The triumph of Tescoland

Madingley to Deal, 130 miles.

I am sitting in the cab in the car park of Tesco Extra on the outskirts of Dover. This is the third Tesco car park we have visited this morning, the previous two, at Ashford and Folkestone were full, or at least busy enough to make it irritatingly difficult to find a pull through space big enough accommodate a 7m. moho. No, it's not national bogof day, but something similar - Saturday lunchtime of the May Day bank holiday, a moment when tous le monde goes shopping. Our situation is the result of a minor miscalculation on our part. We could have booked a crossing for Thursday, but decided not to head off straightaway after my last doctor's appointment This reflects a recent heartfelt resolution to stop rushing about so much and avoid needless stress. The upshot of this is we quite forgot in our retired befuddlement that this weekend happened to be a bank holiday, so we have simply swapped the stresses of time-pressure for those caused by holiday traffic.

Anyway, I am sitting here awaiting Gill's return from a second visit to the Dover store after we realised we had forgotten to purchase pasta. That was the main reason we went shopping in the first place. Not that I am complaining, I am quite happy here taking surreptitious photos of human shopping habits while trying to work out why I find Tesco the most annoying of the UK's major supermarket chains.

By rights it should be Waitrose, with all the bungaloid 'comfortably numb' tosh that surrounds their branding, pitched successfully to a broad section of the middle-classes, including brainless Guardian readers, habitual Times Sunday supplement addicts and the section of Radio 4 listeners​ who prefer the 'Archers' to 'In Our Time'. The pitch may be bloody annoying, but at least it is obvious, a 21st Century take on the 1980s predilection with 'lifestyle advertising'. 

Tesco's pitch is somewhat surreptitious, and hence quite subtle and more heinous. The company's approach is not new. The strap-line 'Every little helps' is marketing genius, vague enough to transcend class and cultural affiliations, yet able to connect with a fundamental urge in the British psyche that embraces the 'Dunkirk spirit', revels in 'make do and mend', suffers under the delusion that rationing was a healthy​ option and embraces the notion of austerity with such enthusiasm that in 2010 people voted in Cameron and Osborne on a ticket that promised Mr. Average would be worse off because it would be good for the country and help the bankers who had got us into the mess in the first place. 

Analysts reckon that the 1995 advertising campaign when Tesco first used the phrase built their regular customer base by more than a million people. No wonder it's one of the longest running slogans ever, such is its power to engage with core British values.

Every little helps.....

Equally clever is Tesco's strategy for engaging with a broad customer base which cuts across conventional market segmentation. Whereas Waitrose, M&S and Asda make a pitch to the values of the particular social groups that form the core of their customer base, Tesco, it seems to me, do something more subtle. They tweak the marketing of their products to quietly reflect widespread underlying cultural and socio-economic trends. 

Two examples. Last year when there was a lot in the news about climate change, environmental issues and food related issues like lactose intolerance and organic products, a brand called 'Nightingale Farm' suddenly appeared in Tesco's aisles. Stacks of fruit and veg appeared piled among the usual shelves. The produce was stored in traditional shallow cardboard boxes with a homespun looking label stamped on the side. Customers were meant to think that the superstores were supporting local growers and sourcing produce locally. Closer inspection revealed the produce had come, not from 'Nightingale Farm' but from Holland and Spain's rolling acres of plasticulture. The whole farmer Giles image was just a marketing ploy.

Today, wandering around the fresh fruit section of the Dover store, I noticed Tesco's latest wheeze. They have begun to price their loose produce in imperial as well as metric units. In smaller figures beneath the kgs., lbs. and oz. have made an unexpected comeback. This is not the first time recently I have noticed this. A couple of months ago the stallholders in Sunderland's main market had the produce marked up in imperial units. In a sense I was not surprised. Sunderland is a Brexit stronghold. However, for Britain's biggest supermarket chain to be doing the same is somewhat surprising. It's not that the company is making an overt pro-Brexit statement, more they are trying to key into the zeitgeist - the reactionary, traditional and nostalgic sentiments that lie behind the politics - a puerile, subconscious desire that 'wants our country bac,k'  yearning for a time before we joined common market, when everywhere was OMO white, women, and gays knew their place and everyone stood to attention at the end of the film for ''God Save the Queen,,. I honestly believe that the British public are not this gullible and hopefully Tesco's imperial pretensions will be greeted with the same scorn as the Nightingale Farm malarkey. At least I hope so. 

