DAY SIXTEEN

It might seem like a bit of a jump from twelve to sixteen, but actually I think I was miscalculating (it's the sun and all those Margaritas). It was La Patronne (who else?) who pointed out that since we left on February 1st, the blog day should correspond to the date.

Hmmmm. She's not known as Miss 167 for nothing.

So here we are on Saturday, February 16th - Day Sixteen - and I have just completed my first formal event.

It was at Thousand Oaks, a small, prosperous community nestled among the hills just north of Los Angeles. The bookstore was Mysteries to Die For, run by Heidi and Deanne. There was a good turn-out on a beautiful morning. I had just driven the two hours north from Newport Beach on half empty freeways, and guzzled a caramel macchiato at Starbucks.

I was a little nervous, since this was my first talk of the 2008 tour - discussing the second and third books, respectively, of the Enzo Files and China Thrillers series. I never like to prepare too much, because then I get locked into a battle with my memory for a form of words I might have written down earlier.

So I had simply sketched in a broad shape in my mind the night before, making a few notes on my (now working) new computer, at the end of a long day of too many Margaritas and too much wine. And, as always, I found myself talking about things I hadn't planned to - like my first research trip to an oil rig in the north sea during a Force Ten storm, and a drunken dog with a bag over its head.

If you want to know more, you'll have to come along to one of my events. By the end of the tour the talk will have been honed to a fine art, and will trip off my tongue without a second thought. But there's always something a little exciting about the first one - like the first performance of a new play. A little rough around the edges, but crackling with creative tension.

On the drive back, I could barely keep my eyes open. The sun was blazing through the windscreen, the freeways were choked, and we sat in long tailbacks. It was a huge relief to get home - where awaited a delicious surprise.

The six sample cases of Sarrabelle wines had arrived, delivered by FedEx to Susie's door. All the brave efforts of Françoise at the winery, and the determination of Fabien and Laurent - the winemakers - to make their wines available for my California tastings had paid off.

I also received a mail from Peter Weygandt, the American importer, to tell me that the rest of the wine would be available for shipping from his US warehouse from February 28th.

Woo hoo! Success!!

All that remains now is to taste and drink, and introduce both readers and wine lovers to the delights of Gaillac wines. As well, hopefully, as selling a few books along the way

We made a good start today. Keeping fingers crossed now that all will go well with the rest of the tour.

IT HAS BEGUN!

[Susie and La Patronne herald the arrival of the wine (note Karl Rove preparing his world famous guacamole in BG)]

DAY TWELVE

Now I'm really losing track, having squandered two entire days in that nether world of computer frustration, where nothing seems to work and nothing you do seems to fix it.

The new computer - the one to replace the new one that didn't work - arrived on Tuesday as scheduled. What should have been a simple installation of software followed by a migration of files, all went horribly wrong.

(The scene of the computer crime - somehow we had managed to assemble at least six computers!)

My files refused to migrate automatically through the usual firewire link between the two computers, and so I had to do the migratation, file by painful file - including my entire library with all its preferences.

It took hours. And then, finally, just when I thought it was all hunky dory, my hard disk told me it was full. 120 gigabytes of full. When there should have been more than 70 gigabytes of free space. I went to bed in despair and frustration.

The following day, with the help of Apple expert and software genius, Eric the Viking, I finally solved all the problems and got the damned thing working - with full access to the online virtual world I am researching. Woo-hoo! Back in business.

As a thank you to all, I made lunch. My famous souffle omelette, which the Viking generously described as the best omelette he'd ever had.

And by way of celebration, as well as to make up for missing my session at the gym, we all went out for dinner - well, eating and drinking seems to me like a good way of making up for lost exercise!

At the restaurant, we met up with Susie's neighbours Rob and Linda, and through the windows watched folk sitting outside around tables with huge flames flickering into the night - California style.

Suddenly I became aware that the waiting staff was treating us like celebrities.

For a moment I thought it was because of Rob. Rob is a big, glamorous man with a teak tan and a thick head of pure white hair. He just took early retirement from what must be one of the most exotic jobs on the planet - for the last fifteen years or more he piloted Sony Pictures private jets around the world, rubbing shoulders with famous movie stars, producers and directors, and flying them to every corner of the planet.

