Sentimental journeys, grief and coming home.

It is exactly a year since my father died. I’ve been thinking of him a lot and sometimes that’s fine, and sometimes it’s not.

Me, dad and my nephew Angus, having lunch at Tabouriech St Barth, just outside of Marseillan one summer.

When we moved here, my greatest concern was leaving my parents behind. If they had demurred, I don’t know if I could have done it, no matter how many times I told myself it wouldn’t take much longer to get to them from here than it used to take us to…