I meant, but due to events, never got around to, write a few words about the music festival that takes place here each year. It’s become an annual ritual to attend the three-day event and although I love music, seeing many live performances over time, it’s the only festival apart from The Isle of Wight in 1969 that I’ve been to. Not that I was put off by that experience, it was something, for one reason or another, until recently that is, that was never destined be repeated.

My memories of Dylan and The Band’s appearance in that field at Wootton way back when, are a little dim now. We made the trip over from Portsmouth on a paddle steamer, that I do recall. I have a recollection of walking to the site in a straggling raggle taggle procession and once there, thinking that the vast gathering was like some medieval army, at rest before a battle, with groups of comrades huddled together under wind-whipped banners - make-shift flags raised to mark a place in the crowd - for without that marker, friends could be lost and misplaced for hours, days, maybe even for ever.

The picture I carry of Dylan’s performance is of a stage, some quarter-of-a-mile distant, glowing in the fading dusk light, and a tiny figure, dressed head-to-toe in white, shining like some returned messiah: At least, that’s how he had been hailed by many at the time. He sang many of his familiar songs in an unfamiliar way, changing the arrangements and tempo, so that you found yourself listening hard for the clues that may lead to a song’s identity. This was something that performers didn’t really do back then, content to churn out their best loved works note for note, delivered to expectant and adoring fans who were there to pay homage and not to be challenged in such a way.

But Bob had not dragged himself from live performance exile and travelled three thousand miles merely to please by repeating past glories. He had come to move things on, for the sake of himself and his audience. In his own words: It's easy to see without looking too far that not much is really sacred. And that included his own songs, for which treason, some never forgave him. ‘Judas’ one such forsaken disciple had famously cried out a few years before, when Dylan cast aside acoustic ‘folk’ and dared to surround himself with those playing the devil’s music on electric guitars.

Since those halcyon days, my encounters with live events were confined to the great indoors, venues with ceilings, so depriving myself the opportunity to lay back and count the stars as the music washed over me. This all changed when festivals got local.

It started small. Billed as a ‘Folk and Blues Festival’, a mild deceit contrived to calm any hostile opposition from nearby residents and the local authority, too easily spooked by the spectre of rock music and worse, it has long since cast off any pretence and is way past the point of no return. That is, as long as the many rules, regulations, acts, laws, edicts, commandments, are not breached or broken. Not easy in this age of never ending legislation, but so far, successfully achieved.

Known as ‘the friendly festival’, its demographic is broad. It will never rival Glastonbury, Reading, or T in the Park, either in numbers attending or artists performing. It is now regularly sponsored by Radio 2, which sums up its appeal. The headlining acts are established, and guaranteed to please. There’s something there for everyone, except those at the sharp end of musical tastes. But that’s okay; no-one’s forced to go along. But go along we do, happy to be entertained, in increasing numbers with each year that passes.

The second stage, that reserved for the up and coming, niche and solo acts, is where most of my time is spent. This year I witnessed a blistering turn by Richard Thompson. His guitar playing was staggering enough, but coupled with the vocal rendition of his self-penned songs, it was hard to believe that this was a man alone on the stage. He swept up the watching crowd with the first few chords and held them fast, transporting each of us through an hours worth of flawless artistry that jumped straight into the top end of my ‘best ever’ chart with a bullet. Right up there with the Who at the LCP, Hendrix at Chatham Town Hall, Zeppelin at the Royal Albert Hall, Ry Cooder at…? someplace, Paul Weller at Guildford Civic and Arthur Lee’s Love at this very festival three years ago. There are others that with a moment’s pause I could add, but you get the drift.

Last year on the same stage, I was thrilled to see Chuck Prophet: Admittedly not a household name, but a firm favourite of mine nonetheless. And this is the point. The opportunity of seeing those that have only been known on a recording as well as those, that hitherto, have been unknown. All within walking distance of my own front door.

