I felt as if the weekend was going to be a wild goose chase

I made my way across London and at Waterloo caught a train to Portsmouth. This train was very crowded with commuters going home for the evening (by this time night had fallen, and rain was splattering against the window). Every seat in my carriage was occupied, and commuters were standing in the aisle. Sitting opposite me in this crush, so that we were virtually knee-to-knee, was a young woman in a long black coat. Her features, and the way she had done her hair, had a strong resemblance to the actress Helena Bonham-Carter.

The train stopped approximately twenty times on the way to Portsmouth, and at each station some of the commuters got off, so that as we were nearing the end of the journey only myself and the girl opposite were left. It seemed absurd that we should be cramped together when there was the whole coach available, but neither of us made any attempt to move. I read my book, and the girl stared out of the window into the dark night. The situation seemed to call for some kind of introduction, but just as I made up my mind to speak the train stopped once more (at Frant I think) and the girl got out, disappearing almost immediately into the darkness.

Portsmouth ferry terminal was very crowded but only a few passengers went onto the St Malo ferry. This ship was extremely smart for a cross-channel ferry, and had lots of stylish French touches. The female staff in particular were chicly dressed in short navy blue skirts, and moved elegantly even when the sea was rough. I found my cabin, which was on a high deck. My main motive in booking a cabin was so that I would have privacy in case I was seasick (as it happened, after one initial queasy moment, I felt completely well throughout the crossing). Also, the voyage to St Malo takes twelve hours, so with a cabin it was possible to sleep most of the way. I unpacked my few things and stood looking out of the porthole for a while at the fading lights of the English coast.

To the main restaurant for dinner. The tables were fairly close together, and next to me was a middle-aged couple who affably introduced themselves. She said she was a teacher – a rather large woman, garrulous in nature, dressed in several layers of clothes and with glasses hanging on a chain. He was an engineer, with a scruffy beard and wearing check shirt and cord trousers. They lived on the south coast and often spent their weekends travelling to France on little sight-seeing/gastronomic trips. They had reached that comfortable stage of life when their chief recreation came from going on spectacular foreign holidays (Tanzania was "a life changing experience" they said to me with fervour), interspersed with frequent eating-weekends in Brittany and Normandy (eating seemed to be one of their main hobbies in life, and during the meal they fed each other with forkfuls of food from their plates).

The teacher and engineer were very prying about the reason for my journey to France. I avoided replying, mainly because I felt a bit foolish about telling them I was going there to look at property. Despite the explosion in UK house prices it is still possible to buy properties requiring renovation in France for a few thousand Euros. Gary Spencer and his wife are about to do this, and have virtually insisted that I do the same as soon as possible, since the situation is not likely to last and the French housing market is already moving upwards. “Go and buy something now” Gary said, “even if it’s a ruin. You can then borrow some money to do it up, and let it out as a holiday cottage. The holiday lettings will pay off the original down payment plus the cost of the improvement loan, and after about twenty years it will all be paid off. You’ll have your own house in France at no real cost to you.”

I was very doubtful about this, even though it sounded fine in theory. I felt as if the weekend was going to be a wild goose chase, and I was unwilling to tell my dinner acquaintances in case they poured cold water on the idea and told me all the things that could go wrong (I had already gone over in my mind all the things that could go wrong, and didn’t need reminding of them).

Nevertheless, the idea of having a small place in France was very appealing – it would be somewhere I could escape to, if everything fell to pieces (I always feel as if things are about to fall to pieces, even though they never do).

I returned to the privacy of my cabin. The crossing was very rough, but once I had laid down I was not troubled by any seasickness, despite the richness of my dinner. A swaying motion rocked me gently to sleep.