I’ve taken many diverse forms of transport in my life – shared a coracle in India with five motorbikes, been towed by a diving boat through the Great Barrier Reef while clinging to a fishing net, flown a microlight over the Channel and back. But my latest escapade beats everything. In Dorset at the weekend, Dirk and I had completed the 7 miles of coast known as the Undercliff Walk. Made famous by Meryl Streep who had her Victorian pants pulled down a bit briskly by Jeremy Irons in ‘The French Lieutenant’s Woman’, the walk is windy, steep and very hot and steamy owing to its unique microclimate. Having arrived a bit knackered in Lyme Regis, we went about hitching a lift back to where we’d parked the car. While Dirk slunked about in a bush out of sight, I stuck out my thumb and smiled in a coquettish ‘I’ve been a very naughty girl and not adverse to a bit of hard spanking’ look. Our first lift was from a Pole called Conrad. He stank of fish but had lovely thighs. However, he could only take us part of the way. No sooner had he dropped us off than an icecream van pulled around the corner and offered us a lift. We threw ourselves through the serving hatch and sat like pigs in shit amongst the discarded cones and cardboard boxes all the way back to our car. That’s something else to tick off my list of ‘things to do before I’m 50’ (like I’m that sad). Talking about pigs, the day after the Undercliff walk, we went back to the farm where I’d first met Babe. With intrepidation, we approached the sty. Would Babe recognise me? Would he still love me? Or worse, would he have turned to sausage? As soon as he saw me he scurried over, oinking his little oinks of pleasure, wiggling his little piggy derrier, batting his long ginger eyelashes. He cocked his head as if to say ‘have we met before?’, had a long drink from his trough then pissed off again. That’s it, I’m getting a dog.