But it wasn't Rob attracting the attention of the staff. And it certainly wasn't me.

Then came the revelation.

It was Eric the Viking. Only, they didn't know he was Eric the Viking. They thought he was Karl Rove - political guru and architect of the Bush presidency. I did a double-take, and for the first time realised that the Viking was, indeed, the dead spitting image of the one-time White House puppetmaster.

I was almost in exalted company, I thought. Then re-thought. Actually, I was in much more exalted company than any disgraced White House chief of staff. I was with good friends, in a fine restaurant, with a computer back home that was finally back on track.

Not only that, but I was eating Scottish salmon. A taste of home.

Sometimes life is good. And good friends are even better!

(PS: Can anyone spot which is the real Eric the Viking?)

DAY TEN

Well, it might be ten. Or maybe nine. Even eleven.

See... lost track already. Today is Monday. Yesterday I did my first signing - out on the sidewalk outside Martha's bookstore on Balboa Island. Two hours in the sunshine. Temperature creeping up to 26 degrees. Got a big red face today!

Everyone stopped to talk, to gawp at the kilt (first time I've worn it this trip - and it felt good around the waist after me losing all that weight!!). Then, just like the same venue, same time last year, a couple passed and the woman looked at me suspiciously and said, "Why are you wearing a kilt?'

Of course, I heard immediately from her accent that she was Scottish. "Because I'm a Scot," I replied. And their faces lit up.

Turned out they came from Paisley, where I started my career in journalism on the Paisley Daily Express. Not only that, but we discovered we knew all these people in common from way back in the seventies - folk like Gerry Rafferty and Billy Connolly and Danny Kyle, and a bunch of talented people I interviewed for the paper - all former pupils of Paisley's St. Mirren's Academy. A hotbed of creative talent in those days, it seems.

In fact it was a couple of articles I wrote about a Paisley artist who had graduated from St. Mirren's, that won me my 'Young Journalist of the Year' award. All these years later I can still remember his name. Fergus Hall. I wonder whatever became of him.

So then we discovered that these good folk had emigrated to Tasmania, of all places, thirty years ago, and here they were, decades later crossing my path by chance on a street on Balboa Island, California. It really is a small world. Last year, on the same street, I met a young Scotsman who had married an American girl and settled here in Newport Beach. His parents were there on holiday from Scotland, and it was the father who had given me the odd look and asked why I was wearing the kilt.

Okay, so people are always giving me odd looks - whether I'm wearing the kilt or not. I should be used to it by now.

Then it was off to lunch with the Jensens, my old neighbours from France, who live in a wonderul timewarp cottage in Beverly Hills. Despite now being well into their eighties, they made the drive down from LA to see us, and come along to the launch party in the afternoon.

Susie's House

Susie was hosting the party, and the caterers wheeled in copious amounts of extraordinarily good food, while we cracked open the bottles of Gaillac wine we had managed to find for sale in the US (the good stuff is not scheduled to arrive till later this week). Everyone raved about the wine, though, including a French couple who live across the road and spend Spring and Fall in their apartment in Paris.

The good ladies of Martha's bookstore arrived with piles of my books, and we did a good trade in sales and signatures. La Patronne even sold ten copies of her romantic comedy, "Looking for the Zee".

When finally the dust settled, and Susie had flown off to San Francisco for a meeting today, her business partner Eric (the Viking), and I sat into the small hours playing piano and guitar, dredging up old Beatles songs from the dark recesses of long lost memory.

Practising on the grand during a quiet moment before the fray

And as I drove through the sunshine to the gym this morning in Susie's BMW sports convertible, the long shadows of tall palms dissecting empty streets, I thought...

... I could get used to this life.

If only I could afford the health insurance!

DAY EIGHT

Okay, so I've been hiding for a couple of days. Two things have been on my mind.

The first, and most important, was that my daughter, Carol, was taken into hospital in Bangkok to have a biopsy done on a tumour growing on her liver.

The poor wee soul had a miserable and painful time. She wasn't allowed to move for four hours after the procedure, and was then kept in overnight.