Close second to the music, occasionally eclipsing it, are the people that constitute the audience. Many, myself included, are unremarkable: Ordinary folk who turn up and outwardly at least, appear to bear no signs of extreme eccentricity, abnormal behaviour or questionable habits. Others however are exceptions to this.

First, there are the big hairy men with shaved heads and tattoos, most likely in the building trade or a job that constitutes hard manual labour, that appear to have an irrepressible urge to toss aside conventional clothing and turn up dressed as Tinkerbelle. But although they dress as fairies, it would take a brave and foolish observer to address them as such: Then again, maybe not. He that dresses as a fairy IS a fairy: If only for a day.

Then there are the weekend hippies. This is most evident in males. It’s the regulation corporate office hairstyle that gives them away. Females in the same situation can get away with keeping their hair long, but the fellas have to tow the company line. This can go unnoticed in standard weekend casual attire, but slip into a tie-dye and pull on a pair of paisley loons and the game’s up. Of course, there is always the option of flippity, floppity hat to cover the evidence and there are certainly silly hats a-plenty on view. Everything from home-knitted rainbow bobbles to the three-foot high wizard king. But however successful the disguise, I guess if a man has to spend the week trussed up in a suit, collar and tie and black brogues it fulfils some otherwise dormant inner need to break out the bells, beads and corduroy and trip along dressed as Donovan in his mellow yellow period.

My favourite character is the one known as Moses. Well, that’s what I call him. Not that I’ve ever spoken to him you understand, but looking the way he does, he surely can’t be a Nigel or Terry. A man senior in years, he strides around the site resplendent in multi-coloured flowing robes, snow-white flowing hair and matching beard, carrying a staff topped with a skull, its ruby eyes a-flashing. Always a sweet smile on his weather beaten face, he radiates peace and love to all who fall within his kindly gaze. Every year I look out for him and, sure enough, there he is, beaming good vibrations back at me. And long may he continue to do so.

Moses falls into the category of semi-professional festival goers. This being the only such gathering I attend, I have no proof of this, but I’m sure that if I were to do the summer circuit I would see familiar faces turning up from Scotland to Cornwall. You just know this is so. But the big question is, do the Lord of the Rings costumes ever come off? When back in their winter quarters, do these men and women put away their amazing Technicolor dream life and rejoin us mere earthlings, or dive deeper into the wardrobe and dust of the wolf and bear skins for the stroll down to Tesco’s? I like to think they do. In the meantime, may the force go with you, you brothers and sisters of Albion. Or is it Rovers?

Waking early, the sun was rising above the houses opposite and filling eastward facing rooms with blazing orange light. I got out of bed and went downstairs. Filling the kettle at the sink, the sky was clear through the kitchen window. I took my cup of steaming tea into the garden and walked through the wet grass, the moisture droplets shining like pearls.

I had spent time working in the studio over the past week and needed to clear up. After completing a job, the act of making good the disruption marks the end of the process, restoring the status quo; the rubbish cleared, materials and tools returned to their rightful place where they will remain, ready for the next task.

This done, I sat for a while and watched the pale sky turn darker as the sun rose higher, illuminating the leaves on surrounding trees and hedges which barely stirred in the still air. In the constant forward rush of life such moments are all too rare: Taking time to simply sit and watch as events unfold, with no thought or motive in mind, just being there reason enough.

Since my pratfall last week I’ve been incommunicado. Well, indoors mostly. But the scars are healing, slowly but surely. The lips gone down, which is good from a comfort factor, trouble is, the chipped tooth is now visible.

Once the last of the bruising is gone I’ll make an appointment with Terry, my dentist, to assess the damage. Most of that will be to my wallet no doubt. No, he’s a good guy and will always give me a straight Aussie solution to any tooth problems with no unnecessary treatment or cost.

