Mother at large

How the mouse ran up the clock

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 13:32:09 +0000

If the government ever introduces Sats tests for the under-twos - surely only a matter of time - this could be the toy to have at your disposal. Hickory Dickory Clock (sent to us for review by makers Bright Minds, who specialise in toys that are educational and fun) works just like they say in the nursery rhyme. Mice run up and down, powered by infant hands. Youngest daughter Button (15 months) and I have spent hours - yes, literally hours, a tomato sauce even burnt dry one time - sat on the hall floor with this toy. Button enjoys posting the half dozen mice - all different colours - down the chimney. The mice are small, the perfect size for toddlers to grip. Some rattle, other crinkle. Then she opens a door with velcro fastening to retrieve the mice from inside the clock - and stuffs them down the chimney all over again. The transparent clock face means Button can see the mice as they scuttle down. The clock hands move, clicking as they go. So obvious potential there for an older child learning to tell the time. One reason I like this toy is because it should have a longer life span than many I've bought. It comes with a handle, on which there are black and white abacus-style counters that Button examines. On the back is a mirror, now smeary from licking. The nursery rhyme associations give the toy an old-fashioned quality, I sing the verses to Button as we play; it's sturdy and well-made (though in China, like most toys these days). At £29.99, Hickory Dickory Clock is not exactly cheap, but we have already had a lot of pleasure from it and I'm expecting more. Unlike a lot of the stuff littering our flat, (yes, I mean you, Sparkle World Magazine) the toy looks sensible even when not in use. The carriage clock design means it can sit on a table, without looking like something I haven't yet got round to tidying away. If you are looking for a gift for a pre-schooler who's at the loading/unloading stage, this might not be at all a bad idea.

Apple a day

Mon, 19 Oct 2009 21:47:41 +0100

Friday was one of those glorious autumn days when much-discussed hopes of an Indian summer finally materialised, so it seemed only right to indulge in a spot of apple picking in Granny's back garden. After all, the sun was shining and ripe apples were - quite literally - dropping about our feet in what felt like a series of Keatsian moments. It would have been a shame to let all that lovely fruit - and ambience - go to waste.

I began by picking fruit with my hands from the lower branches, being careful, of course, not to get mud on my new sheepskin boots while stretching across flower beds. Then I moved on to a clothes pole, which proved just the thing for knocking fruit down from higher branches. Granny sensibly removed Button to a place of safety as apples tumbled down around us. Not so much clothes pole as mediaeval jousting spear.

In no time at all, we filled up two large plastic bags with the cookers, easy to forget how much bigger they are than eating apples. Granny brought out more bags; we filled those too.

That evening, back home, we feasted on baked apples, stuffed with raisins, honey and cinnamon. Topped off with a tin of custard. I love eating in tune with the seasons, I am the most die-hard townie, but that makes me feel more in harmony with nature.

The next day I gouged, cut, cored, peeled, quartered, sugared and boiled about twenty more apples. Husband Va-vay even made a special trip to the shops to buy more plastic tubs for freezing the apple puree.

Oh, the satisfaction of a job well done. The pleasure of packing away rows of small boxes, each with their freezer-proof label stating date and contents. A proud moment, if I might be allowed to say so.

Granny rang on Sunday evening to enquire about the apples.

"How did you get on?" she asked.

"Pretty well," I said. "I've done a big batch of them."

Then she popped round on Monday morning and looked round the kitchen.

"I thought you said you'd done a big batch of apples," she said.

"I did," I told her, trying not to sound hurt. "I made a tonne of puree and we've been baking them too."

"What are all these, then?" she said, pointing to half a dozen repurposed plant pots, scattered around the kitchen, each one of them packed with apples.

"Those are the rest of them."

"Ah," said Granny. "Don't worry. Plenty of time yet. They used to keep cookers until Christmas."

Biodegradable potties?

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 18:19:19 +0100

A press release lands in my inbox, announcing the launch of what claims to be "the world's first biodegradable potty". Now, I am all in favour of doing my bit for the environment, but fear I may have to draw the line at the Becopotty. A glance at the potty's webpage reveals: "This potty is not only kind on your baby but also the environment."

