We’ve experienced some sweltering temperatures in recent weeks, and where better to enjoy them than in Kernow?

That’s apparently what musical megastar Dua Lipa thought. The Glastonbury headliner “photo-dumped” her holiday snaps on Instagram, posing in front of St Michael’s Mount, delighting the owners of a beach café in Marazion, eating baked spuds topped with caviar and enjoying tropical weather in Treen.

If only we had known. Daughter would have imploded at the idea of bumping into a pop goddess on her very doorstep. The prospect is almost as phenomenal as Taylor Swift visiting St Ives (but not quite).

I wondered if these ladies had to travel with an entourage – such as burly security to protect them in the event of being spotted, while simultaneously drawing attention to them.

In fact, Taytay has so far managed to evade recognition by way of classic disguises - hats, wigs, dark glasses etc - despite arriving by noisy private jet, which I dare say is de rigueur in St Ives these days.

She has also been known to sneak into hotels and even concerts hidden in suitcases or among cleaning materials. The mind boggles at the idea of a spangled superstar climbing out of something resembling a wheelie bin.

I have also been travelling. My own journey upcountry was certainly more wheelie bin than private jet.

I made my way north by train, days after the ombudsman had reluctantly agreed to allow Crosscountry to tweak its timetable, enabling the beleaguered company to provide a reduced service that by means of sorcery promised to be “better” at the same time as “lesser”.

It’s at times like this I realise that living so far west is simultaneously a privilege and a curse, the principal pitfall being that whenever you want to go anywhere, you are committing to a quest worthy of an Antarctic explorer.

How long will it take? Three hours by car, and you are still in the South West. A recent nail-biting journey to a festival in east Devon saw us stuck behind every tractor in Cornwall, and stationary traffic on the M5. We made it to our gig (the magnificent Steeleye Span) by the skin of our teeth.

Will the trains be running? How busy will they be? If one is cancelled, what impact will that have on the rest of the journey?

I found myself on a service to Edinburgh, ticket bought on the hoof for £217. Yikes. The lovely lady at the counter in Truro saved me £20, making me thankful the campaign to save our ticket offices was so successful.

There were just four carriages for a destination that would take nine hours and pass through several major population hubs. The ad hoc nature of my trip meant I had no reservation, meaning I risked playing seat ping-pong or sitting outside the toilet for seven hours; I was fortunate to find a seat each way, and even a table – the holy grail – on my return.

Like the most practised of parents, even without a child in tow, I made sure to take enough snacks and engaging activities to last the day. I bought wireless Bluetooth earbuds and downloaded all the comedies no one else in the family wants to watch (Detectorists, Colin From Accounts, We Are Lady Parts) and the Proms concerts only I want to hear (King’s Singers, Sarah Vaughan).

I pledged to complete 1,001 work assignments (unrealistic) and packed a book, which remained unread thanks to a very nice lady who got on at Birmingham and chatted all the way to Doncaster.

Just as hanging the washing or putting the rabbits out brings on the rain, so me leaving Cornwall guarantees the beach weather Daughter was craving. As I was wondering whether it was possible to fry an egg on the platform at Donny, Daughter was frolicking in the cerulean waters of Gerrans Bay.

Special thanks to my mother-in-law for assuming embarrassment duties in my absence, by paddling sans culottes in the sea and merrily displaying her (not-so) smalls to the assembled beach-goers. Brava!

On the Humber Bank, the temperatures were a good 10 degrees higher than in Cornwall, the waters commensurately less appealing. Everyone huffed and puffed, stripped and sweated. “It’s too hot,” they said as one, proving yet again that we Brits are never happier than when complaining about the weather.

Should I “photo-dump” on social media? Haddock and chips is not exactly caviar on jackets – in fact, it’s better. Instagram, here I come...

During my break, Kernow sent me little calling cards, most notably the Davy lamp used by French swimmer Leon Marchand to carry the Olympic flame at the closing ceremony in Paris. I’d no idea Sir Humphry’s invention (or modern variations) had been used so extensively in torch relays over the years. Splann!