Being in pursuit of great food was like buying a painting from an unknown artist; you were always driven by the thrill of expectation.
The Relais Châteaux gourmet cuisine establishments also happened to be housed in the most splendid real estate like monasteries on hills commanding the best views, gorgeous walled gardens, riverside banks, or behind old town ramparts belonging to another era.
They were another world unto themselves, and it was all part of a complex French formula that I wished I had understood more about, and were part of. It was like a secret order.
I knew that not all French towns were pretty, not all French women were beautiful, and not all-French food was good.
When someone in the local planning office designed the one-way system and ordered several dozen 'centre ville signs' they created a modern day motorist’s nightmare - but they knew that.
A typical road sign requirement for a town such as Valance would be about 45 'centre ville' signs and 2,000 litres of white paint for arrows to point in all directions.
The town planner probably had a road sign manufacturer cousin, and a white paint supplier brother, as nothing could be so well co-ordinated for a few men unless driven by a profit. This confusion on the roads was not accidental.
Back on the péage, I was dying to 'mark territory', again, which was another frequent activity that leaves plenty of memories but never any photos.
We pulled into a car park next to a newly built petrol station where two little conveniences - one for him, and one for her all well marked. Nothing could seem simpler.
Nearby, three coaches had emptied all its occupants onto the grass to eat baguettes at midday. As they munched, their eyes were transfixed on the blue and pink toilet doors, but I boldly walked straight on in.
Behind the modern door, to my horror, was every woman’s nightmare, 'le pissour!' I knew the French were desperate to keep their language and identity, but there were human rights in Europe!
The night before I had been flicking through glossy French magazines that featured articles about glamorous people trying to save the French culture at charity events in the best venues devoted to the cause, but who organised the 'save le pissour’ party?
Why were women in this century peeing down their legs? God forbid your aim was off, and it was a Louboutin shoe full!
Was it some stupid local planning man, a relative of Mr Paint Blanc, or Mr Centre Ville road sign who still installed this awful relic from the past?
Women of France should be marching in the streets in protest and not rest until they had every one of these miserable holes cemented up for good. It alone was a vote winner and a neglected cause.
No wonder the picnic bunch sat on the grass munching and watching as they were playing 'spot the wet legs' game, and betting on the fools who entered dry.
Relieved to get back into the car I saw Tom waiting, engine running and smiling. “You ok out there I was worried for a bit?”
“Yes thank you all good it was just another hole in the ground in the ladies room for no good reason” It was nice he had asked until I realised the air con was turned up onto full blast and I froze in the cold air.
I was travelling in a high speed fridge, weaving between trucks driven by a cold blooded a one handed hysterical driver up the backside of lorries.
Looking across the rain soaked fields I decided to concentrate on tonight’s dinner.