You know that it's time to move on when one of the hens considers that the thing in which you arrived a month earlier is going to be a permanent fixture. And so starts laying eggs in it.

It all started with a cluck. As most things do in the hen world. I'd been sharing my breakfast with a group of them, and they'd become quite friendly. Not exactly bringing me my slippers when I arrived back at base, or washing the pots after tea. Just a casual, nodding sort of friendship.

So, when inside the truck the other day, and one of the hens was walking around, hopping from bed to front seat, chattering more than normal, I knew something was wrong. But didn't think that much to it.

However, it nestled under the accelerator pedal in the footwell, and settled down.

After a few minutes, it got up, wandered back the way it came in, giving me a satisfied twitch of its head on the way out. A glance to the front: it had left me an egg.

Fortunately, UPS, the courier, finally took the parts that Steve Parker and crew had sent out from their storage warehouse, and let me use them. I was so honoured.

Fitted, trial run, smiles all round.

But you can't leave town without saying goodbye to the guys who've made your time here so pleasurable. Time for a "farewell" meal together.

Rolling again. Who knows where I'll report from next?