Our final week passed far too quickly. We worked hard, as always, as the spa entered into its final chaotic phase. Wednesday, we were joined by an entourage of wonderfully eccentric artists, led by Oliver Cronk (Paul and Harry's son, Katy and Lotty's brother, there, you know the whole gang now). They moved into our hotel (the only other guests) with us, and we spent two great nights with them, discussing everything from art and music to politics and whether or not we should go wandering around the deserted construction site at night. More on that later. Our final few days were jam packed with goodbye's, as we were again astounded by how many new friends we had made. From the gardeners to the management team, spa girls and cleaning ladies (we graced them with an undeservedly kind farewell), construction workers to concierges and the many wonderful townspeople of Thorpe, we had a lot of fond farewells. We went to The Prince of India to bid farewell to Habib, and were warmly welcomed into the new abode of the ever-eccentric head porter Xavier. We even ventured into the dark recesses of Clacton (not recommended) to bid farewell to Nigel, our fellow gardener.

Thursday afternoon was the coldest day we had had yet, and also one of the most exciting in the garden. The reason was that we were planting mature trees (just delivered from an exotic distant nursery and valued at, well, more than I care to imagine) in the entranceway to the hotel. Yan allowed Casey and I to each choose a tree to plant personally as our own, one that we could return in future years to see, to feel a sense of pride and ownership (also possible he just didn't want to deal with planting them himself). I chose a Mulberry, with tall, soaring branches and wide, tropical-looking leaves, adn Casey chose an Acacia, with a delicate form and beautiful foliage. We planted them with care, and as we were finishing, the entire gardening team assembled in front of the building with the sun turning brilliant pinks and purples with the sunset, it began to snow. Soft flakes flickered through the radiant sunset in a beautiful shower as we worked energetically to finish a long days work, laughing as we always did at the end of the day. It was bright and brisk and brilliant.

Thursday evening, we bid farewell to our home, the spa itself, and celebrated by dashing into the dark construction site (not remotely dangerous, save for glass and rusted metal on the ground and bits of concrete falling from the roof) and leapt into the pool, which had only just been filled and was icy beyond imagination. Hollering with cold and excitement, we ran back through the long hallways, from cement to carpet, from dark to light, and into our cozy beds to sleep a final night in the Mulberry Wing (as our part of the hotel has only just been named).

Friday, we were almost incapable of working. Our bags were packed, farewells said, and trees planted. We forced ourselves to do some half-hearted shoveling, and then were treated to an incredible farewell treat. The garden crew (like family now) took us out to a nearby pub for lunch. We were given gifts of pork pies, to sustain us on the next leg of our journey (forgot to mention, we were going to Scotland). We also presented gifts, small trinkets like a ball for Sherriff (with whom we had previously had to play catch with rolled up work gloves) and a pair of binoculars for the team (who love spying on the comings and goings of the spa). The food (steak and ale pie for me, ham and chips for Casey) was delicious, the company joyful (especially when the Boss Paul Cronk deigned to take precious moments from his busy schedule to join our hard-earned lunch), and the prospect of leaving bizarre. We were warned what to do and what not to do in Edinburgh (mostly it was Nots, including simply Not to go there). It was strange seeing the garden crew, so familiar perched over soup and  tea in the caravan, or watching the weather, in a strange new setting, drinking cider and playing snooker and relaxing gratefully. We raced back to the garden, speeding dangerously accross open fields and dirt roads and, again unable to work, we taught them how to play baseball (silly American sport! they said, and we couldn't help agreeing). Finally, it was really time to go, so we left them with the sun setting again miraculously over the garden. They will not soon be forgotten, that strange group of wonderful misfits that found their way into our lives.

We sped down to London on the train with Cronk, where we made a vast feast and spent a few hours chatting with our fantastic boss (we will be lucky to get one like him again in our lives, that I know. But don't tell him that, the old codger). We left him working away as ever at 11PM at his flat in Farringdon and sped over to Victoria Station to catch the late night bus to Edinburgh, Scotland. As it bumped its way out of London into the icy wilderness, we were back on the open road, on the move, adventuring. We nodded fitfully, excitement and exhaustion warring for control. Back on the road.