I’ve spent most of the day assembling photographs and assorted items for a job I’m currently working on. Suffered a certain amount of frustration in failing to find the ideal picture. I know it’s around somewhere, stuffed into one of the numerous envelopes I have around the place, but can I find it? No. Naturally. It will no doubt turn up when I’m looking for something else I won’t find in about three months time. Too late of course. Although I did find some pretty good substitutes that I wasn’t expecting to discover, so I’m trying to remain philosophical about it - whatever that means. Isn’t it sitting in some dingy café on the left bank, drinking absinthe and smoking a million Gauloises while gazing moodily into the middle distance, talking a great deal and shrugging a lot? Problem is, any left bank around these parts is likely to be under four feet of water.

But, as Scarlett O’Hara once said, tomorrow is another day. And who knows, maybe the rain will have stopped, the sun will be shining and that photograph will turn up.

On Thursday evening, on my way to the station after a day in London, I attempted to plough a furrow into the Farringdon Road with my face. One second I was up, the next, down in the gutter, dripping blood.

I was quickly surrounded by people offering help and led to some nearby steps. A young man in a red baseball cap stayed with me until I convinced him that I was not concussed. Two young women also stopped and asked if I was OK: So much for people in the capital passing by on the other side.

I managed to make it home, staying in the vestibule on the train rather than scare the other passengers with my bloody, rapidly swelling face and mud-stained clothing. I looked like I’d done two rounds with Jake LaMotta. Still do.

The damage? One chipped front tooth – expensive; one badly grazed and swollen cheekbone; one cut eyebrow; a cut and grazed nose – not painful enough to be broken, at least I don’t think so; a fat and very sore top lip; two skinned knees. The absence of damage to my hands suggests I didn’t manage to break the fall. My face confirms it.

I haven’t had a lip this size since childhood scraps when such battle scars were carried with a certain pride. Now, I just feel like the fall guy. But you should see that kerbstone.

We took our seats on the ferry on a bright, sunlit evening in anticipation of the hour’s hop from Boulogne to Dover. After the constant driving of the past two days, an hour’s break from being behind the wheel would be welcomed. But closing my eyes, I became aware of the conversation going on two rows behind: The volume made sure of that.

I had spotted a couple there as we sat down. Both late middle aged, she, large - resembling the surviving member of the two fat ladies cooking duo, as featured on TV a few years back – he, not so large, resembling no-one of note, balding, glasses. They were discussing their trip. Impossible to ignore, their conversation sounded as if it had been scripted, with none of the asides and gaps for thought that are the mark of normal exchanges. The more I listened, the more it sounded as if the dialogue was being staged for our benefit. It was a performance and unless we chose to move, we were the captive audience.

‘So, what was your favourite place of the trip’, he asked, and not waiting for an answer went on, ‘mine would have to be Riga I think’.

‘Yeees, I think I would concur’, she boomed, jumping in, interrupting what was destined to become a monologue. There followed a review of the delights of the Latvian capital as if being read from a column in the Telegraph travel section. There was more.

‘… and that meal in Dubrovnik was simply one of the best ever…indeed, to die for’.

Well, possibly not, as they were still both very much undead. I wonder if their travels had taken them to Transylvania? No, they would have been sure to have met a count in some isolated castle and we would have certainly heard all about it.

Not to be granted a moment’s peace, once the review was complete, they went on to speculate on the merits of places they had never visited - and why. Florida – full of geriatrics; Vietnam, Cambodia – too hot and sticky and so on, until a sudden surge of fatigue, probably brought on by the gentle roll of the giant catamaran that was our ferry, mercifully silenced them.

In no time and with a magnificent sunset blazing across the stormy sky, we were slipping into Dover harbour. After a tricky reverse manoeuvre on the crowded car deck we were once again on terra firma an hour-and-a-half’s motoring from home. ‘Drive on the left, drive on the left’, I mouthed silently as we approached the first roundabout. Five miles down the road, the back of a Polish lorry filling my windscreen as we inched forward in a roadwork’s jam, my mind drifted to the recently trumpeted attractions of Riga. Next year maybe?

