Moving on from the Med, and driving up the autoroute via the Pas de l’Escalette and the wonderful Millau Viaduct, spotting soaring vultures and buzzards as we go. The route soon takes us across country, on broad winding roads through beautiful countryside. Oaks and chestnut soon take place of the bright red and pink valerian, and glowing yellow Spanish broom. Stopping off for a bite in a layby, and reached Rodez by lunchtime. More country roads, through Figeac, the home to Champollion the translator of the Rosetta Stone, and on to my destination at Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne. This was a road I have travelled before, to a place I have been many times. And, as is becoming habitual, I’m to spend a week with Matt, Jen and the grandkids. The weather is forecast fine; in fact, a bit of a heatwave, a canicule in the local tongue.

I’m greeted by Margaux the receptionist, who arranges a pitch fairly close to the chalet the kids will be in – “Ah the other M.Bryant!” “If you find it too much, wink and I will tell you that you need to move further away!” Helpful, I thought, not that I’ll use the offer. As I’ve been on the road for ten days, it’s time for a laundry session, so a conversation about tokens, and the terms for the laundry equipment. The dryer isn’t, as I thought, le sécheur, but le sèche-linge. The washer was, however, le machine à lavage. 50% marks. Anyway, €5 a pop. Sim and Nikki, who we’ve been meeting for a while now, along with their four children, were here already; they’d been allocated a pitch three down from mine, so seeing a flash of red, had worked out I was here. We were to be joined the next day by Jon and Gill Haydock; as well as the Bryant crew; and, a pleasant surprise, by Inge and Abel from Den Haag, with their sunny little chap Floris, who still has only a couple of words of English but who still chatters away earnestly. No sign, however, of Anne-Laure and Thomas; though the family from Manchester who had the next cabin from Matt last year, (Ben and Michelle) have returned, bringing their friends too. Quite a turnout – it’s like a small village in the pool.

The week has fallen into a very gentle rhythm: after morning ablutions, I wander over to the chalet for coffee. We then decide on a visit or activity, then take lunch at a favourite watering hole: the restaurant at the Hôtel Beaulieu; on market day at the Bar des Voyageurs, known to us as the rugby bar because of the window decorations; the same outdoor bistro in Collonges, complete with thieving sparrows; and the Breton crèperie; Friday we made a reservation at Olivier and Amel’s new premises, Côté Dordogne: la p’tite Osmose. A touch smaller than the old place; it was full when we went. It was lovely to see them again, clearly enjoying the new building, with a view to die for across the main river. Trés chouette as Amel says. Big hugs and grands bisous all round.

As the thermometer here is now reading mid-30’s, time to adapt to siesta time after lunch; up to the pool after then; a bit or two, nibbles, then back to the social area so the kids can play games, and the adults imbibe a glass or two. As we hear it’s much the same at home in England. It sounds as if my front door has warped and is unopenable: at least its burglar-proof.

There is a joy in going back to somewhere we’ve been before. A comfort of the familiar (literally as well as figuratively in this case.) At Collonges, Matt and Jen were ogling over a set of rather nice steak knives, and wondering whether to buy a part set. I persuaded them that it was probably a false economy: go for it while the opportunity is there. The other time this dictum held true: Jen has been promising herself a proper swim in the river, and I had mentioned a roped off area on the inside bend somewhat upstream. She finally got to go, and was swimming in the icy mountain waters; though Lily fearless as ever, plunged in first. The principle of ‘do now or regret later’ is one I must remind myself of.

Now to return to planning the final section of the voyage, as I head north. I have a notion to take in some sights, and sites, along the Loire, and into Normandy. These pages will record how true that becomes. There’s a part of me that wonders whether going to one location for the whole holiday might be a reasonable approach too, as well as the life of der fliegender Englander. Part of the value-checking of whether this is what I want to be doing; whether the Van is the right thing; and what is best for a man of my advancing years. As Eliot wrote:

What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

In other words, just get on with it, whatever ‘it’ is!