Like toilet training a small child isn't hard enough at the best of times, do we need potty makers weighing in with this kind of shameless commercial guilt-tripping? Well, according to Becopotty's makers, yes, we do. They suggest the world is in dire danger from reckless parents buying and discarding potties. Apparently, an annual 17 million potties around the world are sent to a potty graveyard in the sky, in the form of landfill sites. Presumably hurried on their way by parents from every corner of the globe, united in pleasure at an end to toilet training their offspring. At last, an end to the constant refrain (albeit in Spanish, Arabic, Russian or Mandarin) to little Miguel, Issa, Ivan or Ying of "Now, are you sure you don't need a wee? Why don't you just try?"

Those of you who worried by the thought of all those poor plastic potties lying on landfills, stubbornly refusing to biodegrade and polluting the environment, might be interested to know how the Becopotty breaks down naturally. It is because the potty is made of an unusual, though natural substance. What unusual substance? It is made of, wait for it, rice husks. Yes, rice husks. Reading that made me imagine a potty made of rice cakes, stuck together like Lego bricks, (though not, obviously, made of anything as evil as plastic). But apparently the Becopotty is a great deal more water-resistant than a rice cake would be. Which can only be good news.

Have your cake

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 10:34:45 +0100

I was stood at the kitchen table, wearing one of Beanie's aprons, when the treacle tin exploded. I had warmed the treacle in the oven's bottom shelf, as instructed, so it would mix more easily into the flour, sugar, fat, spices and fruit. Unfortunately, after putting the treacle inside the oven, I forgot all about it and left it too long. By the time we needed treacle, the tin was so hot I had to use gloves to remove it from the oven. I carried it over to the table and put it down. It was then I made my big mistake; using a fork I prised the lid open. Hot, black gloop spurted out like lava from a volcano, bubbling up uncontrollably over the oven gloves, the table and the cake mixture. The explosion left a layer of caramelised tarmac over the recipe, preserving it like a relic from the Cretaceous Period. A sticky, sweet-smelling relic.

Despite this set-back, making the Christmas cake (well, two of them, actually, as we made an extra one for Granny) was a delight; the flat was filled all weekend with that evocative smell of baking fruit, nutmeg and cinnamon. The cakes are now packed away tightly in tins, wrapped in layers of grease-proof paper to marinate for three months. The plan is to feed them with brandy at intervals before December 25, dripping alcohol in via holes made by knitting needles. Cake-making: an honourable exception to the evil of premature Christmas preparations, worth braving exploding treacle tins for any day.

Tepee or not Tepee

Wed, 23 Sep 2009 19:14:36 +0100

It wasn't until we were sat on the lawn underneath one of the rowan trees at Kiltyrie Farmhouse, by the shores of Loch Tay, that I had a chance to think about the twists and turns that led us there. We were meant to be staying up the road in a wooden tepee ('hut', in the words of one of my more candid friends). We dithered: some evenings we were all set for tepee adventure, others, not so much. About three days before the scheduled weekend, I rang to see if we could still cancel. No, we were too late for an automatic refund, if they managed to re-sell the hut/tepee we could have our money back. I asked them to do their utmost to find a taker, then rang back on Friday afternoon, rain beating at the windows; no-one else was interested in the 'Ben Nevis'.

The next day, less than half a mile from home, by now bathed in sunshine, these guys were playing on the radio. "Just phone and check they still have the tepee for us, would you? Just to be absolutely sure," I said. Va-vay rang, asked and went quiet. "Okay. Yes, yes, no, absolutely you did the right thing."

"They've sold it? The tepee?"

"I'm afraid so," said Va-vay.

"They hadn't sold it when I rang yesterday afternoon."

"Well, they have now."

"What shall we do?"

"Let me phone tourist information in Killin."

