Lost

I'm not the best of travellers. I listen with interest to those who recall their trips to far flung shores but when it boils down to it, a caravan, forty miles away in Chapel St Leonards, with enough sound proofing on the roof to enable conversation to take place when it's raining, is good enough for me.
It's not really worth travelling far if you're going to be worried about your veg being neglected but I was persuaded by Mrs MV that a six day trip to France would not signal the demise of my carefully tended crops.
My hectic lifestyle and social calender is such that I must occasionally slow down and relax so I accepted an offer to join Bill and Dick on a 'writing' holiday in Bergerac. I have no desire to relate the full story of the disaster that befell me for Bill cunningly got his version in before I arrived home but needless to say, as I sat in the cafe adjoining Bergerac airport for two hours, that caravan in Chapel St Leonards was inviting indeed.
I would go so far as to say, that the shed I was forced to shelter in from the rain whilst Blunt was miles away meeting the wrong plane had its merits and I did consider spending the next five days in a hermit-like state under its roof, if only to avoid the Pastis-fuelled grovelling apologies from Blunt.
It would be pleasant at this point to announce that all ended well but my torment was to continue when I attempted to return to these shores.
It appears that a certain airline is happy to cancel flights at the drop of a hat (or in this case a whiff of fog) and leave their customers to their own devices. Once again, dear reader, I was forced to study the architectural majesty of Bergerac airport for several hours and share my concern at the lack of Health and Safety measures of the men working on the new extension with my fellow, abandoned passengers until I could return to the UK some 12 hours later than I intended.
It was an anxious Blunt who spoke to me as I prepared to board the train for the last leg of my journey home after I'd told him of my latest setback.
His only concern I suspect was that I may have had problems 'smuggling' the three packets of seeds into the country that I purchased in the beautiful village of Issigeac.
I had no such problem as I am well versed in hiding a variety of objects on my person from my days as a 'mule' for the Oldham Cactus Society.
I have recovered from my ordeal you will be pleased to hear and the only thing that keeps coming back to haunt me is a song. One that I'll probably not forget in a hurry.