Ian arrived late in the afternoon. He spent a couple of hours driving a 30 ft very expensive motor home round the lanes,’ scratching the f*** out of it’ in his words. He didn’t pay attention to the instruction I gave him and got more and more lost. We rang each other frequently and he bibbed his horn which I could hear, we just couldn’t find each other. Helga got battered, and he got stuck down a lane and broke his back light, I was running round the mountain wearing a headtorch and getting lost myself and after two hours, we had to admit defeat and he had to spend the night in the local caravan park, I had to find my way back to the house in the dark!. We agreed to meet at the bottom of the mountain at first light and I would walk down (5 km) and guide him back. He cussed and swore, well, like a London builder really, and we arranged to meet the following day. This was no mood improver for him, although the ‘right road’ was wider than wherever he went the night before, but the damage was done! I cheerfully offered to buy him some t-cut!