At Kiltyrie Farmhouse, the owner, Jane, served us tea and home-made lemon cake on the lawn. Walking books lined the sitting room. There was a noticeable - and, lest you are unfamiliar with my taste, welcome - absence of chintz. Beanie enjoyed making the acquaintance of the chickens who lived in their Eglu ('Look, Mummy, they've got a wee house'). The next day we breakfasted off their eggs. We played tag around the apple trees, which were dropping their fruit, admired Jane's vegetable garden, where she grows leeks, parsnips and potatos, scrambled up the hill behind the house, climbed until we could see the loch spread out far below us. Rowan berries glinted red in the autumn sunshine.

It was then I remembered a piece of Scots folklore; ancient Highlanders revered rowans for their mystical powers; druids made their staffs from rowan wood; witches used the branches for dowsing and charms. Many Scots, even today, still wish on rowan wood and use it as a talisman for protection. And I knew what it was that drew us here.

Manna

Wed, 16 Sep 2009 19:46:53 +0100

None of us were expecting to find one of Beanie's snacks growing on the slopes of Ben Lawers. You can miss a lot, not knowing where to look. We discovered that when we spent this weekend in Perthshire, (staying at the wonderful Kiltyrie Farmhouse), and tackled one of Scotland's highest mountains.

Fourteen shimmering miles of loch lay far below us in the valley. The sun had broken through low cloud cover, rain was holding off and we could hear rushing water in the brook that gave Ben Lawers its name; (in Gaelic, Beinn Labhair means Hill of the Loud Stream). We loaded Button (aged one) into a carrier on her father's back, strapped on our walking boots and set off up the path towards the summit of the 1,200-metre massif.

Only a mile into the walk I could feel my pelvis begin to ache. Struggling for breath, I stopped walking, sat down with a thud on the path verge, pulled out my water bottle and began to gulp at it.

"Do you know what these are?" said my husband, pointing to a shrub by the path. The shrub in question had small, boat-shaped leaves, and a speckled look. It was growing so close to the ground, it was almost indistinguishable from the heather, saxifrage, and other plants growing nearby. In many years of hillwalking, I'd never even noticed this plant before. Had we stopped further up the mountain, we would have missed it altogether.

I think I would climb a mountain any day, dodgy pelvis or not, for the pleasure of watching Beanie's joy at picking fruit on a hillside, seeing blueberry juice stain her face purple, knowing she will understand that good things do not always come pre-packaged from supermarkets. Sometimes, in fact, they're right there next to us, waiting for us to notice them, even if we need someone else to point them out.

Warrior

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 20:01:53 +0100

A parcel of clothes has arrived from Vertbaudet, the French mail order company that specialises in maternity, baby and kids' clothing. Inside are the most delightful clothes for Beanie (three) and Button (one), handpicked by the firm's publicists. Beanie receives a pinafore in purple needlecord, matching tights and rollneck sweater. She is in ecstasy when she sees her outfit. I too am pleased; and enjoy the novelty of having clothes in our lives that are not pink. With difficulty, I persuade Beanie to wait until after supper to try on her new threads. The dress is perfect; not too trendy, but smart, pretty and well-made; Beanie asks immediately to wear it to nursery. The firm also kindly sends Button several pairs of leggings and tops, and a black sweater (pictured) so sophisticated that it would not look out of place on the Paris Left Bank. At the weekend, Va-vay dresses Button in a pair of new leggings with matching top. Both, like the sweater, are black, though also studded with small white stars. The effect is more sophisticated - and startling - than anything we have ever seen before from the cherubic Button. Dressed in so much black, she looks like a Ninja Warrior Princess, albeit one as yet unable to walk. What's more, the new clothes coincide with another sea-change in Button's life: the move to a new, forward-facing car seat. As Va-vay buckles Button into her turbo-charged ejector seat on Saturday morning he looks at her thoughtfully. "Do you know what you remind me of, Button?" he says. Beanie and I look at him, waiting for an answer. "A fighter pilot." Button grins and coos.

