It was a cloak-and-dagger operation for a birthday party of the highest calibre.

Adrian (wine-shop owner in Montolieu and friend to everyone) was instructed to be home from work BY 8 O’CLOCK, and NOT TO BE LATE, and I was given one job, and one job only – and that was to make sure he obeyed instructions. But as the nearby church bell chimed 8 times, Adrian was still insisting he had to do this and that in the shop.

In the end I had to tell him how much I valued my testicles, that I dearly wanted to keep them, and to do what he was told. So, we eventually left the building and climbed into his van.

I discretely sent a text… “WE ARE COMING. 5 MINUTES!”

When we arrived at his house we were ushered to the flood-lit garden where 30 or so friends were assembled, ready to sing a song about a Massey Ferguson tractor. When the song was finished, Adrian was handed a small model tractor and told to tap it 3 times and say “ABRACADABRA”.

The crowd then parted ways. A giant tarpaulin-covered object was behind, and the cover was then whipped off it, revealing what must be the coolest and most unique birthday present imaginable. There were many tears of joy.

And why do I say I kind of became French? Apart from a couple of exceptions, I was the only Englishman but I discovered I already knew most of the guests. Without too much thought, I managed to converse in French the whole evening.

And I really felt privileged to be part of proceedings. It’s what being in Montolieu and the Writer’s Retreat is all about… friendship.