Ralph McTell and Cheesewring

No, I know this doesn't look like Ralph McTell. This is the Cheesewring - see below.

I'm beginning to get that panicky feeling in my guts as I'm interviewing Ralph McTell on Friday. A few nerves are useful before an interview, I find: it means I'm not complacent (not a word in my vocabulary) and ensures that I've done all the research and preparation needed. Ralph is such a consummate musician, poet, song writer – and has been doing it for so long, I really admire him. Also he gave up smoking after 37 years – another point in his favour.

So the reason for my nerves is because I really want to do him justice. By all accounts, he is a lovely, friendly, sensitive man (as well as being hugely talented) with a family and a self deprecating sense of humour, so I'm sure it will be fine. But even so ...I only hope the poor man hasn't got interview tedium – I know he's been doing a lot over the past few weeks.

(Note to self. Do not drink cappuccino while doing interview. When I interviewed Patrick Gale, I rushed to the loo afterwards and noticed I had a chocolate moustache which must have been there throughout the entire interview. Not the kind of impression I really wanted to make.)

And now onto other things. The other week we did a walk for CT round the Cheesewring and the Hurlers on Bodmin Moor where we spent a lot of time getting lost.

Firstly, Viv's navigational skills were a bit off, so we spent a good half an hour driving round in circles before we found Minions village, where we parked. I'd read about a cave where a Mr Gumb (a mathematician and astrologer) lived with his wife and 13 children, but despite asking lots of people, who looked at us in utter comprehension, we couldn't find the cave, and arrived at the bottom of Stowe's Hill cave-less.

Then our directions told us about Rillaton Barrow, and for some reason Viv became fixated on finding it. We asked a couple who turned out to be German, but they hadn't heard of it, neither had anyone else we asked. As we neared the end of the walk, Viv became quite despondent. “I don't want to go to my death bed without having seen this Barrow,” she declared.

No sooner had she spoken, than we passed an old shed with a wheelbarrow sitting outside. “Look, there's my barrow!” she said, and walked on, somewhat mollified. When we finally made it back to the van, we collapsed and fortified ourselves with the last of the sarnies and a flask of tea that Viv had brought and sat in comfortable silence.

“It's a really nice walk,” said Viv thoughtfully, “- if you know where you're going.”