Not that we have to concern ourselves too much about such things, tomorrow we will be in France, where my grasp of the language is so poor, I spend the entire time totally clueless about what is going on. I think this may be preferable. Though it will be interesting to visit France when the final result of the election is announced. A Le Pen win is unthinkable. What matters is the size of her defeat. If she gets anywhere close to 40% of the popular vote then I think France, Europe and the world is in deep trouble, the march of popularist nationalism may be unstoppable and the prospect of the 2020s being a re-run of the 1930s a distinct possibility. It's a test of the wisdom of the French electorate. Let's hope they prove wiser than their English and American counterparts. 

From a field near Cambridge

Buxton to Madingley, 151 miles, 

Progress - A field in Cambridgeshire

Right now it's evening, the modest Caravan Club certified site we are staying on is rather lovely in a quietly understated sort of way. It's situated down a shady lane called 'The Avenue' which meanders through a landscape of broad wheatfields and little copses. The air is full of the scent of hawthorn which is just starting to blossom, birds are tweeting merrily in the hedgerow, though the nearby A14 provides a reassuring background roar, enough to remind us that actually we are sitting in a real field in Tescoland, rather than featuring in a soundtrack from an episode of 'The Archers'

Next morning - a mild morning in late April - one of life's small pleasures.

.

Hallelujah!  We are on our way, trundling slowly towards Dover, and it feels great. Sorting the van after winter storage took us longer than expected. Given that we have lived in it over the past three years as much as we have lived in a house, you would think we might actually know what we are doing. No, it took us five attempts to remember which way was best to store the bikes on the rear rack, and we only succeeded after consulting some photos.

By now the neighbours have accepted every departure means a traffic hazard

Note to selves: Gill's on first handlebars towards the ladder, , Pete's next, the opposite way round - simple!

This morning it seemed to take me forever to pack. At least we won't starve. The prospect of impending public holidays on both sides of the channel prompted an outbreak of panic buying on our part over the past two days. We have pre-Armageddon levels of supplies. Our stock of breakfast crunchy alone must render the van overweight, and for reasons neither of can fully explain we appear to be attempting to repatriate an astonishing number of Morrison's quiches back to their homeland.

"We seem to have a lot of food..."

"Its amazing what you can squash in here..."

Departure, ...

Looking out over the fields on Cambridgeshire at twilight, I feel so lucky to be doing this, as woven into the big challenges of the past three months has been a personal minor sub-plot involving a health scare of my own. There follows a somewhat sorry tale, which in truth has little to do with our usual random anecdotes of motorhoming life, apart from the fact it placed the entire enterprise in jeopardy.

In early January we decided to book four days in Malta in a month's time to help us through the gloom of our first English winter in three years. As Gill's Dad's health declined we considered cancelling, however, since he was in respite care in mid February we decided to go ahead as it was uncertain at that point when we might be able to go away again. At the time Gill had to put up with some horrible accusations about abandoning her father - which made dealing with an already difficult situation doubly stressful. 

Despite everything, we had an interesting few days staying in a quirky, but stylish flat overlooking Valletta's old walls with a great view of the harbour. It's amazing how much of the island we managed to see in such a short time, not only the main island, but a day trip to nearby Gozo too.

My personal glitch occurred even before we took off. Our flight from Manchester was at 10.00am. so we were up well before dawn. I had just stepped out of the shower when the right side of face from my ear to my jaw went suddenly numb. The sensation felt exactly like a dental local anaesthetic, then the sensation spread to my lower right leg and hand. It was quite alarming and very inconvenient, given I was due to catch a flight to Malta in less than three hours time. However, although the strange sensation did not diminish, everything else seemed to be working perfectly, my perception was unaffected, grip and dexterity normal, I had no paralysis - apart from feeling slightly panicked, I was fine. So I drove to the airport, hopped on the flight and enjoyed a short break in Malta, studiously ignoring the fact that the left side of my body felt distinctly different to the right.

