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John Renbourn: ceaseless explorer of song – appreciation John Renbourn: ceaseless explorer of song – appreciation
(34 minutes later)
It wasn’t the sort of house where you could just drop in and say hi. The converted chapel on the Scottish borders that John Renbourn had called home for the past three decades was far away. Far from pretty much everywhere. And given how remote John’s house was – and that everything in it had got there by being carried along a 200-yard path via a narrow footbridge – it really was astonishing how much stuff there was in it. The 20 or so guitars. The bed in the corner of the large living space. The four or five record players dotted about the place. The thousands of records in the kitchen included an original copy of Lena Hughes – Queen of the Flat-Top Guitar, a privately pressed album of Appalachian folk instrumentals that numbered among his astonishingly diverse influences. The water supply came directly from the river. Mostly it worked, but sometimes, John would have to go outside and fix the pump. There were hundreds and hundreds of dusty tins and condiments, some of which may have dated back to the late 70s – after John moved here from the Oakland ghetto of San Francisco. “I was the only white guy in the neighbourhood,” he told me. “It was rough, but the kids would speak to me in an exaggerated version of what they thought was a 19th-century English accent.”It wasn’t the sort of house where you could just drop in and say hi. The converted chapel on the Scottish borders that John Renbourn had called home for the past three decades was far away. Far from pretty much everywhere. And given how remote John’s house was – and that everything in it had got there by being carried along a 200-yard path via a narrow footbridge – it really was astonishing how much stuff there was in it. The 20 or so guitars. The bed in the corner of the large living space. The four or five record players dotted about the place. The thousands of records in the kitchen included an original copy of Lena Hughes – Queen of the Flat-Top Guitar, a privately pressed album of Appalachian folk instrumentals that numbered among his astonishingly diverse influences. The water supply came directly from the river. Mostly it worked, but sometimes, John would have to go outside and fix the pump. There were hundreds and hundreds of dusty tins and condiments, some of which may have dated back to the late 70s – after John moved here from the Oakland ghetto of San Francisco. “I was the only white guy in the neighbourhood,” he told me. “It was rough, but the kids would speak to me in an exaggerated version of what they thought was a 19th-century English accent.”
Related: Guitarist and songwriter John Renbourn, founder of Pentangle, dies
If John could humanly get back home from a gig, he would always drive back here – often overnight – in his bright green van. His desire to be here seemed to supersede the comforts offered by any hotel. And, in a sense, it wasn’t hard to see why. There’s no place like home, and there was definitely no place like John’s home. It was like a supersized model of the inside of his head. On the day I visited him there near the end of 2013, I walked down the hill from the B&B where I was staying and saw him in the distance – his shock of white hair and round figure unmistakable even from 200 yards away. In his later years, John Renbourn looked like a Raymond Briggs drawing made real. “Oh, hi Pete!” he said, “I was worried I might miss you, so I left a note on the door.” He had just been to Morrisons in Hawick. In the wheelbarrow next to where he had parked his van was a gas canister, some cheese and pastrami from the deli counter, some bread and two bottles of wine. There was plenty more wine in the house, which he would decant into his favourite blue clay jug.If John could humanly get back home from a gig, he would always drive back here – often overnight – in his bright green van. His desire to be here seemed to supersede the comforts offered by any hotel. And, in a sense, it wasn’t hard to see why. There’s no place like home, and there was definitely no place like John’s home. It was like a supersized model of the inside of his head. On the day I visited him there near the end of 2013, I walked down the hill from the B&B where I was staying and saw him in the distance – his shock of white hair and round figure unmistakable even from 200 yards away. In his later years, John Renbourn looked like a Raymond Briggs drawing made real. “Oh, hi Pete!” he said, “I was worried I might miss you, so I left a note on the door.” He had just been to Morrisons in Hawick. In the wheelbarrow next to where he had parked his van was a gas canister, some cheese and pastrami from the deli counter, some bread and two bottles of wine. There was plenty more wine in the house, which he would decant into his favourite blue clay jug.
