My favourite saint

The weather experts didn’t know what to forecast, but I was pleased to wake up to decent weather and pulling on my gumboots and oilskins went out to buy bread, croissants, pain au chocolat and a flat-pack greenhouse. After a hearty breakfast we set off to explore the Saturday market and G bravely purchased endives, tomatoes, peppers and radishes. D hunted around for attractive tarts, and I settled for a bit of rough…pâté de camp…de campagne and a crusty French stick.

We bumped into a large bush of bay leaves, which turned out to be André in disguise, and we steered him into a nearby coffee shop for a cup of something strong and black.

Back home we tucked into endive salad with all the trimmings. The sky was blue-ish and the sun had got his hat on so we piled into the Citroen and pointed ourselves in the direction of St Emilion, which is on the road to Bordeaux – about one hour’s drive.

Beautiful place, and empty of all the usual tourists and ye olde gifte shoppes selling trash, it was a joy to behold, and looked stunning in the stark autumnal afternoon sunlight. We were coaxed into a wine shop where we were dazzled by a huge array of wines of the region (and aghast at the prices) and then felt duty bound to try a few. I always find it difficult to judge red wine as tannic as these were, without any food – even a bit of bread would have helped – and they were chilly too which made it even more tricksy. Anyway, we selected a fine vintage to save for Christmas Day lunch. We revisited the terrace of a hotel restaurant where many moons ago we had supped pink champagne overlooking the extraordinarily beautiful town as the sun went down, before dining in the Michelin starred restaurant and spending more money on food than was strictly sensible. Even Michael Winner’s face would have fallen upon sight of the bill – oh sorry – you’re right, it already has.

We returned to Bergerac and had a wander around the shops (I was desperate for aftershave and refuse to lower my standards) before finding a bar down by the Dordogne for a pick-me-up heart-starter.

Another bottle of champagne, and another evening of fine dining at Le Poivre et Sel which is literally 100m from my front door. Didn’t bother with a taxi on this occasion. Twelve delicious oysters, followed by a beautifully cooked entrecote with sauce forestiere and a dessert (the name of which has escaped me) kept me quiet, and the delicious wines complemented beautifully. By the way, I am now the size of a small barn and I’m looking into getting the front door widened. Now, where’s my walking frame?