When we got back we were straight into rushing up to Tyneside and dealing with an ever more serious situation up there. It was about three weeks later that I presented myself at our GP's and explained my mysterious numb moment. He took the symptoms far more seriously than I had. I found myself on blood thinning drugs, pills to control hypertension and an emergency appointment in four days time at Chesterfield hospital's TIA clinic. I have to admit that until this moment I had no idea as what a transient ischemic attack might be, apart from sounding like one of those fuzzy clouds that appeared regularly on the front screen of the USS Enterprise to scare the bejabbers out of Messrs Kirk, Spock and Bones. When I found out what a TIA really was, I have to admit, it scared the bejabbers out of me.

More popularly known as 'mini-strokes', TIAs are neurological disturbances triggered by blocked arteries in the neck which starve the blood supply to parts of the brain. As the blockages tend to be caused by temporary clotting, the effects are transient, hence the name. Repeated attacks can cause brain damage and the NHS fact sheet that I was kindly supplied with mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that over 50% of people who suffer repeated TIAs go on to suffer a full blown stroke. 

Of more immediate concern, however, was the information on-line that being diagnosed as at risk of recurrent TIAs can result in an temporary driving ban until the condition is stabilised. At the moment Gill has issues with judging distances while driving due to problems with her contact lens prescription. She feels confident to drive locally, but less so on motorways, especially at night or in rain. Since Christmas we have made eleven trips between Derbyshire and Tyneside. A driving ban for me, given the situation with Gill's dad would have complicated life immeasurably. In the longer term it would have put the kibosh on our wandering life as well.

As it turned out, despite being wired up for a 12 point ECG, an ultrasound scan of the arteries in my neck and a CT scan of my brain, the medics were unable to make a diagnosis. The immediate feedback was that the results were inconclusive but a more considered report would be sent to my GP. So, back to Tyneside for ten days or so, before a one night trip back in Buxton to see the doc. Her feedback was no more illuminating than the consultant's but somewhat more alarming. "The results from the TIA clinic are inconclusive, (I knew that). So they would like you to go back for an MRI brain scan." Now I made an error. I asked for clarification, never ask a doctor for more information than they readily proffer; more information will always make you feel worse. 

"So, what additional information will the MRI scan give?" I enquired breezily. The doctor looked at her screen and replied, "Well, it seems there was a shadow on the CT scan that they would like to take a closer look at,. MRI scans have a much higher resolution." I then commited the second cardinal sin of patient doctor interaction, I invited her to speculate. "That sounds a bit ominous," I mused.

"Not necessarily," the doc said reassuringly, "it could be as simple as a problem with the image itself, then added in her best matter of fact voice, "or evidence of a cranial bleed or brain tumour." "Brain tumour alert! Brain tumour alert!" a voice in in my head repeated to itself in a tone reminiscent of Corporal Jones assuring Captain Mainwaring that panic was unnecessary.

The NHS may be a national treasure, but it moves ponderously. It was a further three weeks before an MRI scan could be arranged. All the while we were visiting Gill's dad in the palliative care ward twice a day, while living out of a suitcase in his house. In truth his situation was so dire I had scant opportunity to fret about my medical condition. The appointment at Chesterfield hospital came through two days after Denis's funeral. I am sure like me, a hospital was the last place Gill wanted to be, but here we were, back in the medical imaging waiting room reading 'The Farmers Weekly' which seemed to be the only reading matter on offer. 