Anyone who was young in the 60’s and 70’s and wasn’t walking around with their head in a cardboard box (metaphorically speaking of course, although, come on, there are probably a few of you out there who actually were), would have, at some point been aware of the work of Robert Crumb, the American comic book artist.

Crumb created the original ‘Keep on truckin’‘image that was turned into posters and graced the walls of many counter-culture bedsits around the globe. He was also the creator and illustrator of such characters as Fritz The Cat, Mr Natural and Devil Girl. He burst upon the scene at the time when the tune in, turn on, drop out generation was beginning to explore alternative lifestyles and his cartoon characters came to represent all that the hippy movement stood for. Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll featured large in Crumb’s work.

Large too were some of the characters he drew, especially the women. Crumb liked his women BIG. BIG legs, BIG lips, BIG hands, BIG bottoms, BIG t… well, you can guess the rest. But Crumb himself is a weedy specimen, a kind of Woody Allen of comics. He sometimes depicts himself in his cartoons, always a geek, with specs, large nose, scrawny neck, round shoulders, often with a trademark battered trilby perched on his head as he plays out his sexual fantasies on the page, inevitably controlled and dominated by BIG women.

Crumb now lives in the south of France in a small medieval town in the hills north of Montpellier. His interest in politics seems not to have waned and he supports and contributes his graphic skills to local causes. When we visited his work could be seen on posters fighting plans to build a supermarket on the edge of town.

The friends who took us had met Crumb a couple of times socially as part of a larger group and were unimpressed: Aloof and off-hand they thought. His wife though, they found charming. She too is an illustrator and they often combine their talents in the same comic strip. She also takes aerobics classes in town – posters courtesy of hubby can be seen pinned to the door of their house as well as assorted shop windows around and about.

Whatever he’s like in person - and let’s face it, to have talent does not automatically guarantee nice – I’ve always admired his work and will admit to a mild flush of hero worship as we passed his front door. Fortunately my admiration was not put to the test, as he didn’t suddenly appear in order to pop along to the corner shop to stock up on comestibles for his tea. As I’ve said before, it’s not always good to meet your heroes.

I’ve never been great one for lunch. When I was younger it was never called ‘lunch’ anyhow. Lunch was dinner. And dinner was tea. Then, if you were peckish before bedtime you had supper. This was one of the many class divides back then. It separated the working class from the middle class. Working class – dinner. Middle class – lunch. But then if you were upper class – and I’m talking aristocracy here, not new money – lunch was lunch, but dinner could be supper. What a complicated life we led. Today though, lunch is usually referred to as just that, at least down here in the southeast corner it is, the rest of the country will no doubt go on calling it whatever it likes. Probably lunch.

Anyway, since I began work back in the 60’s, lunch for me has tended to consist of something light – a sandwich or something similar. Although the choice today is spectacular compared to those far-off days. Then, it was cheese and pickle on white, a ham roll, or if you fancied something really exotic, tinned salmon and cucumber, on brown if you could get it. Today there are ingredients in sandwiches and the like that we’d not heard of let alone eaten between two slices of Mother’s Pride or a soft white roll. That’s another thing. Today’s choice of bread and wrappings would have left us confused and baffled. Yes, lunch has come a long way since it was dinner, which now of course has replaced tea, but due to our commuting habits and long working hours, is often taken much later.

That’s another thing about lunch. More likely as not it’s now taken in front of a computer screen. Not that this is a good thing. Workers should try to get out for their allotted hour (or less), walk a bit, and take some fresh air. But today’s pressures in the workplace mean that more people grab a bite and work through. Except those who work in advertising and director ‘fat cats’ that is. Well someone’s got keep the restaurants of this country in business.

Now – in France it’s a different story. At least in the parts we visited it is. Around 1 pm the streets of towns and villages empty. It’s like the opening scene of ’24 Hours Later’. At 12.45 there are traffic jams as people hit the streets in the rush to get to their favourite eatery. There they will stay for two hours, enjoying three courses of well-cooked food. They are not prepared to accept less than excellent. Yes, there has been an unwelcome invasion of U.S. based fast food joints in recent years, but these are mainly frequented by the young, who, let’s face it no nothing of life or what’s good for them. Those that know better continue to keep up the cherished French tradition of lunch.

