My old friend Tiphaine was there, sitting on a bench, busy yelling at her children to stop mucking about with the coffee dispenser. It was only when I saw how tall her youngest was that I realised it had been eons since I’d been back to see my father. All I remembered was a little infant where now there was a little girl with curls piled on top of her head standing firmly on her own two feet and staring at me as I interposed myself between her and her mother.

I kissed my friend, embracing her generous, full body in a hug, and was struck with a flash of realisation that I had been missing my island.

Generally speaking, when you see old friends after a long separation, you tend to feel a little uncomfortable, as if prisoner of a bond that isn’t always easy to reignite, but that’s never the case with people from around here. I think it’s because our families have been split in two for centuries, the men at sea either in the Navy or the Merchant Marine, and the women left behind ashore looking after the children. Living on the island then meant we developed a special gift for communicating with those who were absent.

So, after merely wondering where I had left off in the great ongoing drama that was the island . . . Was it before they rebuilt the cemetery wall or after the Spar supermarket had closed down? . . . she just said, ‘Oh, right, yeah. It really is quite a while since you’ve been back!’

The weight of time that had passed since my previous visit required Tiphaine to address the basics: who had died, who was having an affair with whom, who had drowned, who had been evacuated by helicopter – so many tragedies for such a small place – she might have been accused of over-egging the number of dramatic incidents, but no. It really is like that around here; terrible stuff happens all the time!

We all made our way on board in the pouring rain, including the three tourists, who arrived by taxi in a state of chaos.

I headed straight for the bow of the boat and stretched out on a row of four seats, eyes closed, head resting on a sweater. Yes, I get seasick. I’ve tried everything: pharmaceuticals, hypnosis, simulator, even the thing where you take a nap under an apple tree; all of which is to say, I have fought it, but my body, not content with being a fractious, recalcitrant hack, has assigned me to shore duty.

The Parisians were sitting a few metres away from where I had lain down and, as I had nothing else to do on the crossing but listen to them, I allowed myself to be soothed by their conversation.