MRI scans are much more impressive than the mamby-pamby CT scan I had previously. The entire procedure was much more hi-tec and vaguely reminiscent of the accounts of experiments conducted by extra-terrestrials on hapless Mid-Western rednecks who all swear blind they are survivors of alien abduction. I can only add one nugget of further intelligence to their testimony. My particular white coated extra-terrestrials seemed to have a previously unreported penchant for easy listening music.They popped a set of headphones onto my head tuned into Smooth Radio, in the hope, presumably, of distracting me for 20 minutes while my head was clamped motionless in the gubbins of an enormous white machine which whirred, whizzed and shuddered, causing​ all the water molecules in my brain to resonate excitedly in response to a powerful electro-magnet. The procedure is quite harmless, allegedly. Certainly, I have suffered no after effects other than a persistent earworm involving random snippets of The Carpenters, 'Yesterday Once More', thus proving irrefutably that Smooth Radio is more hazardous to human health and well-being than bombarding people's brains with magnetic rays 

"How was that?" Gill enquired when i emerged. "Very odd." I informed her. There was a short silence, then she said, "You know, I've just read a really interesting article about the challenges in achieving consistent standards across the EU for organic livestock farmers." "Really," I added, "I've always been sceptical about that kitemark." We drove home.

It took a further three weeks for me to get the result. Back to Chesterfield once again. In the meantime we had begun the grim task of preparing to clear Gill's dad's house and managed to the complete forms relating to probate. It takes about five weeks for these to be processed. What we really wanted to do was head to the South of France for a month, find some sunshine and play with the outside kitchen stuff we had bought ourselves. However, everything was on hold depending upon the result of the scan. 

I was expecting the day of reckoning to have a certain gravitas, but of course, what was a big moment for me was merely routine for the medics. Nevertheless, I did not anticipate the farce which unfolded. The neurology waiting room was empty when we arrived and I was ushered by an orderly into an anti-room to have my blood-pressure measured. "That looks unusually high." I observed. "Oh, I know," she agreed, "it's been reading off the scale all morning." She recorded the result anyway. 

Now, the consultant. It was clear from the way he was speed reading my notes as I sat down that he had not prepared at all for the meeting; it was also apparent from the way he held the papers two inches from his nose that he was very short-sighted. Just my luck, I thought, to get the myopic brain surgeon.

After a moment or two he had digested the copious notes. "Have you been told about the results of the CT scan?" he enquired. "Well, not exactly," I replied. The consultant paused, then confirmed what my GP had hinted at. "We are worried that the shadow on the scan may be a evidence of a brain tumour, but the MRI scan will tell us more. So, we'd better have look." He turned to his computer with no more ado and typed in his password to bring up my medical records...

Nothing happened, the machine froze at the log-in page, and we both sat there staring at his screen, which went utterly blank apart from the little white circular rotating icon which in computer speak means, the lights are on but no-one is at home. He tried again, the same thing happened. This time the doctor attempted to relieve tension by making small talk. This did nothing to relieve my anxiety but it did mean the consultant now was fully appraised of my former career, and we both agreed that I was very lucky to have been able to retire so early.

The little icon still whirled merrily. We ran out of small talk. An awkward silenced ensued, then suddenly the consultant jumped up and announced he was going to try the machine in the next office. He disappeared for ages, but returned eventually announcing that the whole network seemed to be down, He was nothing if not determined, he tried the IT technician trick of switching the machine on and off, that did not work either. Next he wandered off to confer with his registrar to see what might be done.

From Gill's perspective sitting on a seat about twenty yards down the corridor all the toing and froing must have appeared very alarming. I had only gone in for a ten minute consultation, now more than twice that time had elapsed, and the consultant seemed to be rushing in and out. I think she was expecting him to reappear gowned-up, with a Black and Decker cordless drill in one hand and a fretsaw in the other, intent on sorting me out there and then.

Suddenly, just as the doc reappeared, the computer clicked into action. With a few deft mouse clicks up came my records. "That's odd," Doc confided, "I can't see your MRI report, when did you say your appointment was?" At this point I was uncertain which month it was, but mumbled weakly, "two weeks past Wednesday, I think...at 1.30 in the afternoon." There you are," chuckled the doctor in his best "oh silly me tone," then bent his head forward so the end of his nose was about six inches from the screen.

I have to admit to being very underwhelmed by the report. I expected full blown 3D modelling of my brain from every angle, in glittering technicolour, like you get with NASA's images from the Cassini spacecraft of the moon's of Saturn. Instead it was just rows of numbers interspersed with incomprehensible techno-jargon. Nevertheless, this was it, the moment of truth, finally...