In the little anteroom leading to the toilet, there must have been 50 packs of playing cards stacked on top of each other. There were games scattered about the place, too, including Go, a Japanese board game which, as John put it, was “like the most complicated version of noughts and crosses you ever played in your life”. Fans of John’s music will also recognise Go as the fiendishly complicated looking game immortalised on the sleeve of Bert and John, the album that John recorded in an evening with his flatmate and most celebrated collaborator Bert Jansch in 1966, just a few months before they formed Pentangle. “I find it hilarious that [Bert and John] has since been revered as milestone,” John told me in 2007. “All we ever did was play things that were semi-worked out and made up on the spot. We just played back what we had and gave them titles afterwards.”In the little anteroom leading to the toilet, there must have been 50 packs of playing cards stacked on top of each other. There were games scattered about the place, too, including Go, a Japanese board game which, as John put it, was “like the most complicated version of noughts and crosses you ever played in your life”. Fans of John’s music will also recognise Go as the fiendishly complicated looking game immortalised on the sleeve of Bert and John, the album that John recorded in an evening with his flatmate and most celebrated collaborator Bert Jansch in 1966, just a few months before they formed Pentangle. “I find it hilarious that [Bert and John] has since been revered as milestone,” John told me in 2007. “All we ever did was play things that were semi-worked out and made up on the spot. We just played back what we had and gave them titles afterwards.”
In the mid-1960s, London was abundant with guitar pickers. But it was that most aspirational of double acts Bert and John who most perfectly personified the new boho folk ideal. Both had made solo albums at this point. Bert’s prodigious songwriting output and his playing style – an astonishing mixture of intricacy and attack – were the envy of almost all his peers. It’s tempting to say that John, with his more eclectic fascination for jazz, ragtime and baroque styles, was the McCartney to Bert’s Lennon, but actually it was more complicated than that, and all the better for it.In the mid-1960s, London was abundant with guitar pickers. But it was that most aspirational of double acts Bert and John who most perfectly personified the new boho folk ideal. Both had made solo albums at this point. Bert’s prodigious songwriting output and his playing style – an astonishing mixture of intricacy and attack – were the envy of almost all his peers. It’s tempting to say that John, with his more eclectic fascination for jazz, ragtime and baroque styles, was the McCartney to Bert’s Lennon, but actually it was more complicated than that, and all the better for it.
Renbourn was the wayward middle-class son who hit his stride at art school. By the time he recorded his self-titled debut album for Transatlantic, the strictures of his upbringing were becoming ancient history. At the age of eight, the arrival of John’s stepfather, an army physicist whose surname he inherited (he had been born John Macombe) had set him on a course of rebellion that would ultimately be the making of him. The first conversation Dr Renbourn had with his stepson concerned guitar-playing cowboy Roy Rogers, whom John adored. Dr Renbourn let it be known that he didn’t approve of such quotidian pleasures. John’s response was to hide underneath the table in shame. His compulsory classical guitar lessons came in useful, however. They meant that when he discovered Chuck Berry and John Lee Hooker, he could jump aboard straight away. In his late teens, he oscillated between his studies in Kingston-upon-Thames and the thriving Soho music scene which paid host to nightly jazz, blues, folk, skiffle and rock’n’roll happenings rich with characters such as Alexis Korner (whose rhythm section, Danny Thompson and Terry Cox, would later join him in Pentangle), Cyril Davies, Duffy Power and Long John Baldry.Renbourn was the wayward middle-class son who hit his stride at art school. By the time he recorded his self-titled debut album for Transatlantic, the strictures of his upbringing were becoming ancient history. At the age of eight, the arrival of John’s stepfather, an army physicist whose surname he inherited (he had been born John Macombe) had set him on a course of rebellion that would ultimately be the making of him. The first conversation Dr Renbourn had with his stepson concerned guitar-playing cowboy Roy Rogers, whom John adored. Dr Renbourn let it be known that he didn’t approve of such quotidian pleasures. John’s response was to hide underneath the table in shame. His compulsory classical guitar lessons came in useful, however. They meant that when he discovered Chuck Berry and John Lee Hooker, he could jump aboard straight away. In his late teens, he oscillated between his studies in Kingston-upon-Thames and the thriving Soho music scene which paid host to nightly jazz, blues, folk, skiffle and rock’n’roll happenings rich with characters such as Alexis Korner (whose rhythm section, Danny Thompson and Terry Cox, would later join him in Pentangle), Cyril Davies, Duffy Power and Long John Baldry.
