A picnic of spice-rubbed chicken, thick logs of saucisson, boiled eggs and homemade mayonnaise, a celeriac slaw and three different cheeses was packed, and bottles of ice-cold rosé infused with grapefruit were tucked in between towels and hats. There the river was cool and clean and there was no one around but us.
We lay on the picnic rugs biting into apricots, drinking our wine and singing and dancing to a 60s record on the way home, much to the horror of our chef's 16-year-old daughter, (we got her joining in by the end, don't you worry).
I know I'm getting all dreamy on you, but it was that good. Just when people may have given up on Paris, the countryside swoops in and rights all the wrongs.
Vive la France, I say. And thanks to my mum for packing me in her suitcase.