Full circle

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 14:15:52 +0100

Sat in café yesterday morning eating wholewheat croissant. Yes, wholewheat croissant. Surely a contradiction in terms, you must be thinking? Can something as unhealthy as croissant also be wholesome? Apparently yes. "They're very popular, the wholewheat ones," said the assistant at Henderson's Vegetarian Café, picking up a croissant with her tongs. Was first time I have ever tasted such a thing, despite living with vegetarian Va-vay for many years. Chewing on the croissant proved more of an effort than expected. Could almost hear digestive system grinding more slowly in protest. But a pleasure to be back in Henderson's. The last time I was in this café without children was when I was practically a child myself. Aged 18, I used to come to Henderson's with my sister and friends on Friday evenings. Waitressing and cleaning jobs meant we could just about manage the 8p bus fare to Princes Street in the centre of town and a 90p glass of house white. I remember standing at the dimly-lit wooden bar, counting out my 10p pieces, worried I might not have enough money and thinking the 1970s pine fittings the height of sophistication. I might even have been wearing an outfit from Laura Ashley - oh dear. We never got drunk; we couldn't afford it, but lingered there for hours, eking out our drinks and discussing our dreams until staff got fed up and slung us out. These days nights out with girlfriends have become special again, maybe because so few of us parents take them for granted like we once did. But don't worry, Laura Ashley, bless her, no longer figures in the dress code.

Fireworks

Mon, 07 Sep 2009 15:08:29 +0100

We joined a party of friends and neighbours last night for a picnic in Princes Street Gardens to watch the Fireworks Concert that traditionally celebrates the last night of the Edinburgh International Festival. Despite living in Edinburgh most of my life (apart from the 15-year aberration that kept me exile from my native land in London) I have never up until last night managed to get hold of tickets to this concert. My only glimpse of the fireworks is usually from my sitting room window. And, to be honest, since Beanie arrived in our lives my joy at the Fireworks Concert has mingled slightly with dread; the banging overhead often wakes her up and gives her night terrors for weeks afterwards, with bed-time involving her asking me: "And there will not be fireworks tonight, Mummy?" and me saying, uncertainly, "I can't be sure, Beanie, but I'm not expecting any." Then her asking the same question another half-dozen times until I admit: "I have no idea about fireworks, just come and find me if you get scared."

The twenty eight of us last night took along tarpaulins, rugs, fleeces, thermos flasks of tea, quiche, bread, dips, beer and wine. We arranged ourselves on a grassy bank facing Edinburgh Castle and lay down on the grass to watch the explosions cascading above our heads. I last met one woman in the party when we were both languishing in one of the lower divisions for maths at school more than twenty years ago. Our numeracy must have improved since then; she is now an advocate and I work as a financial journalist. After we re-introduced ourselves, we got chatting about what we're doing now, husbands, kids, houses, work, that kind of stuff and discovered we have children of roughly the same age.

"Ah, so you're like me. You waited a while before having kids. It's great having them at this age, isn't it?" she said. Had I not been dragging a tarpaulin across a steep, grassy slope, progress impeded by the dodgy pelvis that is attributable to difficult pregnancies and advancing middle age, I could have hugged her.

Edinburgh bookshop opens

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 09:21:09 +0100

Headed out in waterproofs last night to celebrate at the Edinburgh Bookshop launch party. The bookshop was a beacon of light, warmth and laughter amid Morningside's chill rain. It is the latest venture from Fidra Books, the publishers who specialise in reviving neglected children's classics and who have been making their mark in Edinburgh bookselling over the last couple of years. The Edinburgh Bookshop is just a few doors down the street in Bruntsfield Place from the company's Children's Bookshop, which has quickly become a well-loved institution for parents and children alike.

