Just polished off a dozen oysters (no1 fine clair, ile d'Oleron) and filets de perche, sauce citron-beurre, salade verte, washed down by a virtuous half Muscadet sur Lie.

All aforesaid courtesy of Super U, Passy – heard on RMB (Radio Mont Blanc) they had an oyster sale on and the rest, as they say, is history.

Before anyone gets tempted to have a go, let me hastily add this is our first break since arriving Tuesday morning, and well earned it is, too.

To back-track . . . The Boss had declared an early NY resolution; we were kindly asked out to dins on departure-eve by old ski-chums Steve and Rosti and She was going to have everything packed in advance so as to enjoy the evening.

Well, the best laid plans . . . problem was, all the fresh produce had to be picked up last minute to ensure tip-top freshness, so CJ's packing started a little late in the day.

She was sportingly un-techy about it until the following morning, having got up at 5am for the 8pm sailing, yours truly couldn't track down his credit cards . . . all of them. And the coat he was adamant they were in? Vacuum packed deep in the entrails of the Scudo.

So out came half the van, strewn across a rainy Albany Road and guess what? No cards. Little light chat over the talkie-walkies as we headed down to the boat.

That lovely man Brian Convery had eased the packet-pain with a dog-cabin so sleep, the great restorer, cast its balm o'er the troubled breast and all was serene as we steamed up the Mersey where 100 years ago Ellan Vannin nose-dived to fame.

Now the plan was to hit Biddestone Farm, a well-trod doggie destination recommended by Young Ada to stretch cramped paws but instead we hit on Birkenhead Park, a decidedly posher alternative, just the biz before motoring off to Leeds to pick up the young fella.

An odd route to the sun, you cry, but it's a wizard itinerary pioneered by Abacus Tim and Spouse with their mutts in the summer – overnight Hull–Zebrugge (all watertight doors firmly shut, thank-you – why are images of maritime disaster constantly intruding an otherwise delightful trip?)

Big beasts, these P&O overnighters – floor-shows, would you believe, and roulette to entrap the unwary. Unpractised, we neglected to book fast enough for an early Bistro meal but the wait (lubricated with a couple of snifters) was pronounced well worthwhile when the Boy finally wrapped his chops round an on-bone sirloin with all the trimmings.

'And my very best regards to Madame' from our attentive waiter as we settled up, She having slipped on deck for a quick post-prandial puff. Charming chaps these Belgians . .

But that opinion was rapidly revised next morning, or rather they lose all pretensions to charm when they slip behind the wheel. Worse drivers than the French!

At least Francois indicates before cutting you up, his low-country neighbour scorns all advance disclosure, darting from lane to lane like as if to assuage an itch.

And as for the Luxembourgeoise . . . who? What in Hades were you doing there? Ah, well the European road atlas was in the single-driver car and for that and various other reasons East won out over South and before we knew it we were well into a full-blown Grand Tour.

So what to do, on a motorway junction somewhere on the periphery of Brussels? You've guessed it, Luncheon! And suddenly things weren't half so bad.

In fact the route was not so wide of the mark as it might seem, wiser counsel (after the event) concluded Germany and Switzerland would have sped us well on our way, but we chickened out and headed sharply south, picking up the old route at Chaumont and overnighting near Bourg-en-Bresse, so crossing the Rhone well-rested Tuesday morning and climbing the magnificent Autoroute Blanche via tunnels and viaducts with Herself happily prattling about the first snow-on-the–trees moment.

Jont was dropped off at Geneva airport (muttering darkly about anti-snoring remedies) and with RMB playing Robbie Williams we zig-zagged our way up home to Les Carroz.

And a true home-coming it felt. From the first smile from the Chief of Police crossing the Square to collect his market-day back-handers ('Mon Dieu, thy're back') it was genuinely cheerful greetings at every turn, Skili jamming on his anchors and dislodging a roof-full of snow outside the door, Bruno (Ski Demi-God) shoveling his van out and Anne-Marie all kisses, last week's long-distance row clearly set aside. It's lovely to be home.

PS. Well done Nicki, proud winner of 2 de-luxe beer-mats this week. Who will be first to locate this week's puzzle-pic?

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