At four in the morning I woke up without a hangover and heard Ros padding about the chalet, laughing to herself. Away from the dense cluster of wineries the Barossa appears to be good sheep farming country. The gently rounded hills, pale gold in the daytime, are criss-crossed with animal tracks which from a distance look like rivulets that have forgotten which way to flow. In so far as you can tell with sheep they seem to like it here. But then it would be blank ingratitude to feel any other way. Even by the usual high standards of beneficence set by valleys the Barossa is painstakingly protective. To live in its shelter is to have a great arm around you, shielding you from every vicissitude.

Yet for all its moderation it can suddenly burgeon with almost tropical plenty. The garden path to the Landhaus, for example, is overhung with fig trees, wild cherry, weeping willow, and quince – a dense abundance of growth without, only matched by the fertility of Franz’s cuisine within. Yes, we did accept the invitation to take up where we’d left off the night before, even though, in the clear light of morning, we had wondered whether anyone would ever remember having offered it. We’d ventured out of doors fairly early, careful not to wake the Davises, only to see Angela in the yard clearing away several dozen bottles. It was when she greeted us with a yodel that we knew we weren’t free to leave the Barossa just yet.

We were not, of course, able to reproduce our previous uproar. Franz’s commitment to the kitchen made that impossible. But out of their own house the Davises were more rampant than ever; Angela queenly and indecorous by turns, Colin unable to contain himself in the excitement of confessing everything he had never experienced. ‘I’ve never done that,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I would have the courage even to think about doing that.’ Beneath his spectacles his eyes rolled in a riot of innocence. The world was all before him.

Over the roulade, he and Franz discussed a business idea they’d been pondering. They wanted to organize escorted trips to the Barossa for wealthy visitors and executives – escorted in the sense of in the company of a beautiful woman. Their idea was for a complete packaged weekend away from it all, a weekend of food, wine, conversation, exercise, all the civilized activities in short; after which if it was mutually agreeable, if it was what both parties without any sense of pressure felt to be appropriate – but not, absolutely not, if it wasn’t – then . . .

‘A bit of nooky would be all right,’ Angela said.

‘You could call it Vineyard Venery Safaris,’ I suggested.

No one thought this snappy enough.

‘Nooky Tours,’ Angela proposed.