I’ve lost all track of what day it is. I know that usually happens in the Twixmas period, but here on the other side of the world, I have only managed to keep the most tenuous grasp on the days since we arrived.

I’m reliably informed it’sa Sunday, but no papers for another eleven hours means I’m not sure as yet. One thing is certain. After a breakfast sat out in the most glorious sunshine, we have to set off for a wine tasting and picnic.

Richard loves his wine. So here in the heart of Australian wine country it’s only right that we visit a vineyard and taste its wares. Not that we would have far to go as either side of every road is laden with vines. It’s reminiscent of a visit to my dear friend, Janie Millman’s, in the Dordogne, but here there just seems to be a little more of everything. Vineyards with fake stone gates and walls announcing their name in the largest of fonts. "Tamburlaine", "Stomp", "Cockfighters Ghost."
It’s impossible to choose, though choose we do.

"Audrey Wilkinson" is our choice. It sounds more like a hairdressers from Manchester than a vineyard, but once we learn that Audrey is a man, it all starts to become just a little more credible.

We are met by Bev who will run our tasting. Bev may have been around since Audrey’s day. They may have shared the same hairdryer, but she knows her stuff. Richard is handed a glass of sparkling wine and, joined by two young people from the UK, we are off. Semillion, Tempranillo, Pinot Noir, Muscat, Malbec and the works, are brought, sniffed, slurped, and explained.

I gave up drinking twenty years ago this year, and the desire to start has never come back so I am quite happy sipping water and joining in with the occasional sniff and opinion. “Ah yes, I’m getting daffodils, old sofas, and a hint of car tyres.”

At the end of the tasting comes the fun. Each couple is provided with a picnic rug, a hamper, a bottle of wine, soft drinks and instructions as to where to find a tree with shade. Good thing too as the temperature is now 42 and rising.

Lunch is divine and its hard not to fall into a long snooze on the hillside, but we resist the temptation.

A stop for ice cream on the way home, a plunge into the pool, and a cup of tea and a Tim Tam together with the Sunday Times have a key role in the afternoon.

More kangaroos to watch and then dinner.

It’s not just wine that is delivered with excellence here. The Hunter Valley is a foodie’s paradise and tonight we strike gold.

Esca is a restaurant about half a mile down the road at Bimbagden, another wine producer. The food is beyond compare. Richard declares his chicken breast to be the best he has ever eaten. (He has forgotten the two Waitrose Kievs I did one Friday night with chips).

But the true magic is saved for the end of the evening. Driving home in the big brute of an SUV we have hired, we approach a roundabout and caught in the headlights are eight to ten kangaroos. We slow down, mercifully no one behind us, and Richard opens the window. We look at them, and they look at us. Calm, unafraid, and content. It is a moment of true Australia.