It was in Soho, too, when a night of drinking ended up in the gutter outside the Scots Hoose, that John first encountered the guitarist with whom he will always be most closely associated. Bert Jansch was never much of a talker – and, with John, he didn’t have to be. The occasional board game notwithstanding, most of their interactions were conducted via guitars in an ever-present fug of cigarette smoke. A whole scene seemed to coalesce around Bert and John at Les Cousins. Located in Greek Street, Les Cousins was a basement space given over to Andy Matheou by his Greek parents who ran the restaurant on the ground floor called Dionysus. Crucially, Les Cousins stayed open all night. John recalled that when he and Bert came across it, the place served as a hangout for girls from the nearby convent school. Within a few weeks, the girls had gone and the stage at Les Cousins had became a rite of passage for any aspiring folk guitarist player. This “dosshouse”, as John called it, paid host to performances by Donovan, Wizz Jones, Davy Graham, Martin Carthy, Al Stewart, Anne Briggs, Marc Brierley, John Martyn, the Incredible String Band, Cat Stevens, Bridget St John, Sandy Denny, Spider John Koerner, Jackson C Frank and Paul Simon at one time or another. Nick Drake – whose early guitar style and vocal delivery were hugely influenced by John – passed through the doors of “the Cousins”.It was in Soho, too, when a night of drinking ended up in the gutter outside the Scots Hoose, that John first encountered the guitarist with whom he will always be most closely associated. Bert Jansch was never much of a talker – and, with John, he didn’t have to be. The occasional board game notwithstanding, most of their interactions were conducted via guitars in an ever-present fug of cigarette smoke. A whole scene seemed to coalesce around Bert and John at Les Cousins. Located in Greek Street, Les Cousins was a basement space given over to Andy Matheou by his Greek parents who ran the restaurant on the ground floor called Dionysus. Crucially, Les Cousins stayed open all night. John recalled that when he and Bert came across it, the place served as a hangout for girls from the nearby convent school. Within a few weeks, the girls had gone and the stage at Les Cousins had became a rite of passage for any aspiring folk guitarist player. This “dosshouse”, as John called it, paid host to performances by Donovan, Wizz Jones, Davy Graham, Martin Carthy, Al Stewart, Anne Briggs, Marc Brierley, John Martyn, the Incredible String Band, Cat Stevens, Bridget St John, Sandy Denny, Spider John Koerner, Jackson C Frank and Paul Simon at one time or another. Nick Drake – whose early guitar style and vocal delivery were hugely influenced by John – passed through the doors of “the Cousins”.
It’s no surprise that in 1967, when a team from Denmark’s Folksangere TV programme arrived in London looking for the epicentre of the folk guitar explosion, they were swiftly sent to see Bert and John. The resulting footage has survived and the passing years have only conspired to make it seem more amazing. We see John, making light work of I Know My Babe from his second album Another Monday. Then we get to see a little history being made. Bert and John face each other and work out – possibly even improvise – a new composition. If you had everything they’d recorded at that point, you wouldn’t have recognised it. Between them, on the settee, John’s then-wife Judy is immersed in the Telegraph crossword, indifferent to what’s going on around her. You can’t help but be impressed by her show of insouciance. In 1967, most people would never have even seen a camera crew, let alone been the object in focus. The song being improvised was given a name, as was the band. Bells resurfaced a few months later, as the second track on Pentangle’s eponymous debut album. Even with just the two of them playing, it isn’t hard to see that, whatever adventure they embark upon next, no existing genre parameters will truly be able to contain it.It’s no surprise that in 1967, when a team from Denmark’s Folksangere TV programme arrived in London looking for the epicentre of the folk guitar explosion, they were swiftly sent to see Bert and John. The resulting footage has survived and the passing years have only conspired to make it seem more amazing. We see John, making light work of I Know My Babe from his second album Another Monday. Then we get to see a little history being made. Bert and John face each other and work out – possibly even improvise – a new composition. If you had everything they’d recorded at that point, you wouldn’t have recognised it. Between them, on the settee, John’s then-wife Judy is immersed in the Telegraph crossword, indifferent to what’s going on around her. You can’t help but be impressed by her show of insouciance. In 1967, most people would never have even seen a camera crew, let alone been the object in focus. The song being improvised was given a name, as was the band. Bells resurfaced a few months later, as the second track on Pentangle’s eponymous debut album. Even with just the two of them playing, it isn’t hard to see that, whatever adventure they embark upon next, no existing genre parameters will truly be able to contain it.