So, when in Rome - which of course is in Italy, but you know what I mean - we enjoyed at least three excellent lunches in the French manner, all magnificent in different ways. The most surprising was taken en route from Gordon’s place near Limoge to Ruth and Neal’s an hour north of Montpellier. We breezed into a small town who’s name escapes me, around 1.30-ish, so naturally the population were all inside lunching, the streets deserted. We spotted an auberge on our way to park and walked back to investigate, as by now the effects of the grand pain au chocolat we had for breakfast had long since worn off. The menu was unfathomable for our sadly inadequate French and a little pricey so we decided to try a café close to where we’d parked the car.

On entering we quickly saw that the place was full of locals, mostly men, enjoying their mid-day repast, tucking in with gusto while engaging in the animated conversation of those that knew each other well. The smiling patron showed us to a table, where almost before our bottoms had hit the chair, there arrived a large bottle of water and red wine. The waitress explained that it was a three course set lunch costing 10 Euros. Fine we said, bring it on. There followed a well presented and beautifully cooked lunch that we consumed with enthusiasm. Throughout we were moved to congratulate ourselves on our good fortune in skipping the auberge and finding this little gem.

At around 2.30 the lunching workers took their leave after jolly banter with the staff, much shaking of hands and no doubt, ‘see you tomorrow’s’ to other members of the lunch club. As they put on jackets and gathered together possessions it became obvious that their occupations ranged from the local street cleaner with his high vis’ clothing to business men in ties carrying brief cases. But at lunch, they all sat down together, enjoying the shared experience, equal in the food they ate and the price they paid. For two hours, we were happy to be part of it and will remember that lunch for a long while.

We set off around 3 pm, with Sue quickly falling asleep as she had consumed most of the red wine - I was driving - but got nowhere close to the bottom of the bottle which is just as well, as dinner, and more wine, was a mere five hours drive away.

On the road heading south we passed a car displaying a GB sticker with a bed strapped to the roof. Could it be that the driver could only get a good night’s rest in his own bed and so was left with no option other than to take it with him on his travels?

He must have left home in a hurry, as he hadn’t bothered to protect his cargo from the elements. But then again, maybe he didn’t need to take such precautions. It could have been a waterbed.

Passing through the rolling hills of the Somme Valley with its farms, dense woods, and neat compact villages, all under a wide, wide sky with a distant horizon that stretches so far you can imagine the curve of the earth, my thoughts turn back to the battles that raged there getting on for a hundred years ago. Speeding along the autoroute, the minutes and miles on the clock flying by, it’s hard to imagine that each yard of ground gained or lost claimed so many young lives in so short a time.

Now the land has healed. On the surface there is little to show that such a terrible fury was sent down upon these fields and copses, turning it into hell on earth. But beneath the surface, scrape a shallow groove with a boot heel or ploughshare and there is the evidence of carnage: Rusting metal and the bones of the lost in a tangle of rotting wire, taking their time to turn to dust. In the meantime, we that never knew those who rest there will remember them as we journey on.

Motos (motorcycles to us in the UK) are the scourge of French villages: One French village in particular. I know, because I was there; although I suspect that this is probably a phenomenon that occurs throughout the region, the country, across Europe and possibly around the entire globe.

I refer to young men’s obsession with tearing up the streets on noisy motorcycles at all hours of the day and night, with little or no regard for the long-suffering residents. Truth is, the intention is to deliberately set out to make lives a misery. It’s a 21st century rite of passage, a fertility ritual - the noisier the machine, the bigger the dick. Well, that’s the implication, if not the reality.

In the UK, the most recent incarnation are the ‘scooter boys’, adolescents who roar around with crash helmets perched uselessly on top of their heads as their wrists massage the throttle for maximum aggravation, mimicking an action that perfectly describes what they are. But the motopsycho kings have to be the youths who live in warmer Mediterranean climes. No-one is more addicted the screaming whine of a tortured, revving engine as those southern boys.

