Finally, it was time to leave France.

We left the house on a warm sunny morning and headed for Sarlat station to catch the train to Bergerac, the first stop on what was going to be a fairly long journey.

As usual, my pack was too heavy. I have enormous admiration for those people who can apparently put three T-shirts and a toothbrush into a small backpack and disappear for months at a time. I have tried. I simply can’t do it.

In my defence, this trip wasn’t making things particularly easy. We were heading first to China, where it was going to be cold, and then on to Thailand, where it most definitely wasn’t. So somewhere inside my pack were thermals, jumpers, summer clothes and a swimsuit, along with all the other things I had convinced myself were absolutely necessary.

The walk to Sarlat station is only about 1.7 kilometres, which doesn’t sound very far until you put a heavy pack on your back and do it in the sun. By the time we reached the station I was hot, bothered and already wondering what I could have left behind.

At least the train was there.

These days that is not something I take for granted with the French railways.

We were heading to Bergerac, where we were spending the night before flying to Bristol the following morning.

I like Bergerac. It is a small, attractive city sitting on the Dordogne River and its old centre is easy to wander around without really having any particular plan. It was once an important trading town, with wine and other goods travelling along the Dordogne towards Bordeaux and beyond, which brought a fair amount of money into the place.

You can still see that history in the old town, particularly in the timber-framed houses that line some of the narrow streets. Many date back several hundred years and were built with wooden frames filled with stone, brick or plaster. Some now lean in directions that probably weren’t part of the original design, but they are still standing so clearly somebody knew what they were doing.

We had booked a lovely little hotel right in the old town and, once we had dropped off the packs, went out for a wander.

The weather was superb. Summer had finished, the worst of the crowds had gone, but there were still enough people around to give the place some life. Most of the cafés, restaurants and shops were still open and it was one of those times when everything just seemed to work.

We wandered through the old streets and eventually made our way down to the river before heading back to the hotel for a while.

That evening we went out again for dinner and chose a small restaurant on one of the cobbled streets in the old town. It looked good, the menu looked good and, as it turned out, the food was very good.

So was the local wine.

When we arrived they told us their card machine wasn’t working and they were taking cash only. No problem.

At the end of the meal we put the money on the table. There was more there than the bill, so we waited for our change.

And waited.

Eventually I started watching what was happening at the tables around us.

Exactly the same thing.

Cash went in. No change came out.

Nobody appeared to have actually said, “keep the change.” The restaurant just seemed to have decided that anything left over belonged to them.

Now we weren’t talking about a fortune and, had the change been returned, we probably would have left much of it on the table anyway. But that isn’t really the point. A tip is something the customer decides to give you. You don’t just quietly award yourself one.

So we asked for our change.

It was handed over rather begrudgingly.

A strange way to run a business and a shame really, because everything else about the restaurant had been excellent.

We wandered back through the old town to our hotel and, after the walk to the station, the train, carrying the packs around and perhaps a little too much Bergerac wine, slept extremely well.

The alarm went off at 5am.

We had booked a taxi for six to take us to Bergerac Airport and, oddly enough, this was the part of the trip I had been most worried about.

Would it actually turn up?

French public transport can be challenging enough, but French taxis seem to operate according to rules known only to French taxi drivers.

At five minutes to six we were downstairs with our bags.

And then, much to my surprise, the taxi appeared.

On time.

No phone calls. No drama. No mysterious disappearance of the booking.

The driver loaded the bags, drove us straight to the airport and dropped us off with plenty of time to spare.

Sometimes things really do go according to plan.