Captain Midnight here from over the border.
We only just made it out. Himself messed up the papers so the guards on the ferry wouldn’t let me into the Commodore Lounge where I usually take my ease on the crossing to Ireland. Instead, I was obliged to undergo the indignity of four hours banged up in the kennels.
Himself left me a bowl of water and a chew. So kind of him to think of my needs before he hot-footed it to the luxury accommodation on the Top Deck, to mix with the enemy and avail himself liberally of the free canapés and wine. Generous to a fault.
But the vicissitudes of temporary incarceration only made our eventual freedom taste even sweeter when we finally gave them the slip at Rosslare and drove an hour up the coast to Morriscastle Sands.
I took Himself for a walk on the beach when we arrived, to celebrate our great escape from the humdrum of everyday work. We’ve got two weeks in the fair country in Rosie, our VW Campervan, for Himself to write and me to scamper by the sea before we surrender to the authorities and get deported back to Blighty.
Hurrah!
Coming Home to Story 