"Good news!" beamed my new medical buddy, "everything looks perfectly normal. Stop taking the pills, you are more at risk of having a haemorrhage from them than suffering a stroke (I think this was an ill-judged attempt at humour). Don't smoke, don't drink too much - and enjoy your life!"

With that, he discharged me from the dubious care of the neurology department.

As I was heading out of the door, I enquired, "but what about the problem I had in February? What could have caused it? The consultant could give no explanation, without evidence, he explained, I am as much in the dark as you are - it might have been stress related he ventured. I suppose it might.

"Well?" demanded Gill anxiously as I reappeared. "I'm fine, I assured her. "Let's go outside and I'll tell you what happened...It might take a while."

So there you have it. The rambling sub-plot of Pete's brain. I am unsure if the final farce helped defuse the seriousness of the situation, or added to the stress. In the end I think my response was a an odd mixture of bemusement and utter relief. 

We drove home, had a cup of tea, and booked the ferry.

Now, two weeks on, I am still struck by how, for all our plans, there is little certainty in life. The past is irretrievable and the future unknown. All we have is a chain of nows - a catalogue of moments to make the best of. If life is an accident of nature, which I truly believe it is, then we might as well do our utmost to make it a happy accident. Given choice, what is the point of being miserable?

From a field in Cheshire..

Not France, but Cheshire...but it is a field.

You don't have to browse our blog that often to stumble across Gill's musings concerning the bucolic charms of 'a field in France' -- a place forever bathed by a warm summer breeze, with a meadow full of flowers next to a languid, poplar lined river reflecting the deep blue sky scattered with wispy clouds lifted straight from Monet. This is not a fantasy, we have camped in such places, and many others where you get the sense that reality has taken on a dream-like intensity, that the actual scene in front of you seems hyperreal, the result of CGI enhancement. The mountains in Lungeren valley were like that, and the prospect of the Gulf of Argolis from the citadel of Mycenae, or the Eden-like landscape on the northern slopes of Etna near Radazzo. Add to these our account of days spent wandering around stylish cities with a great café culture or driving through empty landscapes with huge skies and quiet roads, then it is difficult not to conclude that, despite the occasional glitch, life over the past three years has been great. Just how great has been brought home to us by the experience of first four months of 2017, which, by any standards have been horrible.

We knew last summer that our days of wandering for weeks on end were about to be curtailed. Our youngest had requested that we stayed closer to home during her final year at university. Furthermore, Gill's dad required more frequent support. Even last summer, when on the face of it he was looking very hale and hearty for someone aged 92, we sensed that time was catching up with him, his mobility was declining, and the dementia that he had tried so hard to outfox began to make living independently ever more challenging. Nevertheless, Denis was nothing if not determined, mixing time between his own house supported by daily home care visits, and weekends spent with his companion, Lillian, he still managed regular meals out, occasional short breaks at 'Warner Hotels' and even a cruise around Northern Spain, Portugal, Madeira and the Canary Islands. It was only when he got back that we discovered that he had overcome the reluctance of travel insurers to cover him by simply not bothering to buy any! 

At 92, Gill's Dad still exudes a real zest for life.

and manages to look quite dapper too/

Still, we felt confident enough in the daily homecare support he was receiving to chance an extended trip last autumn through Spain and Portugal. At times we worried if this had been wise. Increasingly Gill received calls from her father's carers expressing concern about his reluctance to eat and an emerging problem with chest pains that seemed to defy the medical profession's ability to diagnose the cause.

When we visited in December to accompany Denis to an appointment with a haematologist, blood tests revealed a chronic leukaemia - The consultant felt this was the cause of his weight loss and lack of appetite. We were told that this could have been a latent, undiagnosed problem for years and though the condition was serious, it was not acute, and he was in no immediate danger. We stayed with him again over New Year, and this prognosis seemed to be the case, he was a little more frail, thinner, and his mobility was in decline. Still he was able to have a coffee at a favourite hotel with a view across the river towards Tynemouth, and on New Year's Eve stayed up to see in 2017 and had a glass or two of Prosecco. Gill's sister arranged with the care company to increase his home visits to cover most meal times in the hope we might reverse his weight loss. We went home planning to return towards the end of January to accompany him to his follow-up visit to the haematologist.

