It must have been at around about this time that we knew we could not stay any longer in wine country. Pleasure was all very well, but we had a journey to continue. The Barossa was the Australian equivalent to the Valley of the Shadow of Death; no pilgrim was ever going to get where he was going if he paid too much attention to what was in it. So we said our fond farewells and in the morning headed back with heavy hearts to Adelaide.

Well, to Glenelg actually. Glenelg being the most popular of Adelaide’s seaside suburbs, the birthplace itself of the State, and, according to Ros’s father, the only resort in Australia that was spelt the same way backwards. Parents do not know the effect they have; the only reason we went to Glenelg was because we wanted to stay in a palindrome.

And we needed to be comfortable too. On the way back from the Barossa we had called in at a camper-van company which was prepared to rent us a vehicle one-way to Alice Springs. I hadn’t definitely said yes, yet, but Ros had. She had even picked the colour van she wanted. It seemed to me that if we were to go ahead with this I needed to give my body two or three days of absolute rest. Some men like to compose their thoughts before an uncertain expedition; I like to repose my skeleton. So I rented a converted chapel with soft beds and a view of the sea from a fretful fugitive of Birmingham whose name was something like Donny Osmonde.