Quink

Quink is the felicitous nickname of a relation of mine, given her because she was the fifth (and last) of her family, and born to a clergyman father - my grandfather's second cousin - on Quinquagesima Sunday. We called upon her in Canterbury today, as we progressed homewards.

100 up

Agnes completed her 100th poem at home in Bristol between lunch and tea on the first day's play at Brisbane. More than satisfactory in both quarters: with Gift Aid, the 24-hour poetry slam will have raised the best part of £2,000 for the typhoon victims, whereas, in the cricket, Australia look to be pushed to reach the statutory 400 they might be said to need as a platform for a win in the First Test.

Everybody following our daughter's 24 hour burst of creativity has expressed amazement at the richness of her imagination. Let's hope the experience, as well as helping the needy, opens some doors for her!

Meanwhile, in London today, we managed a visit to Prue Cooper's show at Abbott and Holder. We have long admired her press-moulded earthenware pots, as quirky as they are useful. Her blurb says she likes to make "things that communicate through being used... the lettering being integral to the design in the same way that the words are integral to a song... We're bound together by stories."

My favourite in the present exhibition is this one photographed: I shall never now be able to listen with proper seriousness to Marcellus' questioning of Barnardo in the opening scene of Hamlet.

Earlier, at a cousins' lunch, I overheard part of a discussion about houses in the country, and the husband of one cousin asking another (female), never before encountered, "Is your seat large?"

Saskatoon

We have long-lost relations from Canada staying with us, a mother and son. Brenda is my third cousin: my grandfather never spoke about his emigré uncle (Brenda's great-grandfather), and indeed the two branches of the family only came into contact through the internet.

On a sunny evening, we drove our guests up to the top of Leckhampton Hill to show them the lie of the land - hillier with us than with them, it seems: they come from a town twice our size which I'd never heard of.

Saskatoon sounds a nice place, but a little chilly for my purposes: the average low in January is -22 degrees C. And they take rather more words to say things than we do: "You know what, I totally agree," translates as "Yes."

Spain: Muros de Nalón

Having visited the Iberian Peninsular's South-Eastern and Western coastlines, here we were now visiting Caroline's cousins on the Northern edge. Not that we saw the sea during our short stay: in our shirtsleeves, we sat about in the lovely garden, my most strenuous exercise being to pick a basketful of persimmon - a new fruit to me: from afar, they look a bit like oranges.

Nothing at Muros seemed to have changed much since our last visit, in 2004. In particular, we received the same immensely warm welcome. Our washing was whisked away. I found a hole in one of my socks had been mended on its return. We were fetched from and driven to our trains, and sent off with a large bar of chocolate, which saw us through the rest of our holiday. After so much city life, it was a joy to be in such a haven of peace.