That was Thursday night, California time. Through the wonders of technology, I talked to her in her hospital bed that night. She was in quite a lot of pain, and pretty miserable. She had to wait until early afternoon the following day to get the results. A tense and stressful period of waiting.

I found it difficult to concentrate on much all day Friday, phoning finally late on Friday night. She and her husband, Chris, were just checking out of the hospital. And she was on cloud nine.

The tumour was benign. Huge relief all round.

Carol and Chris on their wedding day


A tiny coda to the story. When the doctor was examining ultra-sound images of her liver he said it was otherwise in excellent condition. I expressed my amazement to her: "After the amount of booze YOU put away?"

She laughed and said: "That's exactly what I said to him."

The other thing on my mind - which was, of course, put firmly into perspective by Carol's predicament - was the purchase of a new laptop computer from the local Apple store.

Damned thing had "issues" as they say here. It was gobbling up memory like a hungry dog on speed. Suddenly a 120 gigabyte hard disk had 450 megabytes left!!!

Not only that, but for some reason it wouldn't run a critical piece of software that I am using right now for research on my new book. A graphics-hungry little number that takes me into a virtual world. Crashed the whole system everytime.

So I have spent more than four hours, over two days, standing at the Genius Bar in the Apple Store trying to solve the problems. First they replaced the computer. We reloaded my files and software. Bingo! Worked like a treat. But still wouldn't take me back into my virtual world.

Further investigations revealed a conflict between a new video card and the access software. A problem that looks like it won't be solved any time soon.

So now I have another computer on the way. Should arrive Tuesday. Hopefully that will solve the problem. All digits crossed!

A final word to Joe, our genius at the bar. We kept the poor man at work way past his going home time - wife and kids waiting for him round the dinner table. But he dealt with us with patience and good humour. Even when he saw us returning the next day, and his heart must have been sinking.

Joe.... thank you. But if the new computer doesn't do the job, expect to see us again on Tuesday!!!

DAY SIX

On this year's tour, I'm not just going to be talking about my latest books, but introducing the wines of Gaillac to the world. This little-known wine-producing region of South-West France is where "The Critic" is set.

I received wonderful help and support from the wine producers there during my researches for the book. From two producers in particular: brothers, Hubert and Pierric de Faramond of Chateau Lastours, and brothers Laurent and Fabien Causse of Domaine Sarrabelle.

Characters from both vineyards somehow magically morphed into characters in the book through the mysterious processes of fiction writing. But the wines made it into the book without any fictionalizing from me.

And so, during my tour, I wanted not only to give a talk about the book, but to invite my readers to join me in tastings of the Gaillac wines that feature in the story. Unfortunately very few wines from Gaillac actually make it to the States. Which is a shame, because there are some fabulous undiscovered wines, at extremely good prices. And I just know the Americans would love them.

So, through a process of diligence and persistence, I finally managed to interest an American importer in bringing in Gaillac wines for my tour - and beyond.

The importer is a man called Peter Weygandt, of Weygandt-Metzler. They are based in Pennsylvania but import to almost all of the states we are visiting. Peter Weygandt himself is a highly respected wine-taster whose choice of wines receives the full-hearted endorsement of Robert Parker - the world's No1 wine critic.

So when he decided to import the wines of Domaine Sarrabelle that was quite an accolade for Fabien and Laurent Causse, who grow their grapes on 37 hectares of rolling land on the north side of the River Tarn. Because he didn't just take my word for the quality of the wine. He had some shipped to taste for himself. And so impressed was he, that last week he went all the way to France to meet the winemakers and taste their wines in the vineyard itself.

He loved them.

But importing wine is no easy task - especially to the United States, where every state has different laws governing the importation, sale, and consumption of alcohol. So it has been a last-minute rush to try to get the wines here on time - and it looks like we might just have succeeded

While the main shipment won't arrive in time for the start of the tour, Domaine Sarrabelle, in cooperation with Weygandt-Metzler, are air-freighting 72 bottles of wine from Gaillac to California so that we have genuine Gaillac wines to taste at the early events.

