MY Dad has a thing about airport cafes.

Not the big ones like Heathrow, but the small, unusual ones – like Compton Abbas or the private one at Hurn Airport (you probably have to be a member but Dad strolls in nonetheless).

I don't know why this is. He is not a pilot and I think he has a bit of a fear of flying (just like me).

But he would never, EVER admit this. Looking back it makes sense. I mean, I remember him hiring a minibus and driving us and another two families to Geneva rather than fly.

All our holidays involved a long drive, usually in a Cortina, Boney M or Abba playing on a loop and my brother and I being choked to death by the parent’s incessant cigarette smoking (it was the 1970s, when this sort of abuse was positively encouraged).

And now I come to think of it, Dad never came with us on big trips, it was always Mum who took us – claiming Dad had to “work” or “repair” Mr Gramps, our old wooden boat (tub), or something.

Anyway, for Father’s Day I told him I would take him to the beautiful Cranborne Manor for the annual fete.

The Teen didn’t want to come.

“All you do is drink tea,” she said. “And I bet you £10 you end up at an airport.

“Ok, Ok I get the message,” I said. “But we will all eat together when we get back.”

I left her at home, cooking dinner with her own dad while I set off with mine.

Dad was looking forward to his trip to Cranborne. It is such a quintessentially English village, with its rambling roses and the scent of lavender in the air.

However, we arrived at the tea room to find we’d got things a little wrong and the fete had been held the day before. I was gutted.

Dad, on the other hand, didn’t seem too bothered – even though he must have mentioned the coconut shy at least nine times on the drive.

“Never mind Dora,” (he has called me that since I fell in love with Follyfoot Farm, aged about five), he said happily. “Let’s go to Compton Abbas airport for a cup of tea.”

And so we did.

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