I forgot to say that whilst on holiday last week, I taught Amelie to ride a bike...

And she didn't even need stabilisers. It's quite an achievement, because her mother struggles to stay upright on a tricycle.

Anyhoo, we finally left Somerset on Saturday, but before departing the holiday camp for the last time, we decided to treat ourselves to a cooked breakfast in the Mash & Barrel restaurant, on the grounds that anywhere that charges £2.95 per person has got to be good. Admittedly, having seen the size of the portions, I wished I'd paid £5.90 and had twice as much, but Amelie seemed to like it. Which is surprising, as when she first saw the menu, she tried to kill herself.

Lisa and I were queuing at the counter at the time, so the first we knew of the suicide bid was the sound of running, as Amelie left the restaurant at high speed with Lisa's Mum in hot pursuit. She made it past security, through the doors, and within three feet of the open air swimming pool before her grandmother managed to rugby-tackle her to the ground. To be honest, neither of them can swim, and Lisa's Mum said she nearly had a heart attack, so we could have had a double fatality on our hands. Which would have made next year's holiday a lot cheaper.

Fortunately they both survived to tell the tale (well, Lisa's Mum told the tale while Amelie asked for a bic-bic), and I think we all had a good holiday.


I was going to take a photo of us outside the caravan, but frankly we spent more time in those teapots.

Having been sentenced to four nights at the Burnham-on-Sea Holiday Village, we were unexpectedly denied parole on Friday, and allowed to stay another day. I think it was down to Amelie's bad behaviour. And the fact that we bunged them an extra twenty quid.

It meant that we were able to finish our week with a trip to Glastonbury Abbey...


If you compare that photo with the cave painting I published on Monday, you'd be forgiven for thinking that we went on holiday with a cardboard cut-out of Lisa's Mum, and simply posed with it in front of numerous landmarks. Needless to say, you'd be wrong. We didn't visit numerous landmarks.

I should also point out that the structure behind us isn't Glastonbury Abbey. It's the Glastonbury Abbey Gift Shop. It was the only part of the building with free entry. I love history as much as the next man, but I'm not made of money. And besides, you can get the same experience from a keyring and a postcard. At least, that's what I told Amelie.

Among the other local landmarks that we didn't visit was the Glastonbury Tor, a big old hill about a mile from the town centre. I wanted to get the Tor bus to base camp, but the only person willing to climb every mountain with me was Amelie, and I knew I'd end up having to carry her back down, so we decided to stay at sea level.

We might not have experienced the magical mystery of the Tor, but Glastonbury High Street was certainly full of weirdos. I've never seen so many new-age spiritual nutcases. The place was crawling with extra large mediums, clairvoyants and soothsayers. Although oddly, they didn't seem to be expecting us.

We passed some fine establishments with names such as 'The Magick Box', 'Man, Myth & Magik' (that's two different spellings of 'magic' and I don't agree with either of them), 'Yin Yang', 'The Goddess & the Green Man', and my particular favourite, 'The Psychic Piglet'. No, seriously...


It all made for a very interesting shopping experience (even the woman in Oxfam wanted to talk to me about angels), but personally I felt more at home in the cake shop. We spent a very enjoyable five minutes in Burns the Bread, an unfortunately named bakery, the website of which exclaims "Anybody's butter - but Burns the Bread is best!" - a slogan which works on virtually no level whatsoever.

They do, however, sell Torsy Moorsy, a luxury fruitcake which has been "developed from an old recipe found in a niche next to a fireplace whilst renovating the bakery over 25 years ago". Personally I wouldn't trust a recipe which someone had clearly tried to throw on the fire, so I settled instead for a sausage roll, a lemon muffin and a giant gingerbread man for Amelie. It was the size of her head, and she'd eaten it within ten minutes. But it was the quietest ten minutes of our holiday.

It's a well known fact that if you've got a brain the size of a planet, you'll end up revolving around the sun...


I think the second ride was more her cup of tea.

That was Thursday at the Burnham-on-Sea Holiday Village. We'd actually taken Amelie to the 'Little Cubs' play session, but as it turned out, it wasn't much more than a bit of colouring-in on the carpet of the Mash & Barrel restaurant. The 'Fun Star' (that's a Red Coat to you and me) who took the session was a lovely young girl who kept apologising that she didn't really know what to do because she usually does 'Nature Detectives', not 'Little Cubs', and has only worked there for three months. I told her not to worry. The leader of 'Little Cubs' only needs to know the bear necessities.

