As seems to be par for the course, we were awake at six even on a weekend. The sun was already shining, and we had the day to ourselves again. Instead of getting straight up, we laid in bed and dozed, the sounds of the morning, as they were, drifted in through the open windows.
After breakfast we both pottered around, not realising the morning was slipping away, and it came as a shock to see that we had just 40 minutes to get ready and get to the start of the morning walk in Northbourne.
So we whizzed along in our little Polo, along main roads and down leafy lanes and through little hamlets until we came to Northbourne. We were the youngest folks there by some margin, but also the least fit too. And on the stoke of ten, Rob called us together and told us the route and we set off across the fields.
Rambling is a pleasant thing to do, especially on a sunny summer morning; over ploughed fields already harvested and gold waving fields of wheat and barley. There is something magical about it.
We walked a medium pace, and talked about this and that as we did so. The Kentish countryside slipped by, we walked up downs and back down the other side, into leafy villages with ancient pubs and older churches. People working in picture-book gardens waved at us as we walked by.
As we walked, the clouds broke and the sun gleamed down; it got hot and our juices flowing. We stopped a few times, to catch our breath and to wait for the older walkers; and then off we went again.
We returned to the village hall and the church next door just after opening time, and a few of us made our way to the pub for a refreshing ale and a sit down in the darkened bar.
Sadly, then we had to brave the chaos that is Tescos for the weekly shop before heading back home for a shower and then lunch.
We had a huge stonebaked french loaf with Camembert and Stilton cheese; it was wonderful. I had the last of the cold beer, and soon we felt refreshed.
I sat down to watch the game on TV whilst Jools went into the garden and laid down in the sun with the cats for a while.
In the evening, we headed back out one more time to go to the cinema, as 'Moon' had finally reached us in the provinces, and so we thought a late evening film would be perfect. And we were right; well worth seeing and two thumbs up from us. It is directed by David Bowie's son, who now calls himself Duncan rather than Zowie. But Duncan??
We drove home under the watchful eye of the waning moon, the lights from Calais flickered from across the Channel, and we drove home.
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