There are two reds:

The Sarrabelle Syrah, which as you might imagine, is compose mostly of Syrah.

And the Saint Andre, which is produced 100 percent from the Braucol grape, which is one of the signature grapes of the Gaillac AOC.

In addition, there will be a white, produced from one of the signature white grapes - Mauzac

These grapes, along with others like Duras and Loin d l'oeil, are what give Gaillac wines their very distinctive flavours. A little different from Bordeaux and Burgundy, but every bit as good - even if they aren't as well-known.

So, it is with bated breath - after much e-mail to-ing and fro-ing - that we await the arrival next week of the first Gaillacs.

And I'm really looking forward to a taste of home.

DAY FIVE

Two years ago, we were here on vacation in Newport Beach. We wanted to rent bikes and cycle north along the boardwalk all the way to Long Beach. They said it would cost 25 dollars a day. But they were selling old rental bikes for 50 dollars each. So we bought a couple.

I've lost count of the number of days and hours we've spent on those bikes, cycling around Corona del Mar, pumping up and down the boardwalk, lunching at Huntingdon Beach, and fighting our way back against the tug of the wind.

This is the third year we've had use out of them. What kind of a bargain buy was that?!!

Enough of a bargain, I figured, to treat ourselves today to lunch at the Crab Cooker.

It takes about forty minutes to get there on the bikes. Down the hill, over the bridge to Balboa Island. Weave through all the back alleys to the ferry, then cross to the peninsula. And then along the boardwalk.

The Crab Cooker is a relic from a bygone era, when this was the beach retreat of Hollywood stars. And it probably hasn't changed much since then. The waitresses all look like they've been working there since Day One, and wear funny little short, black skirts and white socks. It's not particularly sophisticated, but it's just like stepping back in time. The food is served off paper plates, with plastic cups and cutlery, but it is wonderful.

On the way back we stopped off at Martha's - the bookstore on Balboa Island which will be selling my books at the private launch party this coming weekend. It's a quaint little store tucked away down an alley off Marine Avenue, packed with books piled up on every available space. The two charming ladies who run it, Stephanie and Kathy, weren't there, but the lady who was, recognised my accent, and I was offered a choice of peach tea, coffee, or chardonnay. But that wasn't just special treatment for me. It's a choice offered every customer who comes through the door.

Just along the road is what seems like the only concession to the twenty-first century - the Starbucks where I go every morning for my caramel macchiato.

This is a quaint and curious corner of California which, in spite of all the new build, probably hasn't changed much since its heyday. Strict building regulations have seen to that. Property prices are astronomical. There is a story doing the rounds about how Nicholas Cage fell in love with a house on one of the tiny islands that pepper the bay. He knocked on the door and persuaded the owners to pack up and go with an offer of 25 million in their hands.

The story might be apocryphal, but you could believe it. Just along the coast there was a house for sale last year for more than 70 million dollars. And Cage certainly does have a house in the bay.

The one thing of which I can be absolutely certain, is that I won't be buying a house here!

DAY FOUR

A woman with the largest breasts on the smallest body came strutting past, thrusting her silicone assets ahead of her, cleaving a path through the fetid air of the gymansium. Her hair was a dyed uniform black. Her face had a shiny, fixed smile. It would be hard to say she was attractive. But she was compulsive viewing.

And she was not alone. The gym was filled with women in search of immortality. And pot-bellied men paying lip service to fitness, reclining in cushioned apparatus, reading newspapers and magazines, while bronzed stick legs pumped pedals, in apparently disconnected sycnhronisation with the rest of them.

These were the beautiful people of Orange County sweating their way through the first hour of the day, hoping to spend their remaining waking hours drawing looks of admiration and approval. And there was me, amongst them, fighting off the advancing years, trying to maintain the momentum of the last few months. Sweating off the jetlag.

Susie had taken me to her local gymnasium and acquired for me a two-week free trial membership. The staff were friendly, courteous and extraordinarily helpful. And even remembered my name an hour later when I retired, puce-faced, from the fray.

