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Usually it’s France with which I associate the gastronomic steeplechase - that delirious, heavy-bellied trawl from restaurant to restaurant, where whole afternoons are spent chatting and over-eating, and where time and wine telescope you inexplicably from lunch to dinner without your actually rising from your seat. And so it came as a suprise in Western Australia, where I found myself tooling from table to table, a touch wobbly as each sitting came a little too hard on the heels of the one before.

It was actually in Margaret River, which lies 150 miles to the south of Perth, the tiny bumper that protrudes at the very south-western tip of the continent. Surrounded by ocean, the area has the easy atmosphere of a seaside resort. And yet, Margaret River is also known for its wines, which brings a rather different air. The vineyards each have their cellar and a restaurant, making it ideal for a lazy visit, enjoying the tastings and over-indulging in the food.

‘Looks a bit like England’, I was told as we set off. People say this about the most surprising places. It’s not usually true, though often you can see what they mean. Margaret River was once a dairy area and you will still see Fresian cows in sumptuous, rolling green pastures hemmed in by woods and hedges. But then the impression is spiked by a ‘blackboy’ at the roadside, a stout trunk sprouting grass, and by the ragged-barked trees that just don’t behave as they do at home. And I’ve never been swooped by a rosella in Wiltshire.

Time was, not so long ago, when Margaret River was known for its caravan parks and hard-toking surf-bums. But over the last 20 years the place has gentrified. Now it’s holiday villas and second homes. There are even golf courses. People have come for the lifestyle - they work from home and consult - and there’s still a slight edge of Bohemian fringe to the place, even if surfers have given up their combies and become wine-buffs. Artists and craftsmen have come too, so there are galleries and chi-chi woodwork shops and cottages industries turning out sexy candles, chocolates and condiments.

Cape Lodge is a fine base from which to make a tour. Set between stands