After two years and eight months, my time in France had come to an end. There was no ceremony today, just a bustle to get up and out of the hotel, to retrieve the car and escape the Paris city limits.
I was now putting Gustav onto a plane at CDG airport, bound for Copenhagen. He would have a few weeks to pack and say his goodbyes before I rejoined him in three weeks. All going to plan, Munson would have his final preparations completed in the UK and the three of us would be reunited back in Australia at the end of his thirty day quarantine.
We were on the Calais ferry before noon and in London by early afternoon. I stopped in Chiswick to pick up a UK sim card for my phone and get a shave and a haircut. I couldn’t find a barber to do wet shave on a Sunday but made do with a close clipper of my facial straggle (it never rose to being a proper beard).
|Next it was an obligatory stop at Munson’s Cafe. Even if it were closed, a walk down Ealing Road always seems to give me a lift – it’s one of those places firmly etched in my mind’s eye and in the fall of foot on pavement. |
Munson wouldn’t have too many more opportunities to visit his namesake – he was not likely to return to these shores. If we did it would be an unexpected pleasure. Let’s drink a latte to such.
Our final stop for the day was Steph’s flat – she’d returned the favour of a brief stay after her French break in October. We’re here for a couple of nights before heading off to the Isle of Wight and points west.