With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

From Little Gidding, part of Four Quartets, TS Eliot.

As this journey, this grand adventure, draws towards its conclusion; and as I’m sat with the door open looking out across the waters of the pond on a sunny June afternoon, I’m starting to ponder what I’ve learned from nearly five weeks, and 3000 miles. My first night was at the cider farm; I’m sat with a small glass of the Calvados now, hence the Eliot quote.

But first, I have to tell you about the Castle of Guédelon. Inevitably, given the way my brain works, French castles bring Monty Python to mind; but knowing the ribald nature of my unconscious, I kept it under control. In a moment of levity, I did promise the ticket clerk not to invade, as an Englishman abroad. Raised a little smile, but then it was a weak, if not obscure, joke. There are some places or events where I find myself carrying a bit of a permanent smile – it was true at Les Machines de l’Île, and it happened here.

My prior mental picture was a few people in medieval garb, and a few visitors wandering about. In the event, there was a huge car park; overspill for motorhomes, and about ten coach loads of schoolchildren, from Paris and elsewhere. I asked one of the attendants, and there are about forty craftspeople, and another eighty or so manning the cafes, gift shops, stewarding, and the like.

There were lectures and workshops everywhere, and stonemasons, carpenters, blacksmiths; carters and horse-tenders, paint makers and dyers; quarrymen and women, builders up on the battlements, and bakers using their own milled flour to make wholemeal loaves. The place was a hive of industry. And I was free to roam pretty much at will, up to 5he donkeys, the cart horses ( one Percheron and three Comté); a small flock of Ouessant sheep. The sign said they were kept for meat, for wool, and for making parchment from. I don’t believe they could read.

All in all it was a morning, and lunchtime well spent. Which brings me to my first conclusion: I like history, and in particular experimental archaeology. I must do more: Butser Ancient Farm in West Sussex, has been on my radar for a while now, and the Weald and Downland museum looks good too.

Next, flora and fauna; birds in particular. I was woken by the call of the cuckoo this morning, and went on a bit of a hunt, to please my friend at Altillac. No joy with the visuals, but I was visited just now, quite unexpectedly, by a hoopoe! What with nightingales, serins, noisy blackcaps, and orioles, this has been a cracking trip.

Next, I like travelling, love the camper, and have developed faith in the kindness of strangers. I wasn’t sure what it would be like without Rosie’s companionship, and there were times I could feel her doubts – “Are you sure you want to do that?” And visiting so many of our favourite haunts, it does feel as if she, or the part of her in me, can rest easy, it’s OK now. There was a recent article in the Guardian (20th May) about grief, from Moya Sarner, a psychologist who’d lost a relative. “Grief is horrible – but it’s supposed to be. We have to feel a loss before we can grow through it. I’ve been a bereavement counsellor and a bereaved daughter. Both taught me that we need to face our emotions.” And I have lived that, as you will have seen from the blog, if you stuck with it all the way.

Matthew says he had a chat with Ryszard, where they had discussed my journey. “He’ll either hate it and flog the van as soon as he comes home; or he’ll be off and you’ll rarely see him!” Of the two, I’m closer to the second so far; still learning how to be a campervanner, but know more than I did. The van, also, is getting some very admiring looks from the French, even a thumbs up today! They don’t seem to do ‘pimping up’ over here, so the big wheels, the side bars, the front spoiler, and the blackout windows are a curiosity.