home

We closed the house up yesterday, then ambled north to Puylaroque for dinner with Jan and Mark and an overnight stay. Not a bad drive, though the weather was pretty poor: we'd a heavy shower as we skirted round Mazamet, and a lot of drizzle the rest of the time. We turned into the airport at Castres, thinking it might be more pleasant to sit indoors to have our sandwiches. It was closed for lunch: not exactly the most active of airports, evidently. A bit later, we took the road along the gorge of the Aveyron, and enjoyed it: it would have been less impressive without the glorious autumn colours, of course. Lovely evening with our hosts, who have been working like mad on the lower floor of their now not so little house. They have made a fifth bedroom out of a former store room, and are talking about digging a ten-metre swimming pool next year.

Toulouse airport today was pretty bearable, as such places go. The new wing is bright and airy, and rather than queuing on a horrible dark corridor for security checks, you now line up alongside what looks like one of those steel cafeteria counters where you slide your tray along, adding dishes, until you get to get to the till. Only in this case, as you shuffle along, you put the laptop in one tray, watches, keys, the phone and loose change into your jacket which goes into another, together with your belt, and then you shuffle through the metal detector. For this last step I had to wait a moment while a now-ennobled Tory ex-Chancellor of the Exchequer was sent back and forth through the arch, finally having to be rubbed down by one of the security people. I said to him as we reassembled our belongings side by side that I always expected my teeth to set off the alarm, at which he chuckled, saying, 'Oh it's my metal knee that does it: I come through here every week and it always sets it off!'. He looked pretty fit for his 78 years, but has got a little of his weight back - maybe his daughter cooks the dinner now and then.

Gatwick was quite tolerable too, if third-world shabby as usual. At least it wasn't too busy. Our car park bus was there within a minute of our reaching the bus stop, and we were into the car and away in no time: a whole lot more quickly than if we'd been in the regular long-term car park. (I'd booked so late that there was no price advantage.)

It's always a shame to come to the end of a holiday, but we love our place here, so it's a pleasure to come home again. Of which fact I shall try to remind myself as I try to clear the grass of the tons of ash leaves that have fallen on it while we were away. Stand by for snarls this coming week or so, when we are to be subjected again to the attentions of the motor trade. Martyn's car goes in for repair on Wednesday, and mine for further Nasty Noise chasing on Friday.