Little Haven Hotel, South Shields - on New Year's Eve.

The day before we were due to return, Sophia, Denis's main carer phoned to report that she had found a first responders ambulance parked in his drive when she arrived for her morning visit. He had phoned the GP complaining of chest pains. Taking no chances they phoned the emergency services. By the time we arrived next day, Gill's dad had been moved from A&E to the haematology ward, despite further blood tests they had no explanation for his recurrent chest pains.

Later that evening the hospital agreed to discharge Denis into our care and we took him back to his house. In retrospect this was probably an error, as it soon became obvious that in the past few weeks he had deteriorated rapidly, both physically and mentally. His was mobility was such that the thought of climbing the stairs frightened him and at times his grasp what was happening seemed minimal. With difficulty between the pair of us we managed to half carry him upstairs to bed. It was clear, that for the moment at least, his capacity to live independently was questionable, though this was not something he was prepared to countenance. After a difficult few days we managed to half persuade and part cajole him into agreeing to spend a few weeks in respite care in the hope of improving his diet and building up his strength. He was always lightly built, but now he weighed less than eight stones and looked painfully thin and frail. All the while family discussions revolved in finding a longer term solution. Could the house be adapted so he could continue to live there independently? Would he settle eventually in the local care home, or might another one suit him better? What about a care home in Derbyshire, closer to where we lived. There was no solution, just  least worse options, and the costs were breathtaking.

Denis's room in Harton Grange - Gill experiments with his mobility aid

He put on a brave face, but we know he never settled in the care home - not even on a short term basis.

Gill tests out the products at Gateshead's Stannah stairlift showroom

In the end these dilemmas were overtaken by events. While still in respite care, Denis was admitted again into A&E after complaining of chest pains and breathlessness. After a scan, finally the doctors were able to make a diagnosis, he was suffering from metastatic prostate cancer, it had reached an advanced stage having spread to the bones of his spine, chest and skull. We discussed how this was not spotted earlier with his GP. The diagnosis of serious illnesses in dementia patients is a real problem, because they find difficulties in remembering symptoms. Furthermore, the symptoms themselves - weight loss, eating disorders, mobility issues - all can be mistaken for the effects of advancing dementia. I can appreciate how this is a problem, particularly for people with dementia living at home on their own, but the impact on Gill's dad.was devastating.

Gill and I were with the hospital doctor when she explained the results. She looked so young, in her mid-twenties I guess, nevertheless, she was very sensitive and impressive. She concluded, "Sadly, I am sorry say, we not going to be able to fix you this time, Denis." His reply was memorable. After a momentary pause, he squeezed the young doctor's hand, acknowledging, I think, that he recognised that it was difficult for her too, then said, "I know I cannot live forever, I am not afraid to die, I have had a happy life." It was a sad, yet powerful human moment. I was left pondering how many of us would display such a sanguine spirit in these circumstances. It was a remarkable response I think.

After a few days Denis was tranferred to the palliative care ward. There followed a few difficult weeks sitting by him as he faded away before our eyes. The twice daily visits were heartrending. We tried to find ways of engaging Gill's him, as he complained of how tedious it was, so, given his lifelong interest in woodwork, we made a 3D plywood model together. Progress on the construction of 'The Temple of Heaven' became a talking point among the nursing staff. '

Work in progress on the Temple of Heaven

finished!

Matthew Sarah and Rob drove up from London to visit

'Dr Ed' as the ward consultant liked to be called, explained to us that the progress of advanced prostate cancer could be likened to "a gentle downward slope followed by a cliff edge."  This indeed is how it seemed; the moments where Denis was cogent began to be outnumbered by those where what was occurring in his mind seemed more real to him. "I am living in two places" he would repeat. It was difficult to tell if this was a symptom of the disease or the effects of powerful opiate based pain-killers.

