Worry? About Harry? Hardly likely, I thought. ‘No harm done,’ I said, looking down at the envelope he’d given me. ‘And is this from my cousin, too?’

‘No, Mademoiselle – that came this morning, as I said. By hand.’

‘How curious. I wonder who …?’ I tore the flap, and drew a printed card from the envelope. It was an invitation, of all things. I was invited to a guided tour and wine-tasting, the card informed me, at a time of my own choosing, although a written note along the bottom edge asked would I please be kind enough to telephone for an appointment. How very curious.

Monsieur Chamond was watching me. ‘It is from the Clos des Cloches, I think?’

‘Yes.’ I showed it to him. ‘That’s the vineyard on the hill, isn’t it? The one behind the château? I saw it just this morning.’

‘Yes. The white house.’

‘Odd. I wonder where they got my name.’

‘Ah, no,’ he said, ‘that is my writing, Mademoiselle, on the envelope. The boy who brought it told me it was for the English lady staying here. And you,’ he explained, with a small shrug, ‘you are the only English lady that we have.’

‘But surely …’ I let the protest hang, unfinished. I could hardly accuse my host of making a mistake – that would be rude. And anyway, it hardly mattered. It was just an invitation; probably some sort of marketing ploy delivered round the hotels. Come and taste our wines, and bring your wallet with you – that sort of thing. Strange, though, that they should still be holding tours at harvest-time. I dropped the square card into my handbag and forgot about it.

Well, nearly forgot about it. One couldn’t quite forget about the Clos des Cloches in Chinon, I discovered. The name leapt out at me again half an hour later, from the menu of the restaurant where I’d chosen to eat lunch. ‘May we suggest,’ the menu read, ‘a red wine from the Clos des Cloches?’ Why not, indeed? A half bottle of the youngest vintage could be squeezed within my budget, I decided. The waiter took my order down approvingly, then vanished, leaving me to watch the ebb and flow of passersby along the narrow cobbled street outside the window.

The restaurant was tiny, just six tables and a narrow bar, but Monsieur Chamond had recommended it so strongly I had gamely searched the streets until I’d tracked it down. The French, I reasoned, knew their restaurants. And lunches were a serious affair. Most businesses closed down in France from noon till two, so everyone but cooks and waiters could observe the ritual. I had forgotten how enjoyable it was to sit and eat at leisure, not to hurry, with the warm smells swirling lazily around me and the hum of conversation drifting past from nearby tables. I’d forgotten how wonderful the food in France could be – how even a salad could be stunning, filled with unexpected textures and a subtle trace of spice. And I’d completely forgotten about the wine.

At home I rarely drank wine with my meals, but here in France it seemed so natural, and the half bottle seemed so harmlessly small, that I’d already drunk three glasses by the time I thought to count. And by then I couldn’t do much, anyway – I was feeling quite pleasantly foggy.

So foggy, in fact, that when I’d finally paid the bill and stepped outside, I found I couldn’t quite remember just which way I ought to go. Looking round, I tried to get my bearings. There was the château, off to my right, which meant I should head that way, surely … except it seemed to me I’d come along a wider road than that one … and I had changed direction twice … or was it three times? Blast, I thought, you’re lost.

The tourist map I’d tucked into my handbag proved no help at all. It only showed the central part of town, and the unnamed streets and alleys formed a mysterious web on the glossy paper. It was no use, I decided – I’d have to ask someone.

It was no small thing, here in France, to ask someone directions. The rules of etiquette were very clear – the person you asked was obligated to help, even if they didn’t have a clue, themselves, exactly where to send you. Wrong directions, to the French, were better than no directions at all. When all else failed, they’d pull another stranger into the discussion to assist. I’d caused a pile-up on a Paris pavement, once, by asking someone where to find the nearest bookshop.

So it was with a certain caution that I scanned the passing faces now, waiting for the proper sort of person. The morning’s sun had disappeared behind a swell of slate-grey cloud, and people walked by briskly with their collars pulled tight against the damp. I chose a woman slightly older than myself, smartly dressed and carrying a briefcase. She glanced with mild horror at my map, and I remembered how the French disliked maps – they preferred to ask a person. Calmly, I refolded it and stuffed it in my handbag, listening in patience while she told me how to get back to the Hotel de France.

It sounded rather more complicated than I remembered, but I thanked her, careful not to slur my words, and toddled off in the appropriate direction. The problem with medieval towns, I thought some twenty minutes later, was that the streets all ran whichever way they wanted. Which meant, I thought as the asphalt gave way once more to cobblestone, that following directions proved nearly impossible.

The pavement shrank until there was barely room for one person to walk, and I crowded close against the leaning buildings. These houses had not been scrubbed clean like the houses on the rue Voltaire, and the passing centuries had weathered their walls to a sort of uniform dun colour. Here and there, where the houses didn’t quite meet one another, a darkened crevice lay concealed by broken boards, or a snatch of garden glimmered through the narrow opening.