Admittedly, in small French villages scattered throughout the hillsides, with school out for summer and high youth unemployment, there is precious little for lads bursting with testosterone to do, other than practice wheelies and race each other up and down the same dusty stretch of road day after day, night after night. It’s gone on since the internal combustion engine first appeared and will continue until the last drop of gasoline is ignited to make one final spark. But what then?

If quieter electric motors replace the petrol engine, manufacturers of motorcycles will probably find a computer generated way to sample and recreate the sound, in much the same way that the gutsy, popping roar of an old-style European sports car has been artificially copied and installed in new models by Japanese carmakers.

At the end of the day, the boys need noise to impress the girls, each other, and piss-off the older generation. With profits to be made, who is going to deny them that age-old tradition?

France. One thing is certain. It’s big. From the prairie-like, far-seeing land of the north, with its big open skies, down through the sparsely populated, verdant, thickly wooded centre, to the sun-bleached, herb scented south, organic villages rising and clinging to the rocky landscape like the fortresses they once were: This, without mention of the lanes, ancient twisted trees and morning mists of Normandy or the high snow-capped mountains and ski slopes in the east. No wonder that many inhabitants of our own crowded little island find the siren call of La Belle France difficult to resist, when, with a skip and a jump, the Channel is crossed and her many voluptuous charms lay in wait, aromatic breezes whispering sweet Gallic nothings into willing English ears.

But it’s not for everyone is France. For some, well… it’s frankly just too French. Because when in France, unlike some countries, its people cannot be ignored. They’re not like the Spanish for instance, who, on the whole, appear to have perfected the skill of becoming almost invisible to the thousands of tourists that touch down within their country’s borders each year. They move in the shadows, quietly going about their business, much of which involves silently and skilfully relieving willing holidaymakers of their cash and in return providing them with the kind of holiday they want, with no awkward questions asked by a demanding and conspicuous population. But France is firstly for the French and if you don’t like, well, you can just f…f…f… franglaise off back to from whence you came. Fair enough. It's their country.

So it is, that for many ros’ boeuf, a lightening raid to plunder the supermarkets of Calais or Boulogne for cheap booze is as much as they wish to see of our neighbours across La Manche. A sentiment, which, no doubt, is returned with shiny brassy knobs on, although the Euros, unlike the purchasers of bargain cases of vin rouge et vin blanc, are not to be sniffed at.

Where then, can we find the thousands of Brits that proudly and often loudly declare themselves Francophiles? I’m not talking about the many that have moved to live and work in France permanently, putting their money where their mouth is, but those that visit their holiday homes or vacation there. Well, if my experience is an indicator, Surrey is a good place to start. With the approach of the summer school break, a frequently asked question among my fellow travellers on the train each day would be … ‘and where are you going on holiday’? If the participants fell into the demographic that is numerous in these parts, that of the middle class - upwardly mobile variety - I would have a silent bet on the answer. If money had changed hands, I would have been quids in. Rich even. ‘France’, I would silently mouth, as the answer was given: Right, ninety-nine times in a hundred.

My own relationship with France has been patchy. I first went, aged twelve, on a school trip to Paris - my first time abroad. This was back in the late 50’s and on the train from L’ Havre, I was shocked at how different things seemed; the landscape, the houses, the cars and the people we saw as the train flashed past. It all appeared very foreign, strange, a little unsettling, mildly threatening… and poor. In the countryside, the remains of a peasant economy hung on in a land not recovered from World War 2, yet to be transformed by the common agricultural subsidies of later years.

