After 17 nights and days of cutting through the west, south and east of India, I arrive home to see our new neighbour has adopted an auto-rickshaw. I live in a village at the foot of some chalk hills in a county better known for its sausages and mustard. It’s a long way from the city lights of London, where rickshaws and autos are no longer a novelty.

My neighbour’s auto has a D Reg and I instinctively think Delhi. And then I bump into him, a retired Army major with matching scars across a kind face and a ready smile. “He’s not Indian you see. In fact, he’s not an auto rickshaw at all,” he extends his hand and picks up a ready chat. “He’s Tempo from Nepal. I was in the Gurkhas there. I bought him in Kathmandu and he’s travelled with me since – South Africa, Malta. That D there is a Maltese registration.”

But why did you buy Tempo in the first place? “Oh! that’s another story. My daughter was getting married in Bath and Tempo was her wedding present. She wanted to go to Church in a ‘tempo’ just as she went to school in Kathmandu all those years ago. But she didn’t have much use of him in Bath after, so he came to live with me in Malta. We would go fishing together on Marsaxlokk Bay. And then I retired. I wanted to see my granddaughter grow up. So here we are, Tempo and I. I take him up the White Horse and to Tesco. They think I’m a novelty taxi in the village. I could give you a ride in him someday. There’s also some very good Nepalese curry in the pot if you fancy.”

“Of course, and if you ever fancy an Indian, that’s our door.” We shake hands and part. A slice of our transnational lives, of home and homecoming on a crisp English autumn morning.