Each guest at the launch was photographed holding a copy of their favourite book from the shop's shelves. Fidra have great taste in books; stylish, eclectic, but with fingers on the pulse of what's happening in the market. Meaning we were spoilt for choice: one luminary of Scottish publishing was spotted with Jurassic Towel Origami, the book that teaches readers to make dinosaurs out of towels. Another was snapped holding How to Talk About Books You Haven't Read. That might have been useful before last night's launch party, at least for me. Someone else chose Scotland's Lost Houses, by Ian Gow. As for me, I chose The Creative Writing Coursebook by Julia Bell and Paul Magrs, despite being sorely tempted by the Hebridean Desk Diary. Topics of conversation included whether the ghost of Dame Muriel Spark, latter-day local resident and writer, might be tempted to do an author event, via seance, why one should never make the mistake of under-estimating scriptwriter skill on TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer, how to make planes out of balsam wood, and, of course, the importance of blogging.

Plenty of local writers kindly turned out to give their support to the shop and there was real pleasure at the party in seeing an independent bookshop opening its doors. Especially one called the Edinburgh Bookshop, a name which has such happy associations for so many people. Other Edinburgh residents among you will almost certainly remember the original Edinburgh Bookshop that stood on George Street for many years. Here's wishing the new shop every success.

Nursery landmark

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 12:26:12 +0100

Beanie started nursery at the local primary school last week. She already goes to private nursery one day a week - but somehow we both knew this marked a turning point. On the day in question, I woke at 5am and moped around the flat remembering how much I disliked my own experiences of primary school. But, of course, that kind of retrospective never makes things better, so I rang a friend. Several cups of coffee at the Edinburgh Filmhouse later, things weren't looking so bad. The sun was shining and we went on to the Princes Street Gardens - not looking at their best with all the tram work nearby - but it was a chance to eat icecream and chat, while our children played on the climbing frames. By then it was nearly midday and we could put off the evil hour no longer. We all walked down to the school together. My stomach was rumbling - but not with hunger.

As we arrived, we discovered it might have been easier to enter Fort Knox. A good sign - a nursery should be well-defended. But by the time I figured out how to get in, we were nearly late. Cue undignified huffing, pushing and panting as I squeezed the Tank (our double buggy) through the final set of gates. After they let us in, we met Beanie's key worker and hung up Beanie's fleece on the peg someone had labelled with her name. Beanie looked around, saw the other parents had all left and assumed a distant expression that seemed to indicate she wanted me gone too, in case I embarrassed her. I knelt down to her level, put my arms around her and whispered into her shoulder (it was meant to be into her ear, but I was so nervous I missed her ear and spoke to her shoulder) and said: "Good luck." She dropped the mask of adult competence for a moment, turned away from the bucket she was filling with sand, and said: "Don't worry, Mummy. It'll be alright." I got to my feet and left, so nobody would see I was crying.

"How the cat purred and how the witch grinned"

Wed, 26 Aug 2009 19:32:06 +0100

Let me start by confessing that I was not expecting to enjoy Room on the Broom at the Pleasance anything like as much as I did. Being a grown-up and everything, I thought my only fun would be from watching my daughter's delight at this musical stage adaptation of the Julia Donaldson classic. How wrong could I be? I was bellowing with laughter all the way through this production from Tall Stories. It was a treat, from start to finish. Tall Stories are the same people who made hit show The Gruffalo a few years back. You might have seen it on DVD. Based on our experiences today, I'd be surprised if Room on the Broom doesn't enjoy similar success. Beanie's face lit up with delight when she recognised the characters from one of her best-loved stories. Together with the rest of a packed house, adults and children alike, I too couldn't hide my pleasure in a witty, fast-paced production. Somehow, it pulled off the feat of staying true to the fairytale spirit of the original book, complete with witch, dragon and flying broomstick. While making it work on stage. The show used puppets for the dog, bird and frog, a device which, if I'd heard about it beforehand, might have made me sceptical. Somehow, though, it worked. The show has a few differences to the book - there's comic bickering between the witch and her cat that doesn't feature in the book and the witch is even more scatterbrained on stage. The dragon is, inexplicably, Welsh. But it all rang true and author Julia Donaldson, who was in the audience at today's show, looked like she approved. She kindly signed copies of her books afterwards in the Pleasance Tipi. 'That looks well-thumbed,' she said kindly, preparing to autograph our copy of Room on the Broom. Then she posed for photos outside the Tipi with cast members and the 'truly magnificent broom' that they had just magicked up from the witch's cauldron half an hour previously. Beanie gazed in wonder at the actors playing the witch, cat and other characters and went over to say hello. They were lovely to her and she insisted on sticking around, watching them pose for photos on the broom, until I suggested it was time to go home. "No, Mummy," she said. "No, Mummy. I don't want to go home. I want to stay." "Come on, we've got to go now. Look, everyone else is going home," I said.

