This was the summer I had intended to travel, to take up the invitations from friends living or holidaying in the many different parts of France.

All had included the dog so there was nothing standing in my way except my indolence and inability to drive over high bridges and mountain roads or pass lorries on curved areas of motorway.

This was the summer I had intended to give up indolence, conquer my vertigo, get my ass back into gear, and see much more of this beautiful country which I now call home, an attempt to revitalise myself and, hopefully, also rid myself of the corrosive, mounting discontent with all around me.

With friends in the Luberon, Nice, the Limousin, Paris and Dijon, I would explore the incredible diversity of the land, from beaches in the south to the lush pastures of the north. And if one can’t be reinvigorated in Paris, then there truly is no hope.

I gently said a firm “no” to those planning their sunshine stays at Las Molieres, explaining my need to go walkabout, my need to shake, or like the Aborigines, sing myself back into life with new experiences and old memories. Being good friends, all understood.

The first trip was to be strictly seaside and, in hindsight, quite insane.

Heather, James and myself somehow thought that three humans and four dogs in a Volvo for five days was totally doable. Seven Go Surfing was the working title with H as co-ordinator, J as driver and me as beach-picker.

We were to start in Arcachon, travelling down the west coast via Biarritz and St Jean de Luz, crossing the border into Spain and San Sebastian and ending up in Bilbao at the Guggenheim Museum.

Much shellfish and cold, cold white wine would be consumed in the process, preferably under beach-side striped awnings gazing out on an azure blue sea. Pure heaven.

J’s Papillon and my afghan hound are, naturally, so exquisitely well-bred and well-travelled that they adapt to all circumstances.

H’s twin labrador pups still pee with excitement on seeing anything as common as a butterfly and had yet to experience the joy of sitting quietly under a restaurant table.

While it is a rare hotel or restaurant here which turns dogs away, certain standards are expected. Peeing under the linen on seeing a waiter is, understandably, a non-starter.

We, of course, were never to find out if they would rise to the occasion rather than squat. For as men make plans, the gods laugh.

So, instead of barefoot walking in the sand, it was barefoot wheeling in the rolling armchair (le fauteuil roulant), as the wheelchair so wonderfully translates from French.

My summer, which had stretched ahead laden with promise, was reduced to the numbingly familiar view from the glass doors at the end of the kitchen. An enviable, lovely view, yes, but one I needed to escape for a while.

And, weeks later, just when freedom was in sight, Buddha intervened and here I sit, still wheelchair-bound with the possibility, it seems now, of another plaster cast and an autumn of immobility. Hopefully, after tomorrow’s investigation, it will not be so.

But I temper all of this with the knowledge that this too will end, unlike many other people’s suffering. And with the new -- if wilfully ignored -- knowledge that the body is a remarkable machine until it fails, I have come up with another revitalising plan and hope the gods are too busy to notice and laughingly scupper it.

This is the winter when I will buy an electronic cigarette and alternate it with the real thing (I will not fully give up, just cut down, because I do really enjoy them).

This is the winter when, God willing, I will be kind to my poor body after decades of abuse: drink water, drink less wine, try to eat real fruit and vegetables instead of microwave meals for one, exercise my battered legs into shape, write another book instead of staring at the beams in the ceiling, find a cheap way to sort out the damp, stop spending half the day on the internet, stop moaning so much …

In short, this is the winter when I will get a life, get back my life. Not the old one, but an acceptable one where I relearn to count my many, many blessings.

And go walkabout. Frequently.

I may even eat fish. But then again, I may not go quite that far in my cleansing quest.

So, this is the winter, not of my discontent, but of seeking some form of contentment, balance and order.

And that was the summer that was.