Harry had a passion. Languages. As a boy he’d been fascinated by them. Not just French. Or German. But also Dutch. Fluently. Together with wife Jean, they’d travelled a lot in Europe. They were on their third caravan. We met on a campsite south of Chartres. The place had seen better times. The normally neat privet hedges between pitches were unkempt. Broken lavatory seats in the washrooms. Reception was closed for the day. Nobody seemed to care.
Harry and Jean Dixon were heading home after five weeks in the south. This was just a brief overnight stop on the journey north and they were equally unimpressed. They invited me over for dinner. They apologised, quite unnecessarily, for the lack of space inside, but, they explained, it was just too time-consuming to put the bed away and set up the table for just one evening. I didn’t mind. Having a stool to sit on after weeks in a tent had an appeal all of its own. Besides, they had a fridge. It came with a delicious salad and a cheese board. And plenty of red wine.
We chatted late into the evening. Then a generous night cap of whisky. I left with orders to return at 8.30 sharp for breakfast. There was lots of it, and I returned to the tent with more rations for later in the day.
Read your comments about us, got back home Sunday lunch and will keep ourslves updated with your travels.
All the best
Harry & Jean
Can’t thank you enough for such an entertaining evening!