It’s now nearly a month since returning home from the Great Journey, and time to fill in a few blanks. Firstly, I loaned Willma to our Matthew to go to the F1 Grand Prix. A strange feeling of loss overcame me for the weekend, so attached had I become to her. He, and she, returned nearly unscathed; Matt is now a convert to the camper (his wife Jen remains sceptical). Next, our Jennie has got engaged to Paul. I have never seen her so happy, so blessings on them both. The two families joined up for drinks yesterday, a joyous occasion. And Jen’s mom and niece came over from the States, great fun. I had the privilege of showing them my favourite part of London, the walk from Tower Bridge along the South Bank to Borough Market and on to Tate Modern.

And of course, as expected, I got roped in to the General Election campaign, where I seemed to become the candidate’s media manager: making videos, and getting the Labour website up to date. The surprise election was a shock, seemingly most of all to those that called it. I’d forgotten that two of the modules on my MA course ended up being creating a website in WordPress, and in a study of street performance. Worthwhile then.

Among the excitement my mind drifted back to things that I hadn’t, for one reason or another, included in the chronology of the blog, either for aesthetic reasons, or just plain absentmindedness. Like the image from the journey to Conques, where rounding a corner I came across a waterfall gushing out seemingly in the middle of a village, like a detail in a corner of a Heironymus Bosch painting. It was an image I’d hoped to capture with the dashcam: in short, didn’t happen. It was an almost mystical moment, because unexpected.

Mostly the itinerary went pretty much as planned; mostly to make sure the laundry was done. An early variation was missing out a visit to the beach from M.Hulot’s Holiday at St Marc, near St.Nazaire. I had planned to stop off at an aire near the beach. Next to it was a naturist beach, and I’d contemplated a bit of skinny dipping and sunbathing. But to be honest, the temperature was more suitable for thick jumpers and cagoules – not because of the shrinkage effect of cold weather, but to avoid hypothermia. Neither was the Med much better.

For some reason, the idea of public exposure divided family and friends, with some being somewhat aghast at the idea, while others got it. While I can’t deny a mild erotic charge in the thought, mostly I’m convinced by the naturist arguments for honesty, openness and personal freedom. I occasionally do my morning Pilates session unclothed, and there is a difference. Getting away from ideas of voyeurism and exhibitionism, and I’m of an age where I’m quite neutral in my attitude to body image: I’m 73 this year, with all that implies. My mind was put at rest by Sarah from Féricy, who had studied at Art School. As she said, in artistic circles it was taken as read that the naked body was an object of study; she had been a life model, and had drawn others. Backstage in my former life I had witnessed nudity, and had to manage modesty arrangements in rehearsal. The question I was asking of myself, which I have yet to answer, is what it means to one’s psychic state, not how the externals appear.

As a child growing up in the sixties, I was party to the spirit of hippydom, though just too young to be on the first wave. Dammit, I’ve bought a VW campervan! Still living the dream. This weekend I’m off to a music festival: WOMAD, the world of music and dance, taking Willma for my first real offgrid stay. I’m not expecting a Woodstock experience, things are more organised, and sanitised, now.