Still no hangover, though I could feel one nudging at the fringes of my perception. John’s breakfast was again adequate but unremarkable, and his cleaner, Mary, appeared on the scene. As we were about to leave, he mentioned his wife, Karin. Where was this mysterious Karin, we wondered, and did she know about Jenny and Mary? Was John a secret bigamist, and was Martinborough a hotbed of salacious steamy sin? We’ll never know. What’s more, we hadn’t been to any of the vineyards which constitute Martinborough’s raisin d’etre (sorry). And it’s too late now, though I’m sure they’re great, and we did try some local wine at Est – which was very good.