At last: I’d reached Irouléguy.

This mountainous Basque outpost is French wine’s final throw. It didn’t disappoint. Where else can you find vineyards surrounded by purple heather, bracken and honeysuckle? The terraces of red sandstone and grey ophite contour emerald hillsides; the plaintive cries of buzzards echo in the air; and the oddly comforting smell of ewe dung is never far away (this is where the softly flavoured, creamy Osau Iraty cheese is made). Basque country lanes rival Devon’s for snugness, threading their way through a valley tide of chestnut and oak; indeed everything, including the impenetrable red-painted graffiti on roadside walls, seemed neat, tidy and fecund.