The three of us shared a final dinner at the Chequers, a lovely old 17th century inn, in Weston Turville, where the food is simply superb. I had been there hundreds of times before, but only as transport for my younger son when he had worked there for a while when he had just left school, so it was a real treat to dine there. For a woman who generally eats little, the past couple of weeks have been a gastronomic delight. There has been fabulous food in wonderful locations… but above all, I have shared it with people I love, talking long and laughing around the table… and it is that which makes all the difference.

Outside the inn a black labrador waited patiently for her master, listening intently for his arrival. Our time together, however, was drawing to a close and departure drew near. My friend and I had a final day, beginning it with a visit to my son to say farewell, or perhaps à bientôt. Even the sky was shedding tears, so we headed into town where I knew we would have at least some shelter. The parish church of St Mary holds a special place in Giants Dance, which has itself a special meaning where my friend is concerned. It also holds the tomb of Lady Lee, and my friend has a deep love of the Elizabethan period. Sir Henry Lee, Champion of Queen Elizabeth I, held the Manor of Quarrendon, just outside the current town. Little now remains apart from the earthen shadow of the buildings, but within the church his lady and children rest.

It is a curious tomb. Not because of the grandeur of the Tudor marble, but because of the poignant verse that tells how she and her husband had ‘three impes’, two of whom died as babes, one in the flower of her years. And there is a request, too:

Good fre’d sticke not to strew with crims’o flowers
This marble stone wherein her cindres rest
For svre her ghost lyes with the heave’ly powers
And gverdon hathe of virtvovs life possest.

And to this day a crimson flower is secretly placed upon the lady’s tomb, fresh in its vase.

From the church we walked through the old town as the rain fell, past the old Queen’s Head, through Temple Square to the King’s Head, with its royal history, and more importantly to us, which featured in Heart of Albion. Henry VI and Margaret of Anjou once stayed here, and later King Henry VIII courted Anne Boleyn and it is rumoured Oliver Cromwell stayed here also after the Battle of Holman’s bridge when his Roundhead army defeated the forces of Prince Rupert of the Rhine. The bodies of the slain were thrown into a common grave and buried near the bridge which still straddles the little river and though later exhumed and moved it still seems wrong to see the modern housing development on the battlefield and encroaching on the earthworks that were once the gun emplacements. At the other end of the building plot the remains of the ancient Manor of Sir Henry Lee and his lady are being surrounded too.

We had a very old fashioned lunch of traditional fare in the King’s Head, the low ceilings go back a long way, the original cellars are 13th century, though the older parts of the building now visible date back to 1455. In the Elizabethan great hall there is old stained glass, in another room you can still see the wattle and daub of which it was built. It seemed a fitting place to share a final meal together.

Friday dawned all too soon. The bags were loaded into the car, and at eight in the morning we left for Heathrow. The red kites came out in force… a farewell flypast near Dashwood’s church, before the green of an English spring gave way to motorways. A final glimpse of history as Windsor Castle graced the skyline, then we were swallowed by the traffic and the ache of goodbye.