Gill's sister, Jackie came over from France We took the opportunity to go home for a few days, though we did wonder as we drove south down the A1 if Gill's dad would still be with us when we returned later in the week. The concern proved prescient, Denis died the day after Jackie arrive. We wondered if Denis had hung in there until he could say goodbye to Jackie and her family.  Dr Ed had commented some days earlier, 'He will go when he is ready to' and that indeed seemed to be the case. Our sadness at his passing was ameliorated by a sense that he had made his peace with the world, and that the suffering and indignities of his final days were now at an end.

The whole experience has been harrowing, made especially so because we were living in the family home surrounded by memories of not just Gill's dad, but her mum too. Though Gill lived in the house for less than four years, almost forty years ago, nevertheless, her dad was an inveterate hoarder. Memories of family life and the presence of  Denis and Joyce as a couple were everywhere, not just photographs, but the choice of furnishings and decor, the design of the garden that had been Gill's mum's domain. Her dad's presence was palpable in the woodwork great and small to be found all around the place, from the summer house he built in the garden to the lamp stands and marquetry dotted around the downstairs rooms. As he faded, it was impossible to escape  a strong sense of not just the end of an individual life but the end of an era. I think Gill was doubly bereft, and felt the loss of her mum as much as her dad, which mirrored​ my experience in 1998, when my father died, and clearing my family home involved disposing of both my parents' belongings. No matter what age you are this moment is difficult and seems like a significant milestone.

Gill's mum and dad were a stylish pair, and notwithstanding their relatively modest roots they managed to exude a bit of Hollywood glamour in their younger days. Even in old age they remained dapper, stylish and well groomed. They definitely pre-dated the post sixties jeans and tee shirt culture that Gill and I inhabit. Her parents exuded Swing era chic to the end. 

As his son in law, it would be crass to assert that I was affected by Denis's death as much​ his children and grandchildren. However, I found myself reflecting that I had known Gill's parents longer than my own, having lost my mother when I was 20, and being a 'late child' I was aged 43 when my father died in 1998, It is unsurprising given these circumstances that I too felt a powerful sense of loss.

The experience of bereavement is very odd, unique I suppose for all of us. To me it feels like living in a grey bubble, the practicalities​ of life go on, but they seem remote; you deal with them  automatically, yet at the same time remain quietly devastated. There is certainly a lot to deal with, funeral arrangements, the local council to inform, utility companies, DWP, banks, HMRC the list goes on - it's all somewhat overwhelming, even before Gill and her sister have to contemplate the question of what to do with the family home. It will take many months to sort things out I think.

However, right now, there is a momentary lull. Until probate is approved in about six​ weeks time there is little else to be be done. So, we have booked a ferry for next Sunday and plan to wander along the Languedoc Roussillon coast to the Costa Brava to find the colour south and some sunny days.On the face of it this may seem unconnected with why, right now, we are camping in a field in Cheshire. The reason - we are  staying for one night at Woodlands Park because the place is a about two minutes away from Spinney's the motorhome dealers. Maisy is booked in at 9:00am tomorrow for some minor repairs. It also gives us the chance to check the van is OK after sitting for almost five months in a wet and windy field 1000 feet up in the Pennines - and everything seems fine, apart from the shower head which has become clogged up with limescale - a good dunking in white vinegar is reputed to do the trick.

Surely I am not alone in finding mobile home sites profoundly strange, and somewhat sinister...

...see what I mean...

Woodlands Park is mainly a mobile home site that accommodates a handful of tourers as a sideline. Like most such sites it exudes an over-manicured, zombie-like bungaloid calm; the residents seem helpful and friendly, and though their demeanour leads you to suspect they are all members of some esoteric quasi-religious cult, they seem harmless enough. In truth it feels truly wonderful to be out and about once more, and even a field in Cheshire has some bucolic charm. This afternoon has been sunnier than forecast, so, as Ms Austen would have put it, we took a turn around the fishing lakes, appreciated the spring flowers, admired the ducklings and stared at the bright green reeds reflected in the placid  water. Nature is a wonderful solace, and no matter how sad you feel, after a walk in the woods it is impossible not to feel a little uplifted.

Small lakes - lovely places

Pete dong his Christopher Robin style trot...

It's One Hundred Acre Wood

What are these small blue flowers called again....