In general, from these scraps, he seemed to write mainly about his painting, and about building his wall with the aid of Florence and a couple of local men. He felt that the house was now his refuge, his promised land, after the years of wandering about Europe as he seemed to have done in the years since he had left home. The clues from this period amounted to very little indeed, practically all trivia. Things like hotel bills in Brussels, catalogues of his paintings or his exhibitions (which were more frequent than I had thought, frankly): two shows in Paris, another in Nice, Nîmes, Arles and one in Berlin. There was a laundry bill from some pensione in Milan, an unposted card from Ghent. Nothing at all of any value to me, except that it did prove that he had moved about for some time, and the letters from solicitors in London, or bank statements, all higgledy piggledy as Mama used to say, and transfers of monies from here to there, gave the movements some form of truth. I’d have to deal with that aspect of his life when I returned to London.

The half-diary, a scuffed blue book with ‘Agenda’ stamped on it in faded gold, was probably the first, or only, one he kept, and provided the most information, very inadequately.

It would seem that he had reached Bargemon-sur-Yves at the beginning of a warm June. He notes that ‘Paris and all the other hell-hole cities simply stifle any creative urge or interest, I absolutely had to get away, and quickly, before rotting.’ Apparently a fellow artist had suggested the simplicity and calm of Bargemon, and assured him that he would find it both healing and constructive to go there.

He arrived and stayed, as I had done myself, at the hotel.

Simple, clean, friendly, above all glorious peace. Silence apart from the church bell and the sound at night of the distant river. No tourists staying; two Germans with rucksacks left the day I arrived. It is all mine!

He had a sketch book which did not, apparently, survive.