There’s a chain of supermarkets over here under the brand of Picard, which in a “mums gone to Iceland” kind of way specialise in selling over-priced, under-nourishing frozen meals. Contrary to my first instincts, it isn’t named after the captain of the USS Enterprise, but Picard is the name given to things or People coming from Picardie (about an hour North of Paris on a train).

This seems to be rather wishful thinking on the part of the retailers, as after my trip to the Region last week, I’m happy to say that the verdant agricultural land I looked like it was providing rather better quality veg than that found in my last ready-meal.

Picardie seems to be very much the antithesis of Paris, with endless fields of beet and cereal replacing the speeding scooters and honking taxis, and the people actually have time to stop and talk to you.

I was there for a Pink Party – no, not a rural Gay Pride, but a village knees-up to fete the end of the summer – all taking place on the rather impressive old farmyard of Jacques parents.

In the best village fete tradition, this meant that I spent most of the day dirtying my party clothes by helping clear out the barn, put up the lights and the stereo and slice enough Sausage to keep Germany going for a fortnight, before the entertainment started in earnest accompanied by a rather impressive Picard sunset.

Cue plenty of booze-fuelled conversations, and endless cheek-kissing with friendly rural types – I even managed an in-depth debate on the Common Agricultural Policy, though whether I, or the guy I was talking to were talking any sense is anyone’s guess – I was quite a few Jacqueline’s down by that point*

*Note: Jacqueline is not the village bike: She’s a mix of white wine, grenadine and lemonade