably over-the-top (some of us laughing more uncontrollably than others) cliched tea rooms, and stone-skimming on the pebbles inbetween, with strawberries and cream fudge and card-playing by candlelight to be remembered, too.

Just as the campsite website recommends, we relaxed, unwound, and forgot the stresses of day-to-day life. And with two all-male couples, was it camp camping? Certainly not. That was Carry on Camping, which we watched after we were home on Sunday evening.

The last few weeks (or months) have seen fewer posts on these very pages than in the past. There are many reasons, but it’s mostly that recently blogging has turned into busying. But this week, that busying took on a new meaning, as we moved down most of my belongings to the house. Me moving in was going to happen eventually, but this week it turned into reality, as Nik and I packed two car loads most days from Sunday through to today and buzzed the 40 miles to and from Chelmsford.

There are just a few bits and bobs left. But, if anything, after two days of lugging my library of motoring magazines up and down six flights of stairs, I’ve realised that I’ve left it 18 years too late to put the brakes on my collecting habit. But, it’s better late than never, so although it may be a herculean task, I’m going to sort through them and only keep the glossies. The everyday weeklies are being ditched, but will be scanned and kept digitally.

The thing about busying, though, is that it makes you so tired. I moved into the flat on my own over four days, and even though it was only from literally up the road, it was tiring. This time the driving hasn’t helped, and we’re looking forward to our three days of camping in north Norfolk, starting tomorrow. Moving always signifies the end of an era, and this time is no different. But just like the moving, it’s behind me, and just like the few days of camping coming up, we’ve got many happy times to look forward to.

Dan helped me fulfill a somewhat forgotten lifelong ambition yesterday evening. I was obsessed with Volkswagen’s original Beetle when I was a little boy, and looked forward to owning one when I turned 17 and passed my driving test. That dream was never realised, partly because I didn’t pass my (second) test until I was 18, and partly because when I did, my grandparents handed me their then 14 year-old Polo. Which, as those who know me would testify, got me becoming obsessed with Volkswagens of another kind.

But, with over 21 million examples having found homes across the world, I can see why the little car endeared itself to each and every one of them. Dan’s 1972 example was towards the end of the model’s production run in Europe, and although production ceased totally in 2003, the car was fundamentally the same as when it was introduced some 65 years earlier. Some even doubted if production would ever end, but Volkswagen called time on it’s air-cooled legend, after a prolonged stay of execution, with the car living out its retirement in South America.

There are too many Beetle facts, figures, and stories to go into here, but my own on Saturday night was memorable. I’d been a passenger in one of the bubble-shaped cars a few years back, and even then it lived up to its legacy. It’s actually a very small car, even though I had previously thought that the bolted-on and protruding wings made it rather large; you can see why Americans noted its smallness when they took it to their hearts in the 1960s.

Inside it’s very cosy, and with no room for luggage, quite impractical. The windscreen is close to your face, and there’s absolutely no crash protection. The steering is best described as vague, and the brakes are near non-existent. But, with the noisy flat-four engine chugging away behind you, all seems to be forgiven.

All of a sudden all of those idiosyncrasies seem to not matter. You are immediately transported back at least 30 years, and all the memories of loving the car in my childhood came flooding back. The first Volkswagen shows I ever attended were because of the Beetle, and Herbie was my favourite movie star when I was a young and impressionable lad (my mum took me to see the series of 1970s Disney films starring the ‘Love Bug’ in the cinema at the time of their release). Even my love of Polos and other modern-day water-cooled Volkswagens stem from the fact that the Beetle introduced me to that iconic interlocked VW badge.

So, I have a lot to thank this little car for. And, although it would be nice to have a restored late Sixties example, or a late Seventies GT Beetle under a dust sheet which could be flung back for those few and far between sunny Sunday afternoon drives (from a wooden double-door garage of course), I have to be realistic. For now, I’ll continue to admire the little cars from afar, and remember that, for once, something legendary is actually deserving of its status.

The first home-laid eggs had both rich-tasting yolks and whites

Up until Wednesday the chickens had laid eight eggs. Varying in size from creme egg small ones, to proper shop-bought large ones, we’re now getting two most days. Sometimes they’re large, and sometimes, not so, but the laying ladies are making good progress, although we still think Gerry has to actually lay anything. Maybe her ongoing cold is holding her up, although she seems to be suffering less, with her sneeze now almost undetectable.

And so it was on Wednesday that we decided to eat the first home-laid eggs, before we get overrun with the things. We though that soft-boiling them for only a few minutes was the way to go, as with no condiments and just toasted bread for dipping, we could really appreciate how they tasted.

We weren’t wrong. Rich in both colour and taste, the yolk was runny, and even the whites tasted better than shop-bought free-range eggs. How much was psychological? I don’t know, but as we’ll soon have egg boxes stacking up in the kitchen, I hope the neighbours will find them tasty, too.

Nothing Can Stop Us: Saint Etienne vocalist Sarah Cracknell (photo courtesy of simbenia)

I love the Ets. Have done since the mid-1990s. But, I was a bit of a late adopter. Bob, Pete and Sarah first broke onto the scene in 1990 (strictly speaking Sarah joined the boys in 1991) and they have been making sunny-skied, joyous, and melodic pop music ever since. Never stepping across the line to become ‘mainstream’ (and we, the fans, love them for that), their supporters are a loyal bunch and crave the group’s latest releases and far too few live performances.

We joined another 898 of them last night at the at the Queen Elizabeth Hall on the South Bank, to see the group who are so engrained in London culture that they almost are London, for the closing gig of the Forever Heavenly weekend. Celebrating 18 years of the Heavenly Recordings record label, all the major artists who are currently, formerly, or forever Heavenly – including Edwyn Collins, Doves, the Magic Numbers, the Manic Street Preachers, and Beth Orton – played sets at the Southbank Centre, like one big happy musical family.

But it was left to Saint Etienne to bring the weekend mini-season to a close, and they played a show more than worthy of their headline status. Supported by label mates Dot Allison and The Little Ones, the trio and their gang of long-standing musicians blew the roof off the place, and bounced their way seamlessly through new songs and old hits, the audience loving every minute if the rapturous reception was anything to go by.

The stage was effectively (and traditionally for an Et gig) low-tech with only an old-school projector beaming static images onto a white screen, letting the music doing the talking. And while Bob and Pete stood in the shadows, the divine Miss Cracknell shimmied in the spotlight, waving her feather boa, wiggling her hips, chatting to the audience between songs, and defiantly encouraging them up to the front of the stage, against the security guards’ wishes.

Opening with This is Tomorrow from their acclaimed Royal Festival Hall film of the same name, fan favourites such as Nothing Can Stop Us, Who Do You Think You Are, and Like A Motorway were nestled in-between the soon to be released Burnt Out Car, and a ‘disco dolly’ version of Sylvie. The songs sounded fantastic, and the band had loyal fans young and old jumping in the aisles whooping with delight, the atmosphere electric, charged with much excitement.

Ending with their biggest hit to date, He’s On The Phone, and exiting twenty minutes early (the naughty tykes), the Ets bounded off stage into the night, leaving us wanting more. Unfortunately, the second encore never came, but for those all too brief 70 minutes last night, we had truly been in Etienne heaven.