We left the bear pit after half an hour with a ghost made out of a handkerchief, and a couple of stolen crayons (which we forced Amelie to return later, shortly after she drew on the walls of the caravan), and headed next door to the amusements. Amelie seemed to think she was at Alton Towers, and frankly with the amount of money I had to fork out on rides, she might as well have been.

Penniless and dizzy, we then headed to the beach for the traditional seaside holiday experience...


Judging by the amount of people there, we'd either been successful in our attempts to avoid the school holidays, or we'd arrived just after a bomb scare. I decided to let Amelie do some digging to find out which. Fortunately she survived, so I expect everyone else was at Heathrow, waiting for the ash to clear.

I helped Amelie build her first sandcastle, then sat back as she carefully demolished it one grain at a time, and attempted to put it all back in the bucket. That took her about half an hour. In the meantime, I looked across the water and told Lisa I could see Wales, which led to a confusing couple of minutes as she tried to spot large aquatic mammals off the Somerset coast.

The most momentous aspect of our trip to the seaside, however, was our discovery that at the age of nineteen months, Amelie can already count to ten. And we haven't even tried to teach her. Video evidence of this feat is so far eluding me, but whilst running across the beach towards the sinking sand on Thursday, Amelie started shouting out numbers (possibly counting down to the bomb going off). At first I thought I was hearing things, but on about four or five (she could tell you herself) occasions since, she's successfully counted, in order, all the way up to ten. Usually when my video camera's out of reach. She must have learnt it by watching me every day as I count how many biscuits she eats before breakfast.

With maths mastered, I decided to see if she could write her name as well, but it wasn't a complete success...


I wanted it in joined up letters.

The trouble with staying in a caravan which is essentially built out of reinforced cardboard, is that when Amelie starts banging on the wall at 7:30am, it's hard to sleep through it. Suffice it to say, we had an early start on Wednesday. On the plus side, the lack of soundproofing meant that when Lisa's Mum started offering Amelie biscuits within five seconds of the girl getting up, we could hear every word. So we'll know where to send the bill for her stomach-stapling in twenty years time. She can go halves with my parents.

Personally, I only encourage Amelie to drink. Having browsed our 'Things To See & Do in Somerset' brochure, and discovered that the county is home to the world's largest Bakelite museum, I weighed up our options, and decided to take Amelie to the nearest cider farm...


I had her over a barrel at one point, but she wouldn't sit still for the photo.

To be honest, there wasn't much to do at Rich's Cider Farm other than go scrumping and buy dairy products, so we loaded up on apple flavoured cheeses, bought a jar of Banana Curd, and headed back to the caravan.

The cheese we bought turned out to be one of the nicest I've ever tasted, so having eaten most of it for lunch, there was only one place to go in the afternoon. Here I am saying cheese in Cheddar...


Cheddar was Gorgeous (obviously). It's like the Grand Canyon on a budget. Not only is there a gorge to explore, but two spectacular caves, a lookout tower, a museum and an open-topped tour bus. As the brochure puts it, "It's a full day out". So naturally we got there at 3:30pm. A full hour before they close.

Fortunately they cater for people like us. In return for £28, they gave us three 'End of Day' tickets and a souvenir guide to show us what we'd missed. The tickets entitled us to visit only one of the caves, but frankly, by the time you've stumbled around in the dark for half an hour with a hyperactive toddler on reins, you're only too happy to get back to the car park.

It was good while it lasted though. Here are a couple of Flintstones and a stalag-mite in Gough's Cave...


Lisa's wearing a CareLink panic button around her neck in case she has a fall.

Reading our souvenir guide, it seems we owe a debt of gratitude to the brave men (and possibly women) (but probably men) who have sucessfully explored these caves over the years, opening them up through a combination of digging and subterranean diving, and allowing us all to enjoy the results. The guide provides this photo of two such explorers at work...


That Jamie Oliver gets everywhere.

Ultimately though, if you're going to visit Cheddar, you've got to buy some cheese. Apparently there's now only one Cheddar cheese which is actually made in Cheddar, and they leave it to mature in the caves...


I had to physically restrain Amelie from climbing the steps and tasting it.

