I was woken by rain on Willma’s roof last night. This morning, the weather has changed, from the rather nice warm spell, to overcast skies, and wind blowing the yellow leaves of Autumn from the trees. The mood was fitting; today is the first anniversary of Rosie passing away, and becoming free from the illness which had settled on her life. The sadness is there, more for her than me this time: Facebook continues to resurrect images from our holidays together, bittersweet memories. Driving to my next stop, Hania Rani’s melancholy arpeggios made a fitting accompaniment to the mood. Dreamy. From On Giacometti, by Hania Rani. At one point, I fantasised Rosie was next to me, which in a sense she is, I suppose. Still getting used to travelling solo, and explaining the reason why to fellow campers that enquire; and getting good at moving the conversation on from condolences.

I’m not sure whether it was displacement activity, but I found myself getting cross at the poor maintenance of facilities at the last campsite. I went and had a chat with the young woman at the desk, just to make sure that responsibility lay with the municipality, and not them. On that basis, I composed a critical missive, and sent it for the attention of the deputy mayor with responsibility for culture and international affairs, pointing out it didn’t give a good impression, coming to an international festival and having to take a torch to the toilet after dark. I listed the other faults for good measure: if I’m going to be a grumpy old camper, might as well go for it. My shower this morning once again tricked me: hot, cold, hot again. I packed up and left. I’ve done what I can. Found a jet wash to get the mud off Wilma’s panels, then hit the road for Cambrai. I found an Auchan supermarket about halfway, and did some stocking up.

Cambrai is a town most known for making fine linen: in Scarborough Fair, the loved one is tasked with making a cambric shirt without thread or needlework. I passed a factory shop on the way in, offering bed linen. It’s in Flanders, so I shouldn’t have been surprised by the CWGC cemetery just outside either. Nor by the muddiness of the pitches, and the warden’s caution to park nose out to save getting bogged down. There’s a good art gallery and museum here, I’m looking forward to visiting, and a little wander round the town.

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Looking through my files for something else, I found this poem I’d saved. It’s by the famous anthropologist Margaret Mead. One forgets that experts have lives too. Seems like a good day to share it.

“To the living, I am gone,
To the sorrowful, I will never return,
To the angry, I was cheated,
But to the happy, I am at peace,
And to the faithful, I have never left.

I cannot speak, but I can listen.
I cannot be seen, but I can be heard.
So as you stand upon a shore gazing at a beautiful sea,
As you look upon a flower and admire its simplicity,
Remember me.

Remember me in your heart:
Your thoughts, and your memories,
Of the times we loved,
The times we cried,
The times we fought,
The times we laughed.
For if you always think of me, I will never have gone.”

So tonight, I’ll raise a glass to my girl, who will never be gone from me,