Farewell, for now, to the White Cliffs of Dover and all that lies behind them.
Le Shuttle is quicker, but the Spirit of Britain has revived my love of ferries. But you knew that already; I just thought it worth mentioning that the first trip encouraged me to use it again.
So we have left behind cold, grey and drizzly London. And arrived back in cold, grey and drizzly Le Lavandou.
The journey through France was deliberately slow, with two nights in Le Mans followed by the motorways that take you down past Tours and Bourges and into the Massif Central, avoiding Lyon and reaching the Med around Montpellier. Again, a longer way of doing it but the roads are cheaper and much less crowded.
The route also enabled us to take a first look at Norman Foster's mightily impressive Viaduc de Millau. There is extra value in stopping to have a look: the exercise involved in climbing all the way from the car parks to the best viewing point.
That still left a long way to go, but had neatly broken up a 12-hour journey.
And so to the Var. At this time of year, it is a riot of yellow, with mimosas to be seen everywhere, including the little border at the back of the house. A lot of them are cut and meticulously arranged on tractors and floats to take part in the Corsos, or floral carnivals that place along the coast.
I shall leave aside the report in my Var-Matin to the effect that the flowers come increasingly these days from other countries such as Morocco and Columbia - which makes you wonder what happens to all those we see here.
It was, as usual, a striking procession with lots of marching bands preceding each imaginatively decorated float.
With the rain and slight chill, It was not much of a day for a picnic, though this family clearly thought otherwise.
Back down the hill, there was a chunk missing from the plasterboard surrounding the fireplace, and no possibility of putting on a couple of logs to warm the house up a little. We'd done that the night before with the unfortunate result that flams had lapped gleefully and, for a while, unnoticed, at the wooden beam serving as the mantlepiece.
The damage to the wall was done by sapeurs-pompiers, not in a spirit of revenge for the result from Twickenham earlier that evening ("c'etait logique," the leading fireman had told me), but to ensure no cinders lurking inside the chimney to start a proper fire later.
Not the best of homecomings. But it will feel good to be back all the same, once temperatures start to resemble the south of France and not the north of England.
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