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The logical next stop on my way north is Burgundy, for all sorts of things cooked in its perfect wine, but particularly beef, sticky, soft and intensely savoury, and then, looking at the route I’ve traced thus far, which flirts with the Spanish, Italian and Swiss borders, it feels like a dereliction of duty not to go and make eyes at the Germans in Strasbourg, too.

It’s a long way to go for some fermented cabbage and faggots, and yet I have a lot of time for fermented things and sausages, especially washed down with cold beer. Also, I note with satisfaction that this puts me in the ideal place to knock off a wobbly quiche Lorraine in Lorraine, and the fluffy little madeleines that occupy such a central place in the national psyche, before making a triumphant entry into Paris via Champagne, which may or may not have invented French onion soup (and God, who doesn’t love French onion soup, all cheesy and oozy and glorious?), but which does, happily, have an awful lot of fizzy wine going for it.