The area of Paris where we stayed, a working class suburb in the east of the city, was run-down and crumbling. Apartment buildings, leaning and shuttered, with mysterious sunless courtyards through heavy ancient doors; tabacs, where we would shop for stamps to send postcards home, Gualoise and Ricard combined in a thick mixture, hanging heavy and sweet in the fetid air; the smell of the Metro - garlic, tobacco and electricity - a magic perfume, that if bottled, would have been priceless. We marched along the cobbled streets in our English school uniforms, singing pop songs as we went -

Runnin' Bear loved Little White Dove
With a love big as the sky
Runnin' Bear loved Little White Dove
With a love that couldn't die

- the locals stopped to watch us pass, calling out, amused by this column of strangers in their midst.

We stayed in a boarding school, emptied of French pupils for the Easter holidays and slept in dormitories with wooden floors that smelled of wax polish. In the wash room at the end were a row of bidets behind plastic curtains, which on the first day, one boy mistook for a toilet, as we’d never seen the like before, back home in Southampton. One of the older boys procured a set of dirty postcards on a clandestine visit to the tabac and handed them round on the stairs, for a price. A first year pupil came back from such a visit drunk on red wine and we talked the school cook into supplying us with a breakfast bowl of sticky black coffee which we poured down his throat as he thrashed around in his bed where he was eventually discovered by a teacher coming to investigate the ruckus.

That visit, as a schoolboy, was the start of a long-term affaire de coeur with Paris that lasted for many years. As a student I spent part of two long summer breaks in the city, again staying in a dormitory of a student hostel in an outer district, two metro changes from the centre. But as the years passed and other towns around the world vied for my loyalties, the ardour cooled and Paris became just one of many, no longer the great love she once was.

Maybe because of this passing fancy with the capital, France has never managed to grip me like those other hordes of countrymen and women that stream across its borders each year for the love of it. So as we took our place in the line of cars that edged toward passport control on the dockside in Boulogne, many loaded to the roof with the paraphernalia of summer holidays and second homes, everything from family bikes to chests of drawers, I came as one not converted to the faith: Agnostic rather than atheist, travelling light and willing to be enlightened, the next seven days would possibly end with a tale to tell.

The car’s packed, fuelled, set to go. The gas is off. The milk cancelled. If we had a cat, it would be in a cat hostel. So. Up at 4.30am. Drive to Dover. Board the ferry. Cross the Channel to Boulogne. Drive down to Limoges. Turn left to Gordon’s place.

For the next week I shall be traversing the highways and byways of La Belle France, sipping the wines, sampling the cuisine, admiring the views, catching up with friends and inflicting my limited French vocabulary on the bemused locals.

I shall be travelling sans laptop and will be in Communicado for around a week - a small town to the south of Carcassonne, close to the Spanish border, I believe. So, there will be a dearth of blog activity for seven days, but I shall return with a vengeance on my return to Blighty, when I shall recount my adventures here.

In the meantime, au revoir, toute la memoire du monde, et je ne regrette rien.

Yesterday I found myself in Colville Place in London. Tucked away between Goodge Street and Charlotte Street, it’s a secret oasis in the city. Flanked both sides by a short row of bijou terrace houses, swamped with window boxes and pot plants, it also contains a tiny secluded park, surely one of the smallest and most magical green spaces in the capital. I sat for a peaceful ten minutes in the warm, late afternoon sunshine, while I awaited the arrival of a couple of mates. We had arranged to meet up there in order to visit a gallery that ‘s staging an exhibition of photographs featuring Steve McQueen.

Titled ‘The Last Mile’, the pictures were taken by McQueen’s last wife Barbara during the final three years of his life. They showed Steve at work on his two last movies, Tom Horn and The Hunter, as well as pursuing his interests off-screen - indulging his passion for vintage motorcycles, old pick-up trucks and light aircraft. Such was the strength of his obsession that he once drove over seven hundred miles to view an old Indian motorcycle, to add to the hundred or so bikes in his collection.

Unable to resist ancient working trucks, he would often flag down farm vehicles on remote back roads and work out a deal on the spot with the surprised owner; doubly surprised if they got to recognise him, for Steve often appeared very different to his familiar screen image. He grew his hair and took to sporting a full and bushy beard. Dressed in rough and ready clothes, he moved about as far away from the idea of a Hollywood star as he could get. The photographs show a man relaxed, content to surround himself with a few old friends, dogs and horses, his beloved machines and his good lady.

