So, another sojourn in Provence is over. Leaving is always difficult but this morning it’s particularly tricky. My billet is fifteen minutes’ drive from the tiny airport: generally, one rocks up about half an hour before the plane leaves. Today, however, it’s Avignon Air Show and I receive a text saying I must be there two and a half hours before the flight. Et pourquoi?

Friends advise me traffic may be heavy so I’m duty bound. There is absolutely no traffic on the road but, on arrival, the way is barred by copious numbers of gendarmes and security folk. No entry. I have a rental car to dispose of, I explain. Sorry, says the first officer, no idea what you’re talking about. The second gendarme says I may enter but the third, in charge of the barrier, is not in agreement. If Paul Russell was here, he’d be in a state of ragged disrepair by now. Anyway, he’s not so I press on and eventually gates are temporarily dragged aside.

I dump the car. Of course, there’s no-one to take the keys so I dump them also. I’m shocked to find the check-in open. Normally, they also appear at the last moment. The bag is given over, a seat number is allocated, and it’s back outside in the sunshine with Northanger Abbey. And a prime bench from which to watch the aerial activities. Is this the best thing to see when one is about to take to the skies?

Jane Austen is rudely interrupted by two jets from the French air force doing inexplicable things directly in front of me. Over the loudspeaker comes a pre-recorded speech relating to how they won WW2 and every other thing since, even if, like the Brits, no-one asked them to. Then, the band plays La Marseillaise and two people on the next bench down dutifully stand up. I return to the Bath Pump Rooms but Madame from the check-in ventures outside with news for folk travelling to Southampton: you must go to ‘departures’ toute de suite because the customs people are going home.

We trundle inside dispiritedly but it’s not too bad. The transport has arrived early and the crowds have flocked to the perimeter to watch the idiots who intend to fly away on a prop plane in the middle of the loop de loops.

When I arose this morning, I put my coffee on and went down to the village to purchase croissants. Now, I’m back in Blighty looking at my overgrown grass and, having visited my parents, I’m contemplating a proper curry. A couple of hours on the plane and another life. But, if you look closely, you might see one of my dream catchers hanging in the summer house at Mas Sainte Antoine conjoining my two homes.