TripAdvisor is like Coca-Cola, the sensible South African woman at the other end of the phone told me.

This was the first time I had ever spoken to anybody intelligent or efficient at TripAdvisor, what a revelation! 

I had rung them to ask how to award myself a five-star rating; and to qualify for the 'romantic','family friendly', 'luxury' etc categories that line the top of their page.

The nice lady and I were chatting about how they measure the blob rankings, and she was explaining that it is down to a secret coding which nobody is privy to, just like the recipe for Coca Cola.  

Meanwhile, to get myself a five star rating, I have to contact Expedia, she told me.  And to get categorised, you need to have lots of the appropriate words quoted in your reviews.  TripAdvisor's computers look for these key words, so the more reviews you have, the more likely you are to get categorised.  So I'll give up on that one, with my mere two rooms then.

I contacted Expedia regarding the star ratings, and five days later they got back to me, predictably advising me to ask TripAdvisor about it. 

Meanwhile, Wydemeet continues to languish in the Number Four slot, and I'm not sure what else I can do, other than entreating an entire family of four to write individual reviews for me (providing they enjoy their stay, obviously) and see if that gives us the boost we need!  Or should I simply give in, acknowledging that there must be something in the Coca-Cola mix that we're never going overcome, and we'll never achieve that Number 1 slot.  Perhaps Number 2 might be better anyway.  I mean, look at One Direction!

I could hear the throbbing through the bathroom window, and looking out, there was the helicopter approaching.  An old friend was visiting, circling the property, checking out the white tea-towel Sashka had put in the top of the horses' field to act as a landing strip.

We have had several visitations from friends in helicopters over the years.  And every time they never fail to cause the adrenalin to pump.  Those little machines are just so loud, and their propellers go round so very fast; I find the whole thing hugely exciting!

He had casually dropped by for a coffee, and after we'd all waved goodbye I drove off in Ken, the Terrano, to swap it for the Golden Monster.

Well.  I've fallen in love.  I just LOVE this bling new car.  It's unmissable. Unusual. Rather in your face.  But steady, safe, reliable, practical, and does the job.  Just like me.

I have never had a car so new.  It's got a little gadget called 'Parrot' in it, which I dare say will turn out to be very useful when my children show me what it does; and I have worked out how to plug my phone in so I can listen to my own songs.  Loudly. Bliss.

And I can take it back to the garage for servicing at cost, while they provide me with a courtesy car.  They made me feel that they genuinely care about their customers. They've got 15,000 followers on Facebook, so that's just a few people who appear to like them anyway!

It's so comfortable, and such a pleasure to drive, that now I'm doing the sums to work out whether it makes sense to give away Marvin the Magic Focus, and use the Golden Monster as my runabout instead.  But all the tables on Google are in litres/kilometer so I can't work it out.

Yesterday I bought eight slabs of home-made tiffin tea cake for £5 from the local Bring & Buy sale - it was all they had left.

I've packed it in cling film and put it in the freezer. Tomorrow I will buy some 'cookie jars' - if that's what you have to call glass containers for biscuits these days - and display my teacake in our Hexworthy and Dartmeet Rooms. I hope people don't eat it too fast, or that could get expensive.

I've done this because the B&B at the top of TripAdvisor's Leader Board of Dartmoor National Park's 183 B&Bs features a lovely  close-up pic of a jar of bits of teacake, with a brown hand-written label attached on a ribbon, saying 'home-made chocolate biscuits'.  And all its reviews refer to these delicious titbits. So I am going to copy them (only mine appears to be a bit on the soggy side).  Otherwise on the face of it, there doesn't appear to be anything particularly special or outstanding about Dartmoor's Number 1.

So my suspicion is that its owners are utterly delightful, and that they must offer an immaculate service, with delicious breakfasts with home made compotes changed every day.  And these nice owners, just like me, have presumably got wise as to how TripAdvisor works, and are using it to promote themselves for free. Good on them!  

Meanwhile Wydemeet languishes way down in the Number 4 slot. 

If you had told me a year ago that we would reach Number 4 in just twelve months I would never have believed you.  But now I know how TripAdvisor's system works - ie the computer checks out who's received the largest number of 5-blob reviews most recently - I am beginning to dream of the unimaginable possibility that Wydemeet might hit the Number 1 slot shortly!!!!!!!!

