I push the children up the narrow wooden staircase, tossing Emmy onto my bed before going back to rescue Jack, who has somehow got left behind and is hunched, wide-eyed, on the top step as though shot by a sniper in the first wave of a surprise attack. At least the cabin has been made habitable. There are sheets on the bed and a shrunken striped woollen blanket on top. The sink in the corner still has rust stains down one side but hot water trickles from the taps, and the loo, whose incessant gurgling drove Robert crazy last time we were here, appears to have been fixed. Most luxurious of all, a reading light has been rigged up via the central overhead beam and connected to a yellowing switch on the wall. The children quickly lock themselves into their familiar sleep positions. Emmy, stretched out horizontally across the pillows, her long black hair splayed around her head in tangled Medusa locks, while Jack lies in repose in a T-junction with her shoulder. There is a bout of feral growling when I attempt to wash their faces and I give up. What does it matter if they spend the next year encrusted with dirt? What do I care if they run naked through the brush and their feet grow over with soft fur like baby wolverines? In this ‘big adventure’ of ours, there must surely be perks for them too. Jack’s hair smells of cauliflower and urine. The H&M label on his T-shirt is sticking up against his neck. Height 125 cms, 7/8 years old, it reads and for a second I sit down on the bed, overcome by a wave of emotions I am simply too tired to identify.