And so it came to be. Writing to a friend in Australia, John enthused: “I’m not doing many folky clubs these days as Bert and I have formed a group called Pentangle which has got Alexis Korner’s old bass and drums and a lady called Jacquie [sic] who sings and looks moody. It’s a weird sound, a cross between Albert Ayler and Tommy Steel [sic] but the crowd love it. We have a club [The Horseshoe] which we play at every week in Tottenham Ct Road, which gets packed solid and five people proceed to get well out of their minds and turn up every available amplifier and the fun begins.”And so it came to be. Writing to a friend in Australia, John enthused: “I’m not doing many folky clubs these days as Bert and I have formed a group called Pentangle which has got Alexis Korner’s old bass and drums and a lady called Jacquie [sic] who sings and looks moody. It’s a weird sound, a cross between Albert Ayler and Tommy Steel [sic] but the crowd love it. We have a club [The Horseshoe] which we play at every week in Tottenham Ct Road, which gets packed solid and five people proceed to get well out of their minds and turn up every available amplifier and the fun begins.”
Between their 1966 collaboration and the release of Pentangle’s final album Solomon’s Seal in 1972, no two guitarists were able to summon a comparable synergy to that of Bert and John. Listen to them whipping up skeleton-rattling storm on The Waggoner’s Lad [from Bert Jansch’s Jack Orion album] and it beggars belief that the noise you’re hearing is just two people. Years later, this recording would inspire Led Zeppelin to record Bron-Y-Aur Stomp, but even with their extra personnel, the end result didn’t sound palpably heavier than when John and Bert did it. Never shy when it came to upsetting purists, John relished the chance to don sitar on the demonic Appalachian tragedy House Carpenter. In these moments, it was possible to see the route that he eventually would take out of Pentangle. His third solo album, Sir John Alot of Merrie Englandes Musyk Thyng and ye Grene Knyghte, saw him playing hitherto unrecorded Renaissance-era works from the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book and lining them up alongside mediaeval-style reworkings of Booker T & the MG’s tunes (Sweet Potato) and kinetic jazz groovers (Transfusion). In forming the John Renbourn Group in 1977, John masterfully played to his strengths. Fronted by Jacqui McShee and featuring Keshav Sathe on tabla, their debut album together, A Maid in Bedlam, bore continuing testament to John’s ability to tease out the common elements between geographically and historically disparate areas of music. Indeed, I can’t think of another musician past or present who ever made the drawing of such connections seem so effortless.Between their 1966 collaboration and the release of Pentangle’s final album Solomon’s Seal in 1972, no two guitarists were able to summon a comparable synergy to that of Bert and John. Listen to them whipping up skeleton-rattling storm on The Waggoner’s Lad [from Bert Jansch’s Jack Orion album] and it beggars belief that the noise you’re hearing is just two people. Years later, this recording would inspire Led Zeppelin to record Bron-Y-Aur Stomp, but even with their extra personnel, the end result didn’t sound palpably heavier than when John and Bert did it. Never shy when it came to upsetting purists, John relished the chance to don sitar on the demonic Appalachian tragedy House Carpenter. In these moments, it was possible to see the route that he eventually would take out of Pentangle. His third solo album, Sir John Alot of Merrie Englandes Musyk Thyng and ye Grene Knyghte, saw him playing hitherto unrecorded Renaissance-era works from the Fitzwilliam Virginal Book and lining them up alongside mediaeval-style reworkings of Booker T & the MG’s tunes (Sweet Potato) and kinetic jazz groovers (Transfusion). In forming the John Renbourn Group in 1977, John masterfully played to his strengths. Fronted by Jacqui McShee and featuring Keshav Sathe on tabla, their debut album together, A Maid in Bedlam, bore continuing testament to John’s ability to tease out the common elements between geographically and historically disparate areas of music. Indeed, I can’t think of another musician past or present who ever made the drawing of such connections seem so effortless.
That John never rated his voice much was a source of bewilderment to many of his fans. The hushed bedside burr that graced Kokomo Blues (Faro Annie, 1971) or Lord Franklin (Cruel Sister, 1970) was as much the reason you would came back to those songs as any of their other components – but where John was concerned, singing wasn’t something he usually did when there was someone else on hand to do it. If he missed the heady tours that saw Pentangle co-headlining venues like the Fillmore West with the Grateful Dead, he didn’t let on. He attributed Pentangle’s rise as much to the tenacity of their manager Jo Lustig as to the vast talent within their ranks.That John never rated his voice much was a source of bewilderment to many of his fans. The hushed bedside burr that graced Kokomo Blues (Faro Annie, 1971) or Lord Franklin (Cruel Sister, 1970) was as much the reason you would came back to those songs as any of their other components – but where John was concerned, singing wasn’t something he usually did when there was someone else on hand to do it. If he missed the heady tours that saw Pentangle co-headlining venues like the Fillmore West with the Grateful Dead, he didn’t let on. He attributed Pentangle’s rise as much to the tenacity of their manager Jo Lustig as to the vast talent within their ranks.
