We’d made it to the end of Year 4. The sun was shining, school was out, and six weeks of family time stretched ahead of us. My favourite time of the year.

We have a tradition of marking the occasion with a family meal—just me, Paul and George. This year, we’d booked an American-style smokehouse in the city centre. We sat on the terrace, ordered food and cocktails, and settled in to enjoy the warm summer evening.

George is no stranger to restaurants, and he knows how to behave in public, but tonight he was particularly hard work. Loud, restless and apparently incapable of keeping his bum on the chair.

I was putting it down to the excitement of school finishing after a long, hot term. But if this behaviour carried on, we’d be cancelling all our summer plans. Six weeks suddenly sounded like quite a long time.

We’d had a chilled family weekend, enjoying some quiet time together before the summer holidays properly began. On Monday, Paul headed away for work for the week, while I had less to do for the business over the summer, so I slipped straight into stay-at-home-mum mode.

On Tuesday, we were meeting one of George’s school friends and his mum for a day out and a picnic. It was the perfect way to ease into the holidays: good company, fresh air and no school-run routine to worry about.

It was such a lovely day. We’d never really spoken beyond the usual pleasantries at the school gate, but you know when you just hit it off with someone? The conversation flowed, and I learnt so much about her life. I love hearing people’s stories—all the little things that make them who they are.

On the train home, an older woman was getting off before us. As she walked past, she stopped to tell us to control our children.

Now, I’m not one of those mums who thinks her child is innocent. George is usually the ringleader, and I know it. But all they were doing was talking and laughing. They weren’t even being loud. Apparently, other people experiencing joy was enough to ruin this woman’s journey.

George’s friend’s mum was really upset by the interaction, so naturally I offered some words of comfort.

“It’s okay. She’s old and will be dead soon, so we win.”

She looked at me, then burst out laughing.

“Zoe, that was dark, but you’ve really cheered me up.”

A young woman, probably in her late teens or early twenties, also reassured us.

“Ignore her. Your kids haven’t bothered anyone else on the train.”

Between her reassurance and my questionable approach to emotional support, we both felt better.

When we got home, George and I decided it was a popcorn-and-movie kind of night, complete with a downstairs sleepover. We watched The A-Team, which is a fantastic film.

I love the time I get to spend with George. He has my sense of humour and is possibly one of the funniest people I know. Definitely the funniest nine-year-old. Spending an evening curled up with him, eating popcorn and laughing together, is pretty hard to beat.

On Friday, Paul suggested taking George up to the Lakes. He grew up in Kendal, but we hadn’t been up there for years.

We skipped the tourist spots and headed a little off the beaten track, over to Sedbergh for a walk through the woods. It was brilliant. Just lovely to spend time together, with nowhere else we needed to be.

We ended up by a stream, where Paul taught George how to skim stones. Watching the two of them, I was pretty sure I could have happily moved to the countryside that afternoon.

Then we drove to Paul’s old local chippy in Arnside. This is a bold claim, but I’d say it’s the best fish and chip shop in the country. We got fish and chips, an extra portion of chips and two battered sausages to share, along with drinks. I was, however, the only person who chose the correct drink: dandelion and burdock. The perfect combination.

We took our food across the road to a picnic bench by the sea, and it was perfect.

I grew up in a small town in Somerset between the ages of five and eleven, so what surprised me was how new so much of this was for George. I think I’d taken for granted that he’d had the same kinds of experiences Paul and I had growing up. But he’s a city kid. The things we remembered from childhood were things he was discovering for the first time.

We agreed we needed to do this more often. We’ve definitely reached the age where we need a National Trust membership.

Apparently, this is who we are now. Fish and chips, woodland walks and a National Trust membership. I’m quite happy with it.

On the way home, we stopped at one of my favourite places: Sizergh Barn. It’s an amazing farm shop, and we picked up cheese, cakes, chutneys and jam.

I absolutely love the place, but it does have a habit of making me spend far too much money on things I absolutely do not need. Apparently, once I’m in a farm shop, a cupboard full of chutney becomes a perfectly reasonable ambition.

But I do make a killer cheeseboard, so obviously this was an investment.