Wouldn't that just be completely amazing?! 

So huge, huge, huge and enormous thanks to all of you who have helped us get this far.  I am SO grateful!  Your reviews really, really mean the world to me! I still can't quite believe the wonderful lovely gorgeous things you say.

Well.  So wedding bells aren't looking in the least bit imminent.  Perhaps 'TripAdvisor's Number One' might prove a fitting end to 'Suviving Solo' Volume 1?

Or perhaps I am just counting my chickens...

I know everything about tow vehicles.  I learned it all on Tuesday, and bought one this morning.

Some of the perceived pros and cons of different makes and models are, of course, personal; and some depend on where you live and the job you want doing.

First and foremost, after my recent experiences with the Nissan Terrano, I was after something reliable, in which I could feel safe pulling my two horses in their trailer up the hill past The Forest Inn. This has a One in Two gradient, is one car wide, and has a blind corner.

And I wanted a diesel automatic. It must cost less than £6000 and should have fewer than 100,000 miles on the clock.

As a result of these criteria, my search on Ebay, Autotrader, Exchange & Mart, Pre-Loved, Gumtree, and something called 'Motors' narrowed right down to just a few cars in the country.

I believe Land Rover Defenders, Discoveries and Range Rovers tow better than anything - they're rated up to 3.5 tons.  But I don't want any of them, because according to all the on-line chat forums they are all always breaking down.

I LOVE Toyota Land Cruisers.

I quite fancied the idea of a truck.

Shoguns are man enough.

And then there's something called a Kia Sorento which the horsey ladies on the Horse & Hound website swear by.

By now I was down to about 25 vehicles in the whole of the UK.

So off I set yesterday to try out a Sorento in St Austell, an Isuzu Rodeo (more comfortable, better turning circle, more reliable than the Nissan Navarro and Toyota Hilux I read) in Plymouth, a Land Cruiser in Exeter, and another Sorento in Tiverton.

The first Sorento felt like a big powerful box on wheels.  "If you want a truly awful car that is a cheap means of towing 3.5 tons, this is the one for you," read the blurb.  I quite liked it, but it got stuck in low gear 4 wheel drive.

The Isuzu (how do you pronounce that?) D-Max was golden. GOLDEN??!! Imagine me turning up in this F-off truck as big as a football field, at the Pony Club! I mean it's bling gone completely bonkers! Nevertheless, I got in it and it felt like a new car. 2006 reg with 69,000 miles on the clock, VAT included, used by one lady owner (the salesman's auntie) to tow her horses occasionally.  A bit different from a truck used daily in the mud by a farm labourer wearing his hobnailed boots.  Its size and power would mean that it wouldn't even feel a heavy trailer attached to the back, and stinky tack could go in the separate covered boot.

I was also very taken by the bloke selling it.  He was a proper professional salesman - young and nice-looking in his beach shorts and flip-flops, chatting away like we were old friends about his family (his brother won the Grand National on Seagram) sounding oddly like a cross between Ricky Gervais and that tall west country cohort of his in 'Extra's'.  

I am a complete sucker for professional sales techniques, and was particularly impressed by the clearly genuine pride he takes in his vehicles, pointing out everything that he felt wasn't 100%, such as a couple of scratches, a bald tyre, a lock, and valetting, all of which were to be sorted out the following day.

Then I went to see the Land Cruiser in Exeter. 1999 reg. It had rusty windscreen wipers, two tyres in need of pumping up, and looked old, sad and forlorn, even though it only had 99,000 miles on the clock.  The seller didnt bother to return my five phone calls and wasnt there when I arrived.

The owners of the second Sorento still havent returned any of my phone calls, but in the description it says that the low 4x4 gear light stays on.  

I reminded myself that the garage selling on my beautiful Range Rover insisted I paid for £3000 worth of work before they were prepared to display it on their forecourt. So I thought, "No, I am buying something in perfect working order from a garage which has given the car a full service and provides a three month guarantee." And went home.

Well you may remember my worry that I like people who don't like people who drive Range Rovers?

I've bought the Golden Monster.  What on earth are they going to think about that?