I love California. And today was the classic Southern Californian day. The sun was shining brilliantly in the clearest of blue skies, the breeze blowing in off the ocean to stir the foliage of tall swaying palm trees. People wore shorts and shades and smiled, and said Hi, how are you today? And I thought of home, where the temperature dips well below zero each night, and folk are swaddled in dark winter jackets and hats and scarves, and will not find their smiles again till the first Spring sunshine melts the frost on the wall. And I knew where I would rather be right now.

Just chilling in the sunshine, working on the new book, and preparing for the campaign trail across America - and I'm not talking about the Primaries (though Super Tuesday will form the basis of tonight's entertainment). I'm talking about the more than 20 events that loom ahead, from San Diego in the far south-west, to Rochester in the frozen north-east, when I have to stand up day after day in front of audiences large and small and sell myself and my books.

Here's the schedule: PETER MAY'S US TOUR 2008

The things a writer has to do to make a living!

PS: While I'm treading blog water until the start of the tour, I'm going to write a piece about how I approach the storylining and structure of my books. Look out for it!

DAY TWO
(or is it three?)

Well, here we are in sunny California, watching the wind whip through the palm trees, the rain hammering against the window. The ocean isn't even visible, and it's only a couple of hundred metres away.

Twelve hours in an aeroplane with the guy across the aisle releasing noxious fumes into the atmosphere at regular intervals. And if he wasn't trying to gas us from one end, he was snoring like a demented yak from the other.

And all to arrive in a rainstorm!

Fortunately I had my computer, and a socket in the armrest, so I was able to bury my head in my storyline for a few hours. That was after sleeping off an exhausting dinner with champagne, red wine and cognac. I'd had the hangover and got over it by the time we were over Greenland, and settled down to work as the winter wastes of the frozen Canadian north drifted slowly by beneath us.

It wasn't actually raining when we arrived - an hour late, delayed in Paris because they had to de-ice the plane. So the shock awaiting us wasn't immediately a weather one. We had been expecting to be picked up at LAX by Susie, our friend from Newport Beach with whom we are staying for the next couple of weeks.

Instead we were gobsmacked to be met by my smiling beau frere - La Patronne's brother. Who only happens to live in upstate New York, around 3000 miles away. Grinning from ear to ear, he said, "Just happened to be passing."

In fact he had booked a last minute flight to spend an extended weekend with us in California - an escape from the winter snow and ice in the north-east. Only to spend his one full day with us today in the rain!

Today was, however, Super Bowl Sunday, and we were invited to a Super Bowl party by Susie's neighbours, Rob and Linda. They have panoramic windows that look out over Balboa Island, and the ocean beyond. Spectacular. And by the end of the game, the sky had cleared enough to provide a magnificent watery widescreen sunset.

Sunset from Rob and Linda's house

Earlier we had indulged in our first Californian meal of fabulous seafood washed down with salt-rimmed margaritas. And at the party we were treated to Mexican chili, and corn bread, and chilled white wine.

The Super Bowl didn't mean much to me. It's the only game I've ever seen that can last half an hour with only two minutes to go! Apparently people only watch for the ads. Never mind, the company was good, and so was the food, even if I could barely keep my eyes open. Mid-afternoon here, the middle of the night back home.

And here I am now, nearly 11pm and wide awake. I feel a sleepless night coming on. Damned jetlag.

Where are those little pills...?

DAY ONE:

Okay. Here we go. On the road again. Day One, and it was grey, wet, cold and miserable as we closed the shutters and set off on the first leg of our World Tour of the US, 2008. Seven whole weeks ahead of us. Nearly twenty cities. Two books to promote. The new EnzoFiles tome, "The Critic", and the third of the China books, "The Killing Room".

Why the hell did I ever want to be a writer?

I watched rain-streaked France flash past the window of our carriage at the head of the train as we headed north towards Paris. Premiere Classe (no accents, cos Blogger.com turns them into mince).

In front of us was a grumpy bastard whom La Patronne had forced out of our seats. Well... you know... these are reservation-only trains. He was in our seats. Spread out across both of them. He wasn't pleased when asked to shift.

