The drive took an hour. Although cold, it was easy going and clear. The chain of villages that led to our next stop was typical; pretty, steep, pot-holed to an acceptable level and semi-pronounceable in name.

As usual, the last turn was the one that threw me. Things are always hiding behind unlikely obstacles like dead-end signs and miniature chapels. And three times past the place is usually enough to assume it was, indeed, down that steep, narrow, pitch black hill. And, of course, it was.

I brought Burt to a stop on the grass next to the little goat house and did my best to keep Byron from introducing himself. He has a way with... let's say others. The goat was gentle, despite looking like a devil from a low budget christmas movie. I'd come and say hello a bit later.

The artist's house was quirky and adventurous, the fire was lit and there were logs piled high in the small barn at the end of the garden, enough to keep the fire going all year round. It was already late, so the night was short. Tomorrow was for my day job. After a brief introduction, our host left and I bid him a good night, smiling at the rustic cottage that would be home for the next ten days.

Byron's "new place ritual" involves sudden bouts of barking, sometimes the odd howl, whenever he hears a new sound, which is never as sweet as it sounds. I liken it to being slapped in the face when you're sleeping - a sudden shock that you don't immediately understand. You just know it sucks really badly. After the third round, he settled for the night.

Despite the singing dog routine, and largely owing to a coffee I'd downed far beyond my four o'clock limit, I woke up fresh at seven am, after a weird dream about hoarding bags of clothes and spitting coffee across the room. It's one that made perfect sense to me. I lay about in a leisurely way until ten-to-ten, when panic set in, as I discovered myself unable to connect to the internet, and thus, unable to start work. The house was advertised as having a four-hundred-megabyte internet connection. I guess what they did forget to say was that it wasn't actually accessible. I was able to pick up a signal out in the garden, sitting in Burt with Byron whining on my lap, but it was too cold to stay for long, and despite my bitter objections (and they were bitter), ended up heading back to Brno, the nearest city, through a string of villages, all of whose cafes were closed or long-ago shut down. Thanks, Google, for updating those.

Brno is your standard city, complete with an enormous collection of moronic traffic decisions, a massive lack of parking spaces and a one-way obsession that brews words I can't repeat on this family-friendly platform. I wasn't any more a fan of it this time around than I was the last time, but I was still a slave to the internet, at least for the time being, so I did what I had to and wasted most of the day searching for a place to stop the van and a place to plug in. As far as non-existent cafes went, it wasn't a lot better than the villages.

When I finally got online, it was getting on for half past twelve, and that was not okay as far as I understood it. I knew I'd end up working extra hours over the next few days, to make up for it. Fair enough, but not ideal. Drinks came, food came, then the time came and brough the bill with it. After Byron had broken into his violent beast bit when someone had dared to get up from their table, and then been a puppy in their un-daunted hands a few moments later, we left the cafe and the street's dirty corners rolled themselves back in, bringing Burt back into view. Byron jumped in and I followed, then he did his helpless prisoner thing for a minute, scratching and wimpering to get out, before curling up cosy on his seat and behaving himself. It was a thing we did. It was a lot of laughs.

The ride home was more enjoyable, thanks to the requisite wrong turn, which gave way to an eighteen-degree climb through a forest. The road was lumpy, broken, and tatty around the edges, making for an interesting ride. The corners were sharp and the penalties for missing them were extreme. I was happy that it was one of the days when both my head lights were working. I'd already had the dash cam running for a few minutes, and was glad for it, as the video was sure to be a good one.

The ride lasted almost an hour, and, conscious of the video, I pulled up to the bushes cinematically and waited a few seconds before killing the engine and lights (you know, to give space for the edit). Then I pressed the button to stop the camera and saw that I had successfully captured the first thirty-six seconds of the ride before the battery had died. Another most excellent turn out for the day.

Home at last, the first thing I noticed was that the double-locked door was only single-locked, meaning our host had been inside in our absense - something I just can't abide. This was confirmed by the log fire blazing and the log supply having been refilled. And just as I was beginning to forgive the host for his intrusion, figuring it only as an act of good will, I discovered he'd swapped out our toilet paper for an inferior brand. The utter cheek of it.

My theory is that the logs were something of a feeling-bad bribe to atone for the fact that he'd run out of nice paper in his own house and decided to poach our guest-standard luxury loo rolls, replacing them with something resembling tracing paper. The guilt must have been killing him.

And it was then, when I believed further insult to be unlikely, that I discovered that the internet was working after all, and the whole day, far from being one expensive waste of time after another, could have been an exercise in zen calmness, never requiring me to leave the quilty kingdom of the bed, had the gentleman host *plugged the cable in* before heading into town.

And to think I'd wished him a good night just twelve hours earlier.

A big ass pump.

A village boom box.

A cosy fire at the end of the day.

A goaty mister.