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    As expected, the Canonical Address was mildly nightmarish; but I managed to survive both it and the attendant ceremonial, exhausted but unscathed. And with the whole thing safely behind me I was able to relax somewhat, revert to normal parish life and take stock of things to come, i.e. the Auvergne project.
    Despite my dread misgivings, such was the relief at the resolution of the cathedral business, that I began to view this event with a degree of equanimity. Perhaps after all it would prove to be simply no more than a diverting break from pastoral responsibilities. With luck Ingaza’s obsession about my entitlement to the Fotherington domain would subside, fizzle out into a whim of no practical consequence. The three of us (four if the questionable Henri ever did materialize) would merely pass an agreeable sojourn in foreign territory not normally explored.
    A surfeit of encounters with the cloying Mavis Briggs and the acerbic Edith Hopgarden served to bolster this vagary, and I almost began to relish the prospect of the trip. Mavis had been particularly irksome regarding her wretched Little Gems of Uplift . You would have thought that having contrived to get two volumes of those mawkish verses printed she would be content to let things rest. Not a bit of it: enthused by the success of the first two (displays on diocese bookstalls and quavering readings to captive audiences), she was now obsessed with producing a third … and with me writing its Introduction. This was a burden that began to eclipse all else in its awfulness and made the prospect of the French expedition positively rosy.
    Thus it was with moderate resignation that I started to prepare for my departure. This included making arrangements for Bouncer and Maurice to be fed and overseen. The cat, being the more independent and self-contained, needed only scant attention, but I had managed to prevail upon the owners of the giant wolfhound Florence to take Bouncer as a lodger for the duration. They are canny creatures, dogs, and on one or two occasions I had caught him gazing at me with that intent quizzical look which seemed to suggest he knew something was afoot. Fanciful perhaps, but live with a dog long enough and you develop a nose for such things. Maurice of course remained inscrutable on the subject.
    Bouncer had not stayed away before on his own and I was a little worried about how he might cope – or behave. The Watkins were a cheery couple and I did not want our relationship to come to grief should the dog cut up rough and be impossible. Thus it was decided that he should be left with them a couple of days prior to my departure to adapt to his new surroundings and get used to my absence. I pinned my hopes on the wolfhound: with luck her placid presence would be a comfort. I also ensured that the guest arrived equipped with his basket and box of trusted toys.
    In fact Bouncer took to the move like a duck to water, sniffing around the house, wagging his tail and rolling nonchalantly on the kitchen floor. He then rushed off to cavort with Florence without giving me a backward glance … which in the circumstances struck me as a trifle cavalier. However, it meant I could now attend to the journey without further qualm.
       
    To my dismay I learnt that our ferry to Dieppe would be leaving Newhaven at crack of dawn. The obvious thing would have been to stay the night with Primrose in Lewes, but the previous evening I was due to chair a meeting of the St Botolph’s Historical Society, something which I rather enjoy. Thus there was nothing for it but to get up before first light and drive straight to Newhaven picking up Primrose en route. I had loaded the car the night before, but nevertheless rising at four in the morning is not my idea of fun, and I was not exactly in sparky mood as I set off from Molehill on damp roads and under blustery skies. But I got down to Sussex in good time and collected my sister as arranged.
    We drove to