What is it with people that they can't sit in the damned seats they're reserved for? Seat anarchy on SNCF. It's a national pastime. Grrrr. A good start (not). He humphed and grumphed all the way to Paris. And the woman in the seat in front of him coughed and sneezed for four hours. It was all I could do to stop La Patronne storming up the aisle and spraying her with disinfectant.

I focused instead on my laptop, and the new book. Made a good start (yesss). 2000 words in the can, and a constructive opening to the story breakdown. It is set in a virtual world - in which I have spent much of the last few months. In there the sun always shines. So it was a reality check to see the rain streaming down the windows and feel the cold eating its way into my bones.

Paris was grim. Miles of grafitti as the train approached Austerlitz. Railways lines always make their way through the most decayed tracts of a city. Paris is no different. And a miserable, yellow-grey February light didn't help.

Neither did our taxi driver. Scariest airport run in twenty years!

He was watching a film as he weaved his way at speed through the traffic choking the autoroute north to Charles de Gaulle. A DVD-powered screen on his dash. An old Alan Ladd film set in the time of King Arthur and the Round Table. I watched the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror as they dipped back and forth to the screen.

Brings a whole new meaning to the word "movie"?

In the distance I saw Montmartre, the Sacre Coeur thrusting up through the mist and rain, before we left the Peripherique, and the airport emerged from the rain.

And so now, here we are, in a hotel within spitting distance of the terminal. A 300 euro a night room, acquired somehow by La Patronne for a mere 99. No sooner had we checked in than I descended to the hotel gymnasium to catch up on the workout I had missed this morning. I've been going daily for two months now. Watching my diet, trying to get myself in shape for the tour.

Lost a stone. Which is fourteen pounds for the uninitiated. Or just over 6 kilos, if you live anywhere in the civilised world. La Patronne has managed half as much again.

She was almost tempted into the hotel swimming pool until she read the blurb. A disposable swimming costume was available. One use only. And we had crazy images of exploding swimming suits. "Your mission, should you accept it, is to swim in our pool. Your swimming costume will self-destruct in five lengths."

Hummmm. could be messy!

Oh, well. Up early tomorrow. On a plane by ten. In LA by one (local time). Into the arms of our very own darling Susie.

Can't wait!

THE SHILLELAH RAP

Ever been whacked with a shillelah? No, me neither.

But I've been bludegeoned by a polished vine root. And made to drink copious amounts of chilled white wine from a giant glass. And encouraged to swear an oath of loyalty to an alcoholic beverage.

And all in the space of about fifteen minutes!

For the uninitiated, this was called an intronisation. Yes, I was intronised. And if you think that sounds painful, read on.

It all took place in the presence of a little-known brotherhood whose twenty-five members wear red and black robes and triangular hats. And it all unravelled this weekend in a tiny village on the south bank of the River Tarn, just a bridge span away from the town of Gaillac in south-west France. Oh, and there were a couple of hundred other people looking on (including La Patronne, and Le Beau Frere who had travelled from the States for the occasion).

In the packed lecture theatre of an agricultural training centre in the Midi-Pyrenean village of Brens, twenty-one chosen ones - myself included - were called down to the stage one by one by the be-robed members of the Order of the Divine Bottle, to be made Chevaliers of the Order. In nearly sixty years, only three thousand people worldwide have been selected for this honour.

Why me? Because my latest book, THE CRITIC, is set in the vineyards of Gaillac, and when I take the book on tour around the US next February, I will be offering Gaillac wines to my readers to taste.

And the purpose of the Ordre de la Dive Bouteille? To foster and promote the wines of Gaillac - a little-known wine producing area which has been making wonderful vintages since the days of the Romans.

So what happened? Well, we were called down to the stage in groups of seven, and made to stand there while our individual sponsors - all members of the Order - delivered two-minute eulogies. And how did they time the speeches?

I watched in awe as an elderly man is flowing red robes knelt at a triangular symbol etched into the floor of the the stage and set a small pot of water boiling over a candle. Some bizarre ritual owing its evolution to centuries of tradition? Well, no. He was boiling an egg. And when it was cooked, time was up.

The wonders of technology!!

