People often imagine professional wine buying as a glamorous affair. A leisurely drive through sun-drenched vineyards. Elegant lunches with winemakers. Gentle discussions about terroir. The occasional swirl, sniff and thoughtful nod. Unfortunately my whistle-stop tour of France in the Smiling Grape van was nothing like that. Instead, it involved gout, accidental invasions of Swiss territory, an escaped contact lens, several angry French winemakers and a sat nav that appeared determined to get me deported.

The plan itself was straightforward enough. Champagne -> Alsace -> Arbois -> Fleurie -> Sancerre -> Home. Simple. What could possibly go wrong? The answer, as it turned out, was quite a lot.

The Smiling Grape Takes On France

The adventure began in Champagne, where things initially went remarkably well. The van behaved, the weather cooperated and the wine was excellent. This should have been the first warning sign. Travel has taught me that if everything goes smoothly on day one, you're simply storing up problems for later.

From Champagne I headed east towards Alsace before continuing to Arbois in the Jura. This is where things started becoming interesting. Or painful, depending on which foot we're talking about.

The Curious Case of the Migrating Gout

One morning I woke up to discover that my right big toe had apparently declared independence. Every step felt like I was kicking a concrete block. The diagnosis was gout. An illness that sounds like something Victorian aristocrats contracted after eating too much pheasant. The French winemakers found this absolutely hilarious. Apparently arriving at wineries limping like a wounded pirate while attempting to discuss Chardonnay is not considered normal professional behaviour.

For several days I hobbled around France looking like I'd lost a fight with a lawnmower. Then, just as suddenly, the gout disappeared. Excellent news.

Or so I thought.

The following morning I discovered it had simply emigrated. My left big toe had taken over hosting duties. I can only assume the two toes were operating some kind of shift system. One would recover. The other would clock in.

The Hotel Hero of Arbois

By the time I reached Arbois, my walking style could best be described as "injured flamingo." As I limped into the hotel reception, the owner took one look at me and immediately reassigned my room. Not upstairs, down a corridor or even through a courtyard. It was directly outside. The disabled room.

I wasn't even offended. Frankly, I was grateful. At that point, if somebody had offered me accommodation in a wheelbarrow near reception, I'd probably have accepted.

The Great Swiss Detour

The next challenge came courtesy of my TomTom sat nav. Like many relationships, ours had begun with trust which was now beginning to erode.

At some point it decided that the most sensible route through eastern France involved a leisurely tour of Switzerland. This was news to me as one moment I was driving through France and the next I was staring at signs for Lausanne and wondering whether I'd accidentally joined an international rally.

The route took me around Lake Geneva. It was beautiful, absolutely stunning but completely unnecessary. Still, if you're going to become lost, there are certainly worse places to do it than one of Europe's most spectacular lakes.

Contact Lens Versus Autoroute Versus The Police

Somewhere on a French autoroute another disaster struck. My contact lens vanished. One moment it existed and the next it was gone. For the next hour I conducted what can only be described as a forensic investigation of the van interior on the side of a very busy motorway. Seats were moved, bags emptied and every surface examined.

Soon a couple of gendarmes arrived and asked why I had stopped. I explained the situation and they kindly helped with the search. Eventually one of the gendarmes found it under the driver's seat. Quite how it arrived there remains one of the great mysteries of modern science. I briefly considered celebrating with a glass of wine before remembering I was driving and standing next to a couple of grumpy French policeman.

The TomTom Vineyard Incident

Unfortunately, the sat nav wasn't finished with me.

Many navigation systems guide you around vineyards. My TomTom appeared determined to drive through them. Repeatedly.

On several occasions I found myself squeezing down tiny vineyard tracks that clearly weren't intended for delivery vans, tourists or anyone with a functioning sense of self-preservation. This did not go down particularly well with the locals. More than once I was greeted by French winemakers waving their fists in a manner that suggested they strongly disagreed with my route choice. To be fair, they were probably right. Nothing says "professional wine buyer" quite like accidentally driving through somebody's livelihood because a small electronic box told you to.

Mont Blanc: So Close Yet So Far

One of the planned highlights of the trip was Mont Blanc. The highest mountain in Western Europe. Snow-capped peaks, spectacular scenery and epic views. Unfortunately, at this stage my right foot had effectively resigned from active service. While other visitors were heading towards cable cars and mountain viewpoints, I was calculating whether I could make it from the hotel reception to breakfast without requiring medical assistance.

As a result, my visit to Mont Blanc largely consisted of looking at it. From a distance. Very slowly. While limping. Technically I saw Mont Blanc but I just didn't experience much of it.

Lunch With The Harvest Crew

One of the memorable meals was at lunch in Fleurie. The harvest was underway and I joined the vineyard workers for lunch. Now this is one of the great traditions of French wine. Long tables, simple food, local wine, stories and laughter. The sort of meal that reminds you why wine is really about people. Unfortunately, by this point I was still hobbling around like a pirate with alternating foot injuries. The workers seemed fascinated. I'm fairly sure they found my condition more entertaining than the food and wine.

Sancerre: Victory At Last

By the time I reached Sancerre, something miraculous happened. The gout vanished. Completely. I could walk normally again. I wandered through vineyards. I climbed hills. I strolled around town and not a single winemaker laughed at me.

I began convincing myself that perhaps I'd beaten it. Maybe it was the fresh air, the delicious wine or Sancerre itself possessed magical healing powers.

I drove home feeling triumphant. Unfortunately, gout had one final surprise planned. The moment I returned home to St Neots, it came back. Immediately as if it had simply taken a holiday.

By then I'd accumulated:

Two affected big toes.
One missing-and-found contact lens.
Several angry winemakers.
An unexpected tour of Switzerland.
A deeper appreciation of disabled hotel rooms.
And enough French wine to justify the entire adventure.

Looking back, it was exactly the sort of trip that never appears in glossy travel brochures. Nobody writes: "Experience world-class vineyards while your gout migrates unpredictably between feet."

And yet those are often the journeys you remember most. The truth is that wine travel isn't always elegant. Sometimes it's limping through Arbois, arguing with a sat nav, explaining to a French winemaker that you genuinely didn't mean to drive through his vineyard and sometimes it's about a grumpy policeman finding a contact lens under a driver's seat and feeling like you've won the Tour de France.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. Though next time I might bring a better sat nav and perhaps some steel-capped shoes for my big toes.