A few days after my birthday we went to a firework display in Paroisse. The French love their ‘feu d’artifice’ and my experience is that the displays are either good or very good. This one, set off by the old castle keep, was superb, so much so that not many of us in the crowd noticed the onset of unseasonable rain.

During a lull in the entertainment I felt a hand on my shoulder.

‘Remember Monsieur, always to run downhill,’ said the owner of the hand.

It was old Maurice of the hunt.

‘I never walk in the woods without remembering that,’ I said.

He laughed vigorously and shook my hand.

‘But we are quite safe here Monsieur,’ he said, ‘the feu d’artifice will keep the bears away.’

‘I am glad to hear it,’ I said, ‘I imagine that they don’t like the noise.’

‘Just so, Monsieur.’

Conversation was rendered temporarily impossible by a succession of impressive bangs, but the old man remained by my side. Between the crackles and crashes of the display, I believe I could hear the cogs in his brain whirring. During a brief truce in the battle to illuminate the sky he put his hand back on my shoulder. It was my cue to pay attention.

‘You know,’ he said slowly, ‘I have something to tell you. About your house.’

I nodded as a starburst explosion went off over our heads.

‘You will know that the property was once a restaurant. Not a good restaurant but not always bad. Much depended on the mood of la proprietaire.’

‘Madame Toutanu?’

‘Well, yes and no. It was the mood of Basil, Monsieur Toutanu, that was important. He was the chef de cuisine. But when Madame was not happy Monsieur was not happy. You understand?’

Again I nodded as the sky was lit with glittering red and gold.

‘And you knew when Monsieur Basil was unhappy. He would refuse to go to the kitchen. He would refuse to talk. He would just sit in silence at the small table by the window.’

‘On his own?’

‘Sometimes, Monsieur. But most frequently he would play chequers.’

‘With a friend?’

‘No Monsieur, because that would have required him to talk. No, he played with Monsieur Méchant, his dog, who was what you call a Setter Irlandais.’

‘An Irish Setter, playing chequers?’

‘It was most curious and unusual, Monsieur Méchant, who was very large, would sit on the floor at the opposite side the small table to Monsieur Basil. He would wait his turn. He would think. Then he would push the chequers with his nose.’

‘He must have been a very intelligent dog,’ I observed.

‘I don’t think so, Monsieur. I once saw him lose three games in a row.’

Maurice gripped me by the shoulder again, as he walked away, I could still hear him laughing.

We stayed to the end of the firework display before heading for home, moist but mellow.

Driving on twisting country lanes late at night in France is like it was in parts of rural England forty years ago. You can go for miles and see nobody and, when the moon is obscured by cloud it is dark, very dark.

Suddenly up ahead there were faint pulses of light that turned to a twinkling as we came close. And there, by the hedgerow, was a family – Mum, Dad, three children and a dog. All had supermarket bags and torches, except the dog who had a special green flashing collar. They were collecting escargots.

We had seen this many times before, invariably after a shower or two, but never this late at night. The vision had a Stephen King quality to it.

I asked our neighbour, Bernard, about this.

‘I am sorry, Monsieur, if the English do not like I’escargots.’

And that is the reaction I always get. It is a kind of apology and accusation at the same time.

The method is this. First catch the snails and put them in supermarket bags, next carry them home and put them in special cages for a month with a diet of nothing but white flour.

‘The escargots,’ Monsieur, ‘are used to this,’ Bernard confided.

Anyway, after the month of flour you take them out of their shells and cut off the tail part – which contains the liver.

Then, whilst the shells are cleaning up nicely in a bowl of tepid water, you cook the snails themselves in something hotter, the snails are then put back in their shells ready for serving. I imagine each shell and snail has to be marked so that the match up works as it should.

The debate, of course, is in the cooking method. Our friend Natalie sautés them in white wine, while Bernard favours a sauce made from butter, parsley and garlic. The regional recipe – for escargots Charentaise – has them lightly fried in oil, with garlic and onion, before serving them with spicy potatoes and a Bolognaise style sauce. Delicious, I am sure.