It’s strange how the drive home to Dawlish from Sidmouth seemed so much shorter and quicker than the outward bound journey…but of course it was shorter and faster without the cyclists, then the Crusader caravan in front of me all the way to Exeter; and, nearer to my destination, there was that little detour I made owing to a wrong turn. Admittedly, I wasn’t used to driving Chris’s big Renault Velsatis (favoured by French presidents). It felt rather big for me (even though I have quite a big bottom) and I haven’t driven an automatic since April… also it has a funny key that looks like a small credit card and a starter button like old-fashioned cars used to have (thankfully, not a crank!) . However, I managed to avoid killing any of the many fast, but not so fast as a car, cyclists and the Velsatis took me, in stately fashion, to stylish Sidmouth where I was to lead a “workshop” in the art of painting water in acrylics.

Relieved to arrive intact and on time the day just got better and better. The artists were not only friendly and kind but also intelligent and talented. Any nervousness on my part (“A captain with seven children…”) quickly disappeared and soon I felt as though we were old friends. As a matter of fact most, if not all, were not complete strangers to me because they had come along to my art demonstration last year, and I knew Tony back in the days when he was a young antique dealer (if that is possible) and I was younger still, working in my boyfriend’s antique shop.

“I knew Tony over thirty years ago,” I began to a group of ladies, “when he was dashingly handsome with lovely pink cheeks and thick black…”

“Curly hair,” he laughed.

“But you still have pink cheeks,” I added.

Sadly Tony has lost most, if not all, of his luxuriant locks.

Driving home in the afternoon sunshine – now quite at home with the car of French presidents, and also at home with the East Devon area where I had lived for over four years during my early twenties – I took pleasure in remembering my first car, an old Austin 1300 which had to be towed home on several occasions when it had run out of oil and overheated (it drank almost as much oil as petrol). Those were the days! The steering wheel used to start shaking at 85 mph and other more experienced drivers warned me not to exceed 95 mph or “The king-pin might break” (whatever the king-pin is!) – not on the country lanes, of course… it wouldn’t have been safe to drive at more than 60 on the narrow lanes. It’s all much more sedate these days – I don’t think I exceeded 50 on the main roads today.

Observing the sign for Budleigh Salterton, I was reminded also that I had nearly all my learner driving experience on the stretch of road from Woodbury to Budleigh Salterton – alone with my old boyfriend’s ancient mother in the passenger seat. She still had her driving license (though she’d never taken a test and hadn’t driven for twenty years!) and she was the only person available to sit in the car on those summer evenings long ago. I didn’t pass my test the first around. “Don’t talk to the examiner” people advised. As a result I was so nervous that five minutes into the test my left leg began to shake uncontrollably (it couldn’t have been the right one, which I might have been able to conceal). Next time around, heeding the advice of my boyfriend’s old mum, I wore a pretty see-through blouse and talked incessantly about my need to pass the test. The examiner felt so sorry for me that he let me reverse around a corner again. Eventually I managed not to drive onto the pavement and I passed.

It took five minutes less driving home, then five minutes more to park outside because since the Main Roads Department widened our pavement into a pedestrian and cycle track there is now less room on the road for traffic and nobody wants to stop and let you manoeuvre into a space… if you’re lucky enough to get one. But I didn’t get stressed – I’d had such a good day.