I am staying over in Tor's grand old English farm set in hilly terrain. The sun is shining and it is a beautiful summer's day. A school party of primary kids are descending the hill. We hear a big crash from the courtyard and go to investigate. The snow has melted and slid off the roof flooding the yard. Bulbous icicles hang from the trees. You'll have to go round the back, I tell them, its too dangerous here.
We are standing along a narrow ridge just covered by the sea somewhere in Ireland. Small eruptions like temporary geysers appear close to us in the water. They are miniature volcanoes we are told - we are at the top of Everest and this happens for five minutes each day. I realise that one of our group is missing. Nobody has seen R since yesterday. Should we phone home and tell his mother we have lost him?
A storm rumbles in the distance. A giant windball is picking up all kinds of things. "If you want to, you can add something sticky," a Japanese friend tells me, "although by the time it reaches us it will probably have calmed down because not enough people will glue things to it."
I am keen to see it and want to attach a sticky bun. "The windball will eventually divide into new ones like rivulets from a river," my friend says.
