Sometimes it is a day for an adventure. I ask the two bodies, still lazing on the sofa in a state of early morning pyjama dress, what they want to do. Where shall we go? To my surprise they soon agree that we will head inland, to the lost village. Maps are dug out, rucksacks packed with binoculars, sandwiches and a dubious plastic compass which came free with a comic, camouflage snoods are donned and I succeed in my campaign for wearing waterproofs. The sky is blue but a dark bank of cloud glowers from the west.

On reaching our starting point, I hang back as they pore over the map, heads leaning close together tracing green dotted footpaths with their fingers. I hesitate before refolding the map so they can see where we actually are. I let them lead onto the bridleway, fringed on either side with spires of Rosebay Willowherb.

As the path narrows the tall foliage is left behind, and to our right the moors rise up in a purple carpet of heather. We pause as small faces squint at the map, checking contours. I watch the clouds sweeping closer, they are, ominously, the same colour as the heather. The compass is dug out of the bag and studied closely before we move again, both bodies confident of where we are heading.

We reach the wishing tree first, as the moors give way to the moss-covered hawthorns and deep green water of the well. The smallest body goes down carefully, into the shady cool of the ancient hollow. Her brother waits above, watching protectively. He spies a rusted metal gate embedded in a stone wall and ponders its antiquity.

We reach the lost village, a cluster of humped stones encircling a central underground chamber, and the rolling clouds overtake us obliterating the blue. The small ones disappear almost instantly, delighting in the luminous algae which cover the walls of the fogou. I do not go below, I let them be alone. I know they are imagining adventures without me, freedom from supervision. I sit and listen as the rain sweeps in from the moor and try to keep our sandwiches dry. The sun is defiantly strong between the heavy downpours.

I see the tops of heads now and then, whispering and ducking behind the low crumbling walls of this ancient place. I am a dragon to be feared and they are warriors who will defeat me.

Until they get hungry.

Then I am me again, and we sit together eating in the rain.