Polar porridge...

with dried cherries, nuts and seeds.

Sir Ranulph Fiennes-like I prepare to

battle out into the Artic tundra.

At the castle I'll wander lonely as a cloud,

not many hardy visitors will think to brave the cold, cold day.

Intrepidly I venture forth alone; no old hand to clasp the new girl's mitt.

 With no experience of where to shelter out of the snowy wind, the 

five hours will seem so long.  I'll need the

Wimps Help-line programmed into my phone.

 Moving to keep warm, I'll manfully stride out along the moat, around the castle, up the hill, down through the quarry garden, back and round.

I can at least take comfort from the fact, the room stewards are just as cold in the cavernous house, without the benefit of fresh air or the ability to move very far.

I may be gone some time.