So having emerged into the gift shop, I naturally had to buy myself a chunk at all costs. All costs being £22.95 per kilo. It's the first cheese I've ever bought by credit card. I'd tell you what it's like, but I haven't tried it yet. I lost my appetite when I saw the price.

Ignore the date at the top, I'm actually writing this on Tuesday the 18th, from the luxurious surroundings of a 'Prestige' caravan at the Burnham-on-Sea Holiday Village in Somerset. It's a lot like Doctor Who's Tardis. Not only does it look bigger on the inside, but it allows me to travel in time. And I've got a gorgeous assistant.

But enough about Lisa's Mum. As I write this, we've only been at the holiday park for twenty-four hours, but we've already made friends with the Canadian family next door...


We honk at each other every time we drive past.

So I'm well and truly down with the goose kids (which is a feather in my cap), and Amelie's keeping her fingers crossed that they'll let her play with them...


In addition to having a gander at the neighbouring caravan, we've also been out for a duck hunt at the nearby lake. Amelie likes to run along the bank, shouting "Quack" at anything with wings, so she's on the verge of getting an ASBO from the local anglers. Frankly she's making a rod for her own back. And coming close to being hit with one.

Our journey down here yesterday was mostly without incident. I paid 50p for Amelie to have a ride on Clifford the Big Red Dog at a service station on the M4, which went well until the ride finished after about sixty seconds. At which point she looked up at me and shouted "More money!". I think it's a taste of things to come.

But we made it here in one (50p) piece, and settled into our accommodation. The caravan has three bedrooms and is bigger than our flat (not to mention more tidy), so I'm tempted to move in permanently. The park is very nice too - all grass, trees and lakes, with the beach just a stone's throw away. Although we haven't been able to test that yet, as it's all sand and no pebbles.

Amelie spent most of this morning doing laps of the nearby caravans, before accompanying me to the corner shop for the daily papers. Lisa's Mum asked if I could get her a copy of the Brighton Argus, but oddly, the Burnham-on-Sea branch of Spar appeared to have sold right out. So I got her the Daily Mirror instead. And told her to have a good look in it.

This afternoon we decided to explore Burnham town centre, so we piled into the car, turned left out of the holiday camp... and discovered it was only about 200 yards down the road. I wouldn't mind, but we ended up paying & displaying so close to our caravan, I could have watched for traffic wardens from the bedroom.

It was worth making the trip though, because we got to visit Britain's shortest pier...


I bought Amelie that bucket and spade from a pound shop in the town centre, but in the end she found something much better for building sand castles...


Just look at that great big gold digger... sitting in the JCB.

Well, as of 4 o'clock this afternoon, we're back from Somerset. I've eaten enough cheese to clog the arteries of a hippo, Amelie's grazed her knee, Lisa's caught the sun, and we all smell faintly of apples.

As luck would have it, the holiday camp where we stayed had free wi-fi. Unfortunately my laptop doesn't. Frankly it barely has Windows. So I'm slightly disappointed to see that Big Sis has let me down on the blogging front. As I drove down the M5 on Monday, she was assuring me that she'd be taking full advantage of my absence by turning this place into some kind of speed awareness shrine, possibly with scans of her latest parking tickets, and photos from all ten of Wiltshire's Gatso cameras.

Unfortunately, by lunchtime on Tuesday, she was texting me to say that she'd underestimated the amount of time she'd have for blogging after doing a twelve-hour working day and a three-hour commute. So she's clearly struggling to subtract 15 from 24. As a result, she was unable to write anything more than an absence note.

But the good news is that whilst my old laptop might be about as compatible with modern technology as a Betamax video recorder, it does have enough working keys to allow me to scratch out a blog post by the light of a camping stove. So I'll be back in the morning with part one of 'What I Did On My Holidays'.

And in the meantime, here's a groovy chick I met round the back of our caravan...


Frankly the place was wall-to-wall birds.

Well, assuming the volcanic ash cloud doesn't shut the M4, I'm off to Somerset to spend four days in a caravan with the mother-in-law. And a screaming toddler. I'm sure it'll be more fun than it sounds.

Unless there's an internet café at the bottom of Wookey Hole, I doubt there'll be much going on here before the weekend. Although when we went to Weymouth three years ago, Big Sis posted here in my absence. I'll send her a text message and see what she can come up with...