My sponsor, or "parrain", was a lovely lady called Francoise Proust - no relation to Marcel, I was assured. After making me blush for two minutes, myself and my fellow chevaliers to be, had to sing a song and recite an oath of allegiance, before being presented with ENORMOUS engraved wine glasses which were filled with copious amounts of chilled white Gaillac wine which we had to drain before the song was finished.

You'll be surprised to hear that I managed to drain mine. Without dropping the glass or dribbling down my chin. Well, not much, anyway.

We had maroon aprons wrapped around us . And since I had my kilt on, bare legs poking out from below the apron made iit look like I might have been naked beneath it. Brass amphoras dangling from red, blue, and white ribbons were then draped around our necks, and the Grand Chancelier of the Order, the distinguished winemaker, Jacques Auques, whacked us on each shoulder with his shillelah - sorry, his polished vine root.

And that was it. We were now Chevaliers of the Order. Members of an elite and unique group of wine lovers whose particular predilection is for the vintages of Gaillac. All that remained was for us to sign the Golden Book - the Livre d'Or - and receive our certificates.

And thence to the gala dinner.

Now, dinners are dinners. And I only mention it because there were two very unusual aspects to this particular repas.

But, before I tell you what they were, just let me run through the menu - and, more importantly, the wine list!!!

Following an aperitif, we were served foie gras cooked in a terrine and served with fig confiture and salad.

Then came the fish course. Perch, caught locally, and poached in a wonderful cream and garlic sauce.

Naturally, our palates were then cleansed by a "trou normande", comprising an iced grape marc.

The meat course consisted of venison steaks served with a blueberry sauce, artichoke hearts and an exquisite vegetable gratin.

Then to the cheese - brought to the gathering by a "confrerie" of cheesemakers come to witness our graduation to the order. It was a ve-ery mature brie from Melun served with a wine confiture.

And finally a lighter than light cake - described as "le d'Artagnan" - presented in a display of fireworks.

But it was the wine.... what can I say? We were served a Gaillac primeur, followed by a sweet white with the foie gras. A dry white Gaillac with the fish, then two different reds with the meat and the cheese. Then finally a Gaillac effervescent - a champagne-type wine (actually they were making wine like this in Gaillac a hundred years before Dom Perignon stole the idea).

What made it all really unique was the presentation of the menu. It was engraved on the reverse side of individual 37cl bottles of Gaillac red provided as part of each place setting. A wonderful memento of the evening - even if the bottles are now all empty!!

But, really, the piece de resistance was the bread.

I have to say, I have never seen anything quite like it. A miniature round loaf at each place, engraved with the legend, 2007.

Was this a sell-by date, I wondered? Or maybe they were just letting us know that these weren't last year's left-overs. Of course, it may just have been notification that this was a very good year - for bread. A fine vintage.

I don't know - not being a connoisseur of bread. But it tasted good. So I ate it. And now, in the famous words of an old friend, "S'gone."

LE PRIX INTRAMUROS

Thursday, October 18:
We gathered around the table in the foyer of the salon where the book festival would be held over the next three days. Myself and five other writers. We had all been shortlisted for the most unusual literary prize in France - the Prix Intramuros. Literally, the prize within the walls. A prize decided by real life prisoners, serving real life prison terms. The book which had won me this place was "Snakehead", the fourth in my China Thrillers series.

There should have been a seventh writer among us. But sadly, the poor man broke his leg while riding (or should I say falling off) one of the new free-to-ride bikes in Paris - "les velos libres".

The seven shortlisted books had been chosen from a long list of forty, before being farmed out to juries of prisoners in penitentiaries all over the north-west of France. The prisoners had all read and discussed the books and voted for their favourite, even before we arrived. But before the prize would be announced, we had to visit the participating penitentiaries and talk to the prisoners. About our books, literature, writing in general.

I should have been accompanied by the guy with the broken leg during a day-long trip to visit a remand jail in Angouleme, and a longer term prison near Bordeaux, but was dispatched along with my chauffeur to deal with it on my own. The other writers headed off to other prisons in the region.

