Rose tells me that the next day dawned bright, although it was stretching a point to apply this description to our internal state on the advent of our adventures. The lovely people at the hotel, having had the foresight to stock their breakfast bar with the requisite amount of French carbohydrate and caffeine, waved us – now cheerily and cheered – on our way as we headed off to search for our car in the hotel car park.

Having located the car, we then proceeded to fill it up with Rose’s accoutrements, adding them to the vast array of wanderingman family belongings already spilling out of every crevice. From beers to a guitar, suitcases to multiple hats, our small chariot strained at the seams. Rose had brought not one but two rucksacks with him and we loaded and unloaded multiple times before settling on the perfect packing regime. At one point Rose disappeared back into the hotel to restock up on bread and jam, such was the carbohydrate sapping nature of the task. The sun too was playing its part in our encroaching exhaustion.

Compared to British, or indeed German and Italian motorways, French autoroutes are generally a joy. Fast moving, under-occupied and efficient due no doubt to the preference of most French drivers to tootle along behind militant tractor drivers on parallel ‘N’ roads rather than pay the tolls, they provide a speedy link to far flung destinations in the vast country. So we slipped effortlessly through the tollgate and onto one such road heading towards Toulouse, not wishing, in true Monty Python style, to squander any of our precious time.

After negotiating the Toulouse ring road, heartily sick even of this excellent French motorway, we headed south into the Pyrenees up the Ariege valley, which unbeknown to us, geography not being our strong suit, was actually to be the end of our walk seven days later. Coasting east behind several agricultural vehicles, we eventually turned off to stop for a coffee at a lovely medieval village called Mirapoix.

We entered through an old medieval city gate, to find ourselves in a typical Bastide town, with a central market square surrounded by wooden gargoyled buildings, their first floors covering wide promenade pavements on all sides. We wandered around, not something that took an inordinate amount of our time, before settling down to some gargoyle spotting and a coffee. Despite the close proximity of beer-o-clock we sensibly abstained for a few more minutes as the restaurants began their rigid French opening routine.

No one in France is allowed, by law one presumes, to eat lunch before the clock has struck midday. Prior to this time it is perfectly acceptable to consume as much coffee as is possible, provided one does not allow solids to pass one’s lips. The ritual of the French lunch is a thing to behold. The only people able to consume even a modicum of victuals are the staff themselves, who raise a well practised digit in the direction of the famished populace by sitting outside their own restaurants scoffing away from 11.30 onwards. Aside from the cooks, servers and bottle washers, the tables are empty until 12.00. By 12.01, there is not a chair to be had anywhere, as the French multitudes descend for their obligatory two-hour repast.

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Rose and I played a blinder. We spotted a restaurant slightly off the main square and down a little street, offering a traditional local lunchtime menu. We checked out the menu using the well known ‘sideways glance’ technique. Of particular merit, was the impressive moustache sported by the patron. That was the clincher. Of course, we could not allow our mounting excitement to become apparent to the swirling mass of other waiting diners, so we walked quickly back to the main square and feigned just enough subtle interest in the other restaurants to keep our opponents guessing. Our real interest we kept entirely covert.

At last, as the town clock approached midday, we judged our approach and headed smartly towards our goal, selecting and sitting down at the best table outside just as the hour turned. Our puzzled competitors looked on with bewilderment but we had our prize, and ultimately, our lunch.

We were not disappointed. Lunch in France really is a marvel. Rarely costing more than 10-12 Euros, it generally consists of three courses with bread and wine or coffee. Such a meal in the evening would cost twice as much. “When in France, eat at lunchtime young man”. We ate a traditional local meal including the best boudin (black/blood pudding) either of us had ever tasted. Dense and chewy, it was as chalk is to cheese in comparison to the dull breakfast fare we were used to in the UK. Accompanied by as much bread as we could eat, salad, desert and a carafe of very passable red wine we sat and marvelled at the other fools munching their hamburgers in the square.

Sufficiently fortified and now fully recovered from the previous night’s excursions we once more found our selves directionally challenged by the onward route . Driving in and out of town twice was a little excessive but clearly necessary as we eventually left Mirapoix’s orbit in the direction of Quillan, our destination for the evening. Firstly, however, we had an appointment to keep. We had some beer to taste. We were headed for the Brasserie Du Quercorb.