There were a handful of photographs that really touched me; Steve dressed as Tom Horn, almost in silhouette, his large Stetson drawn down over his eyes; Steve sitting on a chair in his yard, reading the newspaper, a dog running free, all around the scattered evidence of his life at home. But my favourite showed him on a country road, his farm truck parked up, bright in the sunshine against the dark backdrop of distant hills, with Steve, bearded under a cowboy hat, walking towards the camera, his expression, familiar; one seen many times up on the big screen.

Standing there, in London on a July evening looking at that picture, brought on a craving for the big country and wide, open skies of the American south-west. To be, once again, walking towards a vehicle, keys jangling in my hand, anticipating the moment when I would put the key in the ignition and submit to the feeling that shoots through the veins at such a moment. The feeling that I could turn the key and drive for ever. I wouldn’t mind betting Steve felt that way too, once upon a time.

Walking through the lobby of the hotel that hosts my gym today, I spotted a Christmas tree. Alright, not a large one, but surely any yuletide decoration in early July is too big. I presume it was there to draw attention to some kind of seasonal promotion or booking opportunity, but come on, we're still waiting for summer to begin.

Next week we’re off to France on our version of the tour. Not that there are many similarities. No bikes, Lycra, performance enhancing drugs, yellow jerseys or cheering crowds lining the route. Just the two of us, in the car, motoring down from Boulogne-sur-Mer to Montpellier and back, calling in on a few friends en route. We did the trip last year and enjoyed it so much we thought we’d do it again. It came about during a discussion over a good bottle of red when we realised that quite a few friends had made the move across the channel. ‘I know’, we exclaimed simultaneously, ‘let’s go and see them all’.

The first to go were Dave and Annie who made the move back in the 70’s. Their youngest daughter, Alice, was born there and their oldest, Amy, was only three when they upped-sticks from West Norwood and settled in a small town to the south-west of Paris, where Dave had taken a job as a packaging designer. Sadly, after over thirty years of marriage, Dave and Annie recently split, soon to be divorced, but we still keep in touch with Annie and will be calling in on the return leg. Since the parting she has moved into an old schoolhouse where she runs art classes for children aged from seven to eighteen. We haven’t seen the place for a year, so are looking forward to catching up on the progress of the changes Annie’s been making, to her life and the building.

Then there’s Ruth and Neal, our next-door neighbours here in England. They have had a place in Durfort, an hours drive north of Montpellier, for around twenty years and have occupied the present house for about ten of those. Each summer they pack up and head off to the sun for five months, so we’ll be spending a few days with them hoping for some of the same, although, like here, the weather hasn’t been so hot so far this summer.

In Montpellier, there’s Charlie, Pat, son Jules and brand new arrivals, the twins, Blaise and Luigi. Charlie is an ex-colleague and we share a passion for photography and arty stuff in general. We’re spending a day with them, fully prepared for both parents to drop off at short notice through sheer fatigue. That’s okay. We’ll sit quietly until they wake up and carry on from where we left off. Might mix up a couple of bottles of baby milk just to keep our hands in while we’re waiting.

Then just along the coast there’s Judith and Paul, again, old friends who on retirement, sold their house on the Isle of Wight, had a canal barge built – to Paul’s design – and now spend their time cruising the French inland waterways. They’ll be in dry dock having their bottom scraped etc. while we’re there so we’ll be dropping in on them for a catch-up.

Last, but certainly not least, is Gordon, who you may know as frankofyle, one of my blog friends and old mate who I first met as a fellow student at Canterbury over forty years ago. He moved to France around two years back and has chronicled his adventures on his blog site. Read it. I guarantee it’s better than any book you may have read on the same subject. Not to be missed.

So, there we are. Naturally, on my return, you can read all about it here.