"Mummy, no. I'm staying. I want to see them go home on the broom."

Room on the Broom, Pleasance, Edinburgh, 2.30pm, daily, until 31 August. Tel: 0131 556 6550

Art of Blogging

Fri, 21 Aug 2009 09:35:07 +0100

Spoke on the Art of Blogging at the Edinburgh International Book Festival on Wednesday afternoon. The event sold out. People laughed at my jokes. Nobody heckled. Phew.

I spent the night before pacing round the flat, drinking endless cups of tea and inflicting my speech on anyone prepared to listen. Even one-year-old daughter Button was not spared on the importance of having a niche for your blog. The day itself dawned. I felt sick. So decided to invest in getting my normally frizzy hair trimmed, blow-dried and straightened. That always helps give a bit of extra confidence.

After lunch Granny turned up to babysit, though before she got in the door she warned me she wouldn't listen to another speech read-through. I got dressed, after deciding on my new Levi jeans, jollied up by a jacket and smart shoes, and used up the last of my best Chanel foundation in honour of the occasion. As I headed out, the girls both looked heartily glad to see the back of Mummy, probably fed up with me reciting statistics at them about something called Technorati. But they both waved and blew kisses as I disappeared down the stairs.

I walked up the hill, terrified it would start to rain and all the hair straightening would be in vain. Then, as the tented village of the Book Festival in Charlotte Square Gardens came into view, my terror turned to excitement. I love the Book Festival - it's better than Christmas. Husband Va-vay and I made our way to the Authors' Yurt, which is actually more like a series of interconnecting yurts, decked out with Moorish rugs, divans and throws. I would have liked to stay there for ever. Staff gave us our passes, tickets and a goody bag with a free notebook. Best-selling fantasy writer Neil Gaiman arrived at the same time as me, for his event. Reassuring to see that he too looked nervous.

Lovely local crime writer Lin Anderson chaired the Art of Blogging event and I was lucky to have Caroline Dunford, another Edinburgh writer, as my co-panellist. I was meant to do a similar event last year, but since Button was only two weeks old and I hadn't even got out of my nightie and dressing gown at that stage, I reluctantly had to cry off. Good to be back in the saddle.

Edinburgh nights

Mon, 10 Aug 2009 22:05:31 +0100

Some people say the original spirit of the Edinburgh Fringe has gone; that raw young comedians like Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, who got their first breaks at Edinburgh, would never nowadays be 'discovered' here. Others point out that we Edinburgh residents either a) take the annual August carnival in our city horribly for granted, unmoved by having the world's biggest arts festival here on our doorsteps or, b) get annoyed at the thespy types who invade our home city, taking over local cafes and bars, smoking and shoving leaflets into our hands at every turn, all while taking themselves much too seriously. Some say all that fun, innovation and excitement from when the Fringe started in the immediate post-war years has shrivelled under the dullness of corporate spreadsheets.

But I'm not so sure. I'm looking at the picture I was lucky enough to acquire on Friday evening. In it a crescent moon is glowing above the spires of St Stephen's Church. Next to it twinkles a star. Bernie O'Donnell - a local artist, friend and neighbour - tells me that Jupiter appeared above St Stephen's Church back in the winter of 2002, when she first began painting this picture. The moon and star are what you notice first, but if you look again more carefully, it is possible also to make out Georgian tenement buildings, standing four stories high, underneath the planet of Jupiter. Their contours softened by the light from a sinking sun. Acrylic paint has made them a beacon of smudgy warmth. For months, I pushed my daughter home from nursery along these same streets in the tank-like buggy, blind in one eye following complications with the birth of my second child. We had some good times - like when daughter shouted out "moon", or, at other times, "star". But sometimes, if daughter was tired at the end of a long day, like most two-year-olds, she didn't bother talking, she just wailed. And there were many times when I felt like joining her. Perhaps that's why I like this picture so much - its serenity allows you to forget the pavement-level struggles.

