I’m now at Camping Sainte Claire, on the edge of Neuchâtel en Bray in upper Normandy, surrounded by bridging and Dutch caravans. It was an epic journey from the Charente; seven hours including stops, but it gets me within two hours of the Tunnel in the morning. Running on Google Maps for satnav, it decided the centre of Rouen was a good idea, an opinion with which I now have issues. I’d read on the forums of [people with caravans getting stuck in low tunnels, and I now know where they mean. 2.4m is tight, as is the width, but Willma of course took it in her stride. Setting off this morning, I realised a full tank of fuel might be needed; missed the filling station and had to backtrack. This route took me through a narrow railway tunnel with barely 50mm to spare either side: navigating by bleeps from the proximity sensors.

Since the last post back in Beaulieu, I have been meeting friends: a 4 hour trip took me up to near Niort, where Mike and Jan have been living for twenty years, having had successful careers as teachers and related stuff. Mike had lived on the same staircase back at college, and without realising it had been something of a mentor, introducing me to folk rock, solid state HiFi, and the magnetic social appeal of electric coffee percolators. He used to organise some of the concerts there, and I recall helping with at least one. Jan was at the neighbouring college studying Physical Education, and was (is) deeply into tennis. This was the weekend of the Roland Garros finals; she interspersed being a marvellous hostess with disappearing to watch critical points. We all understood. Mike and I hadn’t seen each other for 53 years; so it was with some trepidation I accepted their invitation to stay. Their hospitality was embarrassingly generous.

Their house was a hive of meetings and dinners; though the first night was a lasagne; with the wine consumed, and the travelling, it didn’t sit well overnight. I wasn’t used to proper meals! Their near neighbours François & Philippe, who were Belgian; and Jeanette, who was Dutch, shared one meal: I met Jeanette’s husband Ton (Antony) later – he was on day release from hospital, and I gather didn’t enjoy being a patient. The conversation, well lubricated by Mike’s cellar, flowed in several languages. Jan, who’d been a TEFL teacher at one point, (and a parish councillor for the village) was kept busy filling in bits of missing languages. The bits in Dutch were tricky, though I found I was picking out some words. And I could hear it was words rather than noise. And on the last night David and Bunny, with their dog Barclay, came over. We sampled M.Mutin’s finest, and I showed them Willma’s workings. They’d not long since been of a trek into the Atlas Mountains, sleeping in their 4×4 VW Touareg, appropriately.

There were day trips too: to Niort, where there’s a large market, and a castle donjon built by Henry II Plantagenet. And Mike took me on a trip to an artisan cognac distillery, 40 minutes away, where he was buying a stock for himself, and for Jeanette. I may have bought some 20-year-old for myself. The cash price seemed quite good, given the quality of the product. On Sunday we went to their favourite restaurant, with another local resident named Jane; as a non-drinker she volunteered to drive. I must confess to flirting a bit.

With a house about half an hour away, my nephew Adam and his partner Julie were the next call. THey’d only arrived at 3am after Adam’s triathlon in Chantilly; so we met up for a lovely bistro lunch in the village. Their cottage is a bit of a project, with lots of potential; but they’d been let down on the loan of a van. Consequently there was no spare bed. Of course I carry my own, so no problem. Trying toward of the logistics of fitting a new kitchen worktop, with the intricacies of French wiring, turned Ito quite an exercise. I hope I didn’t muddle the waters too much.

I realised this post isn’t quite complete. Why the title? Everywhere I went, I was struck by the scent of the lime tree, or linden. In Beaulieu, had a conversation with the manager who happened to be passing, because I couldn’t remember the word for the tree in French, Tilleul. we had a conversation about using the flowers as a tea; and I was given her authorisation to make as much as I wanted. And all the way up, there was theme about renovation using the beautiful sandy limestone of the Charente, a bit like Cotswold stone. And linden trees, scenting the air with their delicate perfume.