And then there was the trip "up the Douro". After several pipes of port at dinner, we carried on around the pool. I found my door frame at about three and was awakened around five-ish by one of the women who, not being able to find hers, swayed into my room by mistake. I’ve often wondered …

Staying with only three others at an elegant, but very empty, Bordeaux château, after a vintage dinner one of the female guests refused to go upstairs for fear of ghosts. Several hours later, after we’d checked all the rooms and turrets, she agreed – it’s official – Pichon-Longueville is a ghost-free zone. I can’t vouch for Comtesse of course.

A northern Rh ône winemaker rushed off to bring us one of the last bottles of his best vintage ever. After tasting, I sp at the wine into the ceramic spittoon. The jagged look on his face told me that he’d just decanted his precious vintage into a ceramic jug.

Typically, the manual doesn’t even mention embarrassing journos.

By John Downes MW