Further down the picture, the deep blue of the Edinburgh sky mellows into turquoise, and then into yellow, as it touches the black hulk of St Stephen's, where a troupe of actors has again taken up residence this year. Bernie's love of Edinburgh shines through in this picture, as it does in so much of her work. It is people like Bernie, you see, who keep the original spirit of the Fringe alive. On Friday evening she held a private view of her Fringe exhibition - in her own home. "Hello Helen," she said, when she saw me looking through a box of pictures in the room that normally serves as her sitting room. "Lovely to see you. I see you've found something you like. Tell me, have I already given you a picture for the girls?" She picked up the print and put it into my hands. "For the children".

Exhibition by Bernie O'Donnell, 48 Cumberland Street, Edinburgh, EH3 6RG. Runs until 5 September. From 12 till 5pm (not Sunday).

Keycamp holiday

Wed, 15 Jul 2009 23:18:57 +0100

The free Keycamp holiday we were given via this blog worked well for us, though when I first heard about it I could not believe our luck. It seemed too good to be true. But wasn't. We really did get a free holiday. And it was good. We had a happy time at the La Yole site (pictures below) in France's Vendée region. I'll have many happy memories to treasure from our time there. Here are some of the highlights:

1. Time to bond as a family of four. That might sound naff, but the holiday helped us mesh together.

2. Getting a sun tan. Not much opportunity for that at home.

3. The weather being so warm that Va-vay and elder daughter Beanie and I ate our evening meals out on the decking outside our mobile home after younger daughter Button went to bed.

4. Taking Beanie to the pool, wearing her Scottish Swimmer badges, and watching her make friends with other little girls at the site.

5. Splashing about in the sea, on a near-deserted beach.

6. The smell of pine resin from the many conifers dotted about the site and countryside.

7. Cycling along the region's network of dedicated cycle paths, one of us towing the Hoppelopnikon (pictured).

8. Taking Button to the swimming pool for her first swim.

9. Feeling the habitual tension in my shoulders recede.

10. Being outdoors so much.

11. The opportunity to show my daughters France - scene of all my best holidays, where I met my husband and where he later proposed to me.

12. Eating take-away chips from the on-site cafe.

13. Being away from the internet.

14. Realising family holidays can be good fun, even if we don't get to walk up mountains anymore.

15. Playing table tennis again - for the first time in many years.

16. Having a good play park on site with lots of space. Beanie loved it there. There were free Tumbletots activities too but we didn't manage to sample them.

17. A Tumbletots party one evening in the bar that got all the younger kids - and me - dancing. I felt like a kid myself again. Button loved it too. It was a happy, happy evening. Superb!

18. Getting fit from the cycling, swimming and walking. Effect somewhat mitigated by the many ice creams consumed.

19. Little-known advantage of living in a mobile home: less space to clean and tidy than at home.

20. Meeting other families with kids the same age as ours.

21. Seeing the Atlantic coast of France - a first for me.

22. Remembering what it's like to have fun again!

23. Messing about in our mobile home with Beanie, singing and dancing.

The downsides of going abroad at the moment are well-known. I was horrified at the cost of food after the pound's collapse against the euro - France is no longer cheap if you earn in pounds - and we couldn't afford to eat out much because of that.

If you decide on a holiday of this kind, it is also certainly worth choosing your site carefully. It might be worth going for one of the smaller sites, like La Yole, which has slightly fewer facilities than some other places, but more than made up for that by the relaxed and friendly atmosphere and the professionalism of the owners. It felt well-run and thoughtfully put together.

I loved our Keycamp holiday and will be dreaming of the next one over the long winter months in Edinburgh.