The Friday before last I was treated to one of the most pleasurable wine tastings I can remember. It was not that the wines themselves were the greatest ever. In my time I’ve been lucky enough to enjoy various series of classic and historic vintages. This was not one of those. And at least part of the reason I enjoyed it so much was that it was in such a congenial setting.

It was in a house close to my own that I had long wanted to snoop inside. The 26 bottles were lined up on a pine table in a pretty, light, comfortable dining area with a wooden floor, lots of cookbooks and interesting bits and pieces round about, a fire glowing in the grate, intriguing family photographs, unscented flowers and a view over a well-tended garden.

The tasting had been organised by a genuine grape enthusiast, not to say grape obsessive, whose interest in wine in general and unusual grape varieties in particular is so marked that he prefers to remain anonymous lest his clients (who belong to another field entirely) feel neglected. After ensuring I had everything I could desire (decent glass, tasting sheet, spittoon, water and, nowadays, chair) Mr Grape Obsessive tactfully withdrew to his study, just within sight, while Mrs Grape Obsessive showed me where I could refuel on Sally Clarke’s delicacies. (I may not eat much when slurping and spitting but there is nothing that stimulates the appetite more effectively than wine tasting, so provision of something more nourishing than a Carr’s water biscuit is always appreciated.)