The first time I met him was in 2003, when I was running an occasional psych-folk night at Cecil Sharp House in London. His rider request was minimal; his fee a paltry £700. Accommodation was offered but not accepted. Years later, he would still talk about the sandwiches that were laid on for him as though it was in any way exceptional to be given food when you had come to play a gig. Artists such as Devendra Banhart, Alasdair Roberts and Espers were just coming through – the first generation of young musicians who seemed proud to cite Pentangle among their influences. To John, this was just another gig. But it was only towards the end of the gig that he looked at his moccasins and registered that the audience who had turned up to see him were mainly in their 20s, and fully aware – perhaps even more than those who remembered him in the 60s – that they were watching one of the greatest musicians of his generation.The first time I met him was in 2003, when I was running an occasional psych-folk night at Cecil Sharp House in London. His rider request was minimal; his fee a paltry £700. Accommodation was offered but not accepted. Years later, he would still talk about the sandwiches that were laid on for him as though it was in any way exceptional to be given food when you had come to play a gig. Artists such as Devendra Banhart, Alasdair Roberts and Espers were just coming through – the first generation of young musicians who seemed proud to cite Pentangle among their influences. To John, this was just another gig. But it was only towards the end of the gig that he looked at his moccasins and registered that the audience who had turned up to see him were mainly in their 20s, and fully aware – perhaps even more than those who remembered him in the 60s – that they were watching one of the greatest musicians of his generation.
And one who had continued to improve with every passing year. He played Little Niles by be-bop pianist Randy Weston and turned it into an eight-minute rapture, barely recognisable from the recorded version which it purported to be covering. But it seems that is what John did when he liked a song. He would burrow further and further into it – in the case of Angi, Lord Franklin or Little Niles – over the course of decades, as if hellbent on unlocking its mystical power. Over the past decade, most of his touring would take place with a fellow performer, usually Jacqui McShee, his lifelong close friend Wizz Jones (with whom John’s last few months were spent recording a new album) or the Incredible String Band’s Robin Williamson – a pairing John would sometimes refer to as “the Impenetrable Stringtangle”. Increasingly, he seemed to derive enjoyment from the week-long residential workshops he would host, often in exotic Mediterranean locations. But despite having achieved a level of prowess most aspiring pickers couldn’t hope to achieve in a lifetime, John seemed to regard himself as the eternal student. On the inner gatefold of Pentangle’s Sweet Child album, he was quoted as saying: “I started off trying to play like Big Bill Broonzy and I’m still trying.” It was a line he would continue to dust down from time to time.And one who had continued to improve with every passing year. He played Little Niles by be-bop pianist Randy Weston and turned it into an eight-minute rapture, barely recognisable from the recorded version which it purported to be covering. But it seems that is what John did when he liked a song. He would burrow further and further into it – in the case of Angi, Lord Franklin or Little Niles – over the course of decades, as if hellbent on unlocking its mystical power. Over the past decade, most of his touring would take place with a fellow performer, usually Jacqui McShee, his lifelong close friend Wizz Jones (with whom John’s last few months were spent recording a new album) or the Incredible String Band’s Robin Williamson – a pairing John would sometimes refer to as “the Impenetrable Stringtangle”. Increasingly, he seemed to derive enjoyment from the week-long residential workshops he would host, often in exotic Mediterranean locations. But despite having achieved a level of prowess most aspiring pickers couldn’t hope to achieve in a lifetime, John seemed to regard himself as the eternal student. On the inner gatefold of Pentangle’s Sweet Child album, he was quoted as saying: “I started off trying to play like Big Bill Broonzy and I’m still trying.” It was a line he would continue to dust down from time to time.