The maison d'arret in Angouleme was a grim, stone-built, nineteenth century prison. Many of the prisoners kept there had not yet been convicted. Some were awaiting trial, others sentencing. Some of them had been held without either for up to two years. A group of fifteen to twenty men trooped into the room where we were to discuss the books. They all shook my hand and sat in chairs in a solemn circle, and three women from the social services department kicked off the debate.

It was slow to start, but I think the guys realised pretty quickly that I wasn't some intellectual come down from his ivory tower to hold forth. I was just an ordinary guy who wrote stories meant to entertain - and was doing his best to speak good French. So they warmed to me, and we ended up having a very lively discussion about the process of writing, of books in general, and of mine in particular.

Two hours later, the ladies from social services drew the session to a close, and I breathed a sigh of relief. One hundred and twenty minutes of French, responding to questions, getting involved in debate, had left my head spinning. I signed copies of my books, and looked forward to escaping the grim claustrophobia of life behind bars. At least I got to leave. I felt desperately sorry for those who had to stay behind - warm, intelligent and articulate men of all ages. What in God's name were they doing in this place?

Then, to my shock, I discovered, that my sentence was not quite over. They were taking me to the "quartier femmes" - the women's wing of the prison - to go through the whole process again with a group of female prisoners.

Beyond a blue-painted barred gate, I was led down a short corridor past the doors of their cells. There are only fifteen women in the whole prison. A room at the end of the corridor provides their sole opportunity for recreation and companionship. It was there that we met, after they were released one by one from their cells. Several of them were very young. Barely more than teenagers. Others were old hands. Tired, drink-puffed faces. They were less focused than the men. More likely to go off at tangents. But we did connect. Escpecially when I told them stories of bizarre Chinese cuisine - deep-fried whole scorpions, dog and cat, ants, hundred-year-old eggs.

And then, when I left, they stood patiently by the doors to their cells to be locked up again in tiny, cold, stone spaces. I found the experience deeply depressing. We have only one life, and for whatever reason these poor souls were wasting theirs.

Out into the sunshine. Free to breath the cool, fresh air, feel the sunshine on my skin. Free to live.

And then an hour's drive south. Almost to Bordeaux, and the prison at Bedenac. A former US military base, this prison comprised a very high wall built all around a huge open space. Inside, once past security, I saw scattered buildings built amid abandoned spaces. There were construction and logging workshops. Cell blocks. An administration block. I ate with the prison guards - cooked for by a inmate, and served by yet another prisoner. It was good grub.

At the far side of the compound was an old US army block which contained a music room and the prison library. It was there that I met a dozen or so men - most of them in their late sixties or early seventies. I was given the warmest of receptions. These were nice, well-read, lucid-speaking men serving long sentences. They ran a well-stocked library and loved to read. After all, what else is there to do with all that time.

Security here was quite different. The men carry the keys to their own cells and lock themselves in at night. We sat around a long table and drank coffee and talked for two hours. They were interested and interesting, and I learned that three of them were to be given special dispensation to attend the book fair at Cognac the next day. Free, and trusted to return. They were looking forward to it in the way that a parched man craves a glass of water, but were already dreading their return.

I enjoyed our conversation. It was lively and intelligent. And afterwards I signed their books and shook their hands, and took the long road north in the dying light, back to Cognac, and the gala dinner to be held in the Chateau Otard - the birthplace of Francois Premier - where the winner of the prize would be announced.

To be honest, I had no expectation of winning. There were several well-known French authors on the shortlist, and it seemed to me unlikely that a foreigner would carry off the prize.

You can imagine my astonishment, then, when they announced my name, and I had to leave my table, applause ringing around the vaulted chambers, to receive my plaque and my 200 dollar bottle of Cognac. "Snakehead", or "Cadavres chinois a Houston" as it is published in France, had been selected by the juries of prisoners - some of whom I had met, and others whom I never would. And I felt a special pride in that. Because these were no professional critics, peddling personal preferences or literary snobbery. These were real readers. Men and women with little else to do with their time but read. And escape through reading. And they had chosen my book. And for me that was worth a hundred critics' prizes.

I felt privileged, too, to have met at least some of them. Who knows what had led them to their prison predicament, or why. But I couldn't help thinking that but for fate they might have been you or I.