And needless to say it cost more than £6000.

"£5472.27 is due from you now."

That's what an innocent-looking letter I received out of the blue the other day from HM Revenue and Customs said inside it.  I mean who has over £5000 at their disposal to give to any old Tom Dick or Hannibal that asks for it, there and then?

I was so cross I decided to buy a car.

You may remember that back in the mists of time I was having a rant at the stupid tax credit system that gives well off people money for no reason?  Well now they're asking for mine back.  Fair enough in principle, but annoying because it's for an  illogical reason.

My issue with their system was that they are happy to give you £100s a month no matter how much you are receiving in maintenance from your ex.  If it's on offer, it is almost impossible to resist taking it.  Even though your ex might be a millionaire paying you £10,000s a month.  You can top this up with even more £1000s in child tax credits from the government as your maintenance payments are not taxable income.

In my case, an uncle has died and left me some money; but it's all being used to pay off inheritance duties, so I don't actually see it - yet, at any rate.  So in principle I don't receive any of that money to live off, and therefore still need assistance from the government.  In practice, perfectly obviously it has always been ridiculous for me to be eligible for government assistance in the first place.

So I'm not saying "Poor Me".  I'm simply saying "The tax credit system is really stupid and annoying, badly run, illogical, lacking in common sense, and scandalously wasteful."

Have you ever seen a fat cleaner?

Well if you have, they're not very good.

Because proper housework, in my opinion, provides as much of a workout as rowing.  That's rowing with oars rather than with voices.  I have just finished preparing Dartmeet, and I am absolutely shattered.  That's only one room!  Last Saturday I did two rooms and I still haven't recovered properly.  I got wrist strain from wiping surfaces and it hasn't gone away.

I am getting old.

I think you, my loyal readers, number about eight now.

The thing about you of particular interest to me, speaking as a marketing person, is your demographic profile.

About six months ago, after a year of searching, I finally began to find 'my voice'.  I am a sort of Bridget Clarkson hybrid - part labrador, part rottweiler.

And the end purpose of this blog (quite apart from helping with SEO-ing this website) is hopefully to one day turn it into a book aimed at women emerging financially impoverished, and emotionally wobbly, from recent relationship breakdowns, to encourage them that not all, henceforward, need necessarily be doom and gloom.

But I am speaking to a void.  OK Robert - you're not a void - simply not the audience I was targetting or expecting!

My sense is that about 70% of you are dry, clever, witty men. LOVELY!

About 10% are my friends who live abroad and want to stay in touch.

About 10% are my lovely B&B guests.

And about 10% is the Mum of my son's friend from school.  Eeek! I am absolutely chuffed to bits about this, but will have to be careful! Revered Son is not happy to be the subject of his Mum's blog...

Anyway - that adds up to nearly 100% doesn't it? And then there's that taxi company in Jaipur - better not forget them!

"Snoop Dog was fantastic," reported 15 year old Revered Son on his mobile this morning,  "but the hurricane has blown down all the floodlights, and the campsite is such chaos it looks quite funny.  The campervans are OK though."

He had saved up £180 from somewhere to join every other teenager in the south west, from the local butcher's apprentice, to good girls from safe schools, to posh cool kids from avant garde schools like my son and  his friends, to descend on the Boardmasters Festival at Watergate Bay, Newquay.  And now the second day of festivities was to be abandoned, thanks to Hurricane Bertha. 

The most interesting thing about this Festival, in my opinion, is what happens regarding sexanddrugsandrocknroll.  There had been considerable emailed  correspondence amongst the Mums of my four boys,  in advance of the Festival, working towards a united approach on alcohol consumption.

This varied from "We will impose a complete ban on any alcohol and trust them to keep to it," to "We will allow them a couple of bottles of lager and after that they will be left to their own devices as to how they are going to source anything else." 

I was responsible for delivering the boys to the site, and I reassured the Mums that I would collect them direct from the station, bring them home, and then take them straight on to the festival, so the only supplies they could have access to would be from the sheep outside, or my cellar of plonk.

The Festival organisers, we understood, had imposed a complete ban on spirits, and a maximum of 12 cans of lager per adult, and no alcohol for Under 18s.  Meanwhile the social media were alive with ruses for smuggling in booze and that ghastly NOS stuff - what us Mums are used to taking during childbirth, and it jolly well didnt make me laugh. 