When it finally came, the reunion with Pentangle mattered enormously to him – in particular, the chance to make his peace with Bert. He felt he was match-fit, but his insistence on prolonged rehearsals came from his desire to make sure Bert’s playing also stood comparison with the stuff he was doing 40 years previously. And it worked. Unlike contemporaneous reunion tours by the likes of Kraftwerk and My Bloody Valentine, Pentangle had no trouble distinguishing themselves from all the artists they went on to influence – the reason being that after all this time, there still wasn’t a band on the planet that sounded like them. Indeed, the process of choosing tracks for a 2008 box set The Time Has Come brought home to John all over again, just how far ahead of their time Pentangle were. “It was a blast,” said John, “I mean, I nearly fell through the floor listening to some of what we did. Just listening to it made me feel drunk and stoned.”When it finally came, the reunion with Pentangle mattered enormously to him – in particular, the chance to make his peace with Bert. He felt he was match-fit, but his insistence on prolonged rehearsals came from his desire to make sure Bert’s playing also stood comparison with the stuff he was doing 40 years previously. And it worked. Unlike contemporaneous reunion tours by the likes of Kraftwerk and My Bloody Valentine, Pentangle had no trouble distinguishing themselves from all the artists they went on to influence – the reason being that after all this time, there still wasn’t a band on the planet that sounded like them. Indeed, the process of choosing tracks for a 2008 box set The Time Has Come brought home to John all over again, just how far ahead of their time Pentangle were. “It was a blast,” said John, “I mean, I nearly fell through the floor listening to some of what we did. Just listening to it made me feel drunk and stoned.”
Back at John’s house in 2013, the last of the natural light had dissipated. There was no overhead lighting, so as it got dark, we carried on talking by the light of two lamps. And what with the old-timey American music playing on the nearby record player, the continual flow of wine from the clay jug and cheese, pastrami and bread simply arranged on a plate, it all looked oddly beautiful. Even the soot-lined cobwebs in the corners. At the end of the evening, I stood up unsteadily to leave. My B&B was a mile up the hill. I had deliberately left my car back there knowing that I would probably be having a drink. “I’m going to drive you back to your hotel,” insisted John.Back at John’s house in 2013, the last of the natural light had dissipated. There was no overhead lighting, so as it got dark, we carried on talking by the light of two lamps. And what with the old-timey American music playing on the nearby record player, the continual flow of wine from the clay jug and cheese, pastrami and bread simply arranged on a plate, it all looked oddly beautiful. Even the soot-lined cobwebs in the corners. At the end of the evening, I stood up unsteadily to leave. My B&B was a mile up the hill. I had deliberately left my car back there knowing that I would probably be having a drink. “I’m going to drive you back to your hotel,” insisted John.
I flatly refused. He continued insisting to the point where it became clear that this was a matter of honour to him, and furthermore that an argument may ensue if I didn’t let him. He opened the front door and, by the light of a tiny torch, negotiated the narrow track from his house, over the footbridge, to his vehicle, and announced that he would refuse to go back in until I had installed myself in his vehicle. With John’s foot firmly down on the gas, his green van unhappily ascended the single track road up the hill and then up a steeper gradient to the driveway of my B&B.I flatly refused. He continued insisting to the point where it became clear that this was a matter of honour to him, and furthermore that an argument may ensue if I didn’t let him. He opened the front door and, by the light of a tiny torch, negotiated the narrow track from his house, over the footbridge, to his vehicle, and announced that he would refuse to go back in until I had installed myself in his vehicle. With John’s foot firmly down on the gas, his green van unhappily ascended the single track road up the hill and then up a steeper gradient to the driveway of my B&B.
“Please promise me you won’t die on the way back,” I begged him.“Please promise me you won’t die on the way back,” I begged him.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I’ll be fine!”“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I’ll be fine!”
Ten minutes later, the furious landlady of the B&B knocked on my door and berated me for allowing him to drive me home. Apparently, John’s attempts at a three-point turn had laid all her freshly planted flowerbeds to waste. She told him that if he didn’t vacate his van immediately, she would call the police. The last I saw of John that night was his enormous frame wedged into the passenger seat of her tiny Renault Clio, his smiling face emitting an impish high-pitched laugh at his own denouement. “See! I told you it would turn out fine, didn’t I?”Ten minutes later, the furious landlady of the B&B knocked on my door and berated me for allowing him to drive me home. Apparently, John’s attempts at a three-point turn had laid all her freshly planted flowerbeds to waste. She told him that if he didn’t vacate his van immediately, she would call the police. The last I saw of John that night was his enormous frame wedged into the passenger seat of her tiny Renault Clio, his smiling face emitting an impish high-pitched laugh at his own denouement. “See! I told you it would turn out fine, didn’t I?”