When I grandly announced my plan to go and live in France several years ago, British TV was bowed under the weight of programmes following people who were following "the dream".

A dream that, barring amusing incidents with the natives as first noted by Peter Mayle, was always fulfilled.

The closing shot was, predictably, the red disc of a sun sinking in front of a flower-tumbled terrace where a couple raised cold, cold glasses of wine to each other as the cicadas chorused off set.

Switching off, staring at the rain beating against the windows on to grey concrete, many a couple vowed to do similar.

My escape, as I've well documented, was more a mad flight away from all I'd professionally lost than any real dream. It was the grand gesture.

However, even so, I was not immune from some of the fantasy and genuinely thought I might turn into someone I never envisaged: a gardener, a cook, a gracious hostess pressing amuse bouches on my guests as they stretched by the pool; a calmer soul not driven by a news agenda.

That fantasy ended with the first clip of the secateurs and the insects crawling on my feet; with the knowledge that cooking is akin to bungee diving in stress terms for me and the realisation that I'm only truly gracious if nothing is demanded beyond drink, chat, music and chauffeuring duties.

And only truly happy when working: working at my trade and earning.

(Plus the pool that came with the house was an above-ground work of startling, if often refreshing, ugliness.)

With limited cash there was no thought and never would have been of "retiring". I was too young (even in my eyes, where middle-age starts at 30) and still too dedicated a news gatherer.

Well, the rest is column history and if The Herald magazine thought they were commissioning a glorious happy romp through the sunflower fields, they have allowed me to trudge instead down very different, often muddy, miserable by-ways.

I was determined from the start to be as honest as was possible without alienating too many people. A column was a new world for me, so perhaps I had no inner rules or rather any boundaries.

I didn't keep secret from the ex-pat community that I wrote about my life here, but have often changed names or not named to keep their privacy.

However, I have always reserved the right to write about how I see life, which is subjective, naturally, as we all see "truth" very differently.

So, inevitably, I've alienated many; my friends are few here, but then again I've chosen the ones who remain and walked away from others.

French acquaintances or friends do not read in English … merci le bon Dieu.

(Oh bugger. I've just thought on re-reading so far that this may seem to be a farewell. No, no and please God, again, the editor doesn't see it that way. )

No, today's column is one enormous thanks to you, the readers who constantly astonish, surprise, delight and humble me in your responses.

You are the shining, good, compassionate caring side of a social media that can often mire the heart in gloom and despair.

From the first time I put my email address on the bottom of this page and then, very belatedly, my twitter thing, you have sent me amazing messages.

We've had a two-way chat. You come and go in waves. From some, I know intimate details and hear stories of children and grandchildren whom, of course, I'll never meet. You send me photographs and cards and kind words when you worry about me.

Some I've met when you've been in my area; others have shyly appeared at my house and, I trust, been warmly received.

Experts have offered me serious professional advice on the problems I've mentioned with damp, and one leading UK architect came, surveyed and produced detailed drawings to overcome all. No charge.

I've met men in Lycra from Scotland on a bike tour, after convincing my son they were not likely axe-murderers, and we had lunch in Moissac.

All ages, couples, singles, Scots and others.

But with the death of my girl, Portia, you have overwhelmed me with hundreds, yes, hundreds of emails and tweets.

Have you any idea how much that has meant to me? Actually, I'm not sure even I have, enveloped in this strange, abstract virtual world.

I just know I'm comforted by the knowledge of not writing into a void; that Portia and I struck some chord in so many of you and that you have actually cared for both of us.

Again, how bloody extraordinary is that?

A recent survey has shown that the future for many of us is a single one. We will end up living alone - wherever.

Another report, American, has shown that the internet will be our pathway into a community of sorts; a community of kindness.

Like you, dear, kind readers. Thank you once again. Normal/abnormal service will now resume. I don't know where I'm going or if I'm going anywhere, but I know you'll be with me.