Last moments in Paris: after packing and cleaning I went out to buy a sandwich for the trip and a pain au chocolat, took it to the Tuileries and sat for the last time by a fountain in that spectacular garden, savouring each bite. And then, off on the metro to the high-speed train, which left and arrived exactly when it was supposed to.

Watched a family of four as France whizzed by outside the window, parents and two teenaged children. They sat, two facing the other two with a table between them. The parents put on headphones, the kids pulled out their devices, and that was it for the two-hour journey, not a word exchanged; they barely looked up. It scares me.

What a treat, and what a surprise, to connect with the British side of my family in the middle of France! Yes, distant family; Lesley is my fourth cousin. In Northamptonshire, in 1797, our mutual great-great-great grandfather Thomas Campion was born. Lesley is a phenomenally dedicated and organized genealogist, and in tracing the family tree, she found my mother’s obituary — as she explained, it wasn’t hard because Sylvia Leadbeater is not a common name, no kidding — and through that, my website, and got in touch. Funnily enough, she used to live and work very close to Potterspury, the village where Mum was born, and to Bletchley where Mum worked during the war. Our families were all humble folk; Thomas was a shoemaker.

She and her husband Duncan were, as she puts it, “committed Francophiles,” often travelling there; they decided over 20 years ago to sell their marketing business and move to France, ending up in Neuville de Poitou, a town of over 5000 close to Poitiers. They picked me up at the train station in Poitiers and, though it was pouring with rain, we sightsaw. She took me to the cathedral which is massive for such a relatively small city, but is on the route of the Camino pilgrims.

Then back to their home, a newish house on the edge of town; outside the windows are fields of bright yellow rapeseed. Later we had local champagne with hors d’oeuvres of charcuterie and rillettes, then a delicious dinner of fish in a blood orange sauce, accompanied by a white Beaujolais, followed by a superb chèvre and Poire Belle Helene – baked pear with chocolate sauce. Wonderful! Almost all the food and drink comes from local producers, most of whom are now friends of theirs.

Lesley gave me a folder to read — for years, Duncan wrote essays for a column called Expat Life in the Telegraph newspaper about their lives in France. The only English-speakers in town, they were welcomed with great kindness into the community, and immediately volunteered for everything, including running an English conversation group and with the summer jazz festival. They are both big Beatles fans, Duncan a little older than I — he saw the Beatles play in 1963 — and Lesley six years younger; we put on CDs and records and sing along. Memory lane.

This morning we walked ten minutes to the Sunday market, which had me swooning with pleasure. We were the only non-natives as the French lined up for cheese, veg, meat, fish. And of course bread; I bought our dessert for today’s Sunday lunch, a selection of patisseries, I’m drooling just thinking about them. As part of their Sunday ritual, we sat in a marvellous café. I’m ashamed that although they had rosé, I ordered a grand crème. I just couldn’t drink rosé at 10.45  a.m.

Duncan is cooking guinea hen. I am waiting anxiously.

Later: a great late lunch. Lesley made the hors d’oeuvre, very exotic: a cup made of smoked trout filled with a concoction of taramasalata and a kind of cream cheese, loved it. And then guinea hen roasted with pearl onions, asparagus, potatoes. I couldn’t finish, except that then we had cheese, and then the patisseries. My stomach is distended. But happy.

Resting now. Of course my Rogers email has decided to torture me; it suddenly requested that I sign in, said it would confirm my identity by sending a six-digit SMS which never arrived, so I asked it to send the confirmation numbers another way, but the only other way is to my email, which I can’t receive. Infuriating. I will have to go to an Apple store in Montpellier. In the meantime, some emails do come in via text. Thank heavens for What’sApp.

Truly, being at home with Lesley and Duncan, new kindred spirits, is an unexpected treat in my journey through France. Lesley showed me a beautifully-made and detailed scrapbook of a trip they took to Ontario and Quebec in 2009, unfortunately long before we connected, and I haven’t done half the things they did! They’re intrepid. You’d have to be, to pack up your lives and move to a foreign country. They’ve made a huge success of it.

Pix: Poitiers’ town hall sous la pluie, with drenched wedding guests, and a square. Lesley and Duncan in line at the boulangerie. The café, full of interesting things to look and laugh at, run by a father and son, very friendly. And last, the view from my bedroom window in today’s brief, appreciated bit of sun. Can you beat it?