Have you seen those pictures of pretty teenage girls in their LBD's breathing in and out of coloured balloons to enjoy a brief, legal, and apparently relatively safe and inexpensive high?  They look absurd.  The suppliers describe and sell the equipment as being useful to make whipped cream.  What's wrong with an egg beater?  Bonkers. 

Anyway, apparently the way you smuggle NOS into these festivals is to stuff the canisters up the hollow metal legs of your picnic chair.  Bottles are incorporated into a carved out loaf of sliced bread, and vodka in a punctured coke can re-sealed with a glue gun.  My feeling is that these adolescents are more excited about how to outwit the security men than in the taste of alcohol, or breathing in nitrous oxide.

On the way to the Festival I had to buy some croissants from Morrison's, some sausages from the butchers, and collect the laundry.  "You can all buy your lunch while I collect the croissants," I merrily trilled to my young passengers.

I reached the till.  Oooops.  What had I just done?  I'd proactively delivered the fearsome four into what to all intents and purposes was an offy!  "You see those four boys over there?" I hissed to the till assistant.  "Well they're all 15."

Hah - Got them! 

She pressed a flashing light and pointed to her badge which stated that anyone appearing under 25 would be asked for ID.  "I would have stopped them anyway," she said.  So all they came out with were some sandwiches and a packet of crisps.  Phew.

Meanwhile yesterday, after cooking breakfast for six B&Bers, clearing it all up, and then preparing rooms for six more - missing the local fete as a result - Beloved Daughter and I finally reached Widecombe to walk the show-jumping and cross country courses at about 6pm, while young Maggie plaited up the horses back home for £15, ready for today's One Day Event.  I was so tired I could hardly stand up.  How Sashka does it day after day I have no idea.

The show jumps came up to our ankles, but the cross country course was quite a different story.  Several of the jumps were too large for me to step over.  Terrifying!

Finally, as we reached the brow of the hill, having walked two miles up and down vertigious hills, a cry went up.  "It's been cancelled!"

Thank God, in a way.  Breakfast for six again this morning and I am a walking zombie.  I think three rooms, or six guests, is too many if you are operating a B&B on your own, are over 50, and trying to do anything else as well.  I have no regrets regarding my decision to restrict myself to two rooms in future.

Three rooms and it's no longer fun.

I am so nervous that I haven't been able to sleep properly for the past few nights.

I have entered Beloved Daughter vs me in a horsey competition to take place in the middle of the forecast hurricane, on top of one of the highest hills in Dartmoor just outside Widecombe, this Sunday.

I’ve booked Sally to make breakfast for our six guests, while Beloved Daughter and I rise before light to hitch up the trailer, prepare our horses, and arrive at the venue for not long after eight in the morning.

The list of other entrants has now arrived, and, as I expected, the rest of the people in our class are mostly aged nine, like Beloved Daughter’s friend, Willow, on her pony Twizzle who is very hairy and slightly smaller than a Great Dane Dog. Of 16 competitors, only three apart from me have undisclosed ages, ie old ladies who should know better. Although I did tell the organisers my age, so I wouldn’t mind at all if they’d printed it.  I think there should be a cup for the oldest combination of horse and rider, as well as one for ‘Best Under Ten’.  In fact I think I will donate one for next year’s competition.

There are three stages to the ‘One Day Event’.  We have to learn by heart, and perform a dressage test, which means walking, trotting and cantering around in circles. Beloved Daughter has never done one of these before. Then we have to jump some painted poles, which fall down if you touch them.  And finally we have to canter a mile or two around a cross country course jumping brown fences, which don’t budge however hard you hit them. In BD’s and my class, the jumps come up to your knees.

Both of our horses are big, scopey, talented and experienced professionals for grown-ups, used to jumping huge, solid, wide jumps 3'6" high from the gallop, and to doing all sorts of incredibly complicated gymnastics in dressage.  So both of them can easily manage what we are asking them to do on Sunday, with their eyes shut, asleep.

But the big question is, will they?

Trip Advisor Ranking: 5; Number Of People Reading This Diary: 6!!!!!

How exciting is that?!