She opened the door and four noisy children burst into the kitchen demanding orange juice and biscuits. Meredith and Jo exchanged glances as Steph ignored the chaos and led them upstairs. David clearly had a tough time of it. Jo didn’t really know him, and hoped he was the type who didn’t mind. Unlike her ex-husband, Mark. Stop! she told herself. France is a Mark-free zone. That was the whole point of coming.

She quickly unpacked and hung up her two dresses on a pretty padded coat hanger. How like Steph to get those important little details right.

It was only a short distance into Bratenac, and as Steph proposed that they should share a bottle of wine – if not two – it made sense to walk. Jo found herself instantly charmed by the allure of what the French reverently describe as la France profonde: deepest France, which meant totally rural areas like Savarin, where agriculture and winegrowing were still the main industries and time seemed almost to have stood still. They passed a red road sign featuring two fat geese and the legend Route du Foie Gras. Clearly the fashionable vegan vibe had not penetrated Bratenac and geese were still having their livers stuffed until the poor birds could eat no more and obligingly expired, or were despatched in the cause of gastronomic greed. On the other hand, the stuff tasted so bloody delicious. Oh dear; another modern dilemma to add to the list.

Once in Bratenac they passed a pharmacie, stuffed with enticing beauty and slimming products, the window adorned with a false leg wearing a lacy black pull-up stocking – perhaps it was a support stocking, such as might be found in our own dear Boots? Jo giggled. Only the French could come up with a seductive support stocking. She must go and have a look after lunch. Then there were creams and moisturizers – one of Jo’s weaknesses when she could afford them, which wasn’t often – promising an instant reduction of ten years.

Even though it was early, the Café de la Paix was crowded and almost every table filled, mostly with men in characteristic blue overalls or the uniform of the postal service or EDF, the major electricity provider, with one or two mud-splattered farm workers. Some were already enjoying a petit blanc, the small glass of white wine the French didn’t consider a drink at all.

‘It’s because the prix fixe menu here is such amazing value,’ Steph explained. ‘Eight euro for four courses, including cheese and a small picher of local wine.’

Jo looked round in wonder. Clearly the concept of the sandwich al desko had not hit Bratenac. ‘I’m just so amazed they all drink at lunchtime!’ she marvelled.