I was late, oh so late, and my car's GPS had expired in the midst of remote vineyards and stands of cypress and golden fields of humanoid-looking sunflowers. So this American hurtled down medieval French farm roads making wrong turns after wrong turns until, miracle sacré, I suddenly found myself at Hotel La Réserve in Albi, a handsome country hotel with manicured grounds and a glittering swimming pool.

Attractive, if anxious-looking, young men and women parted, and at their centre, sitting on a white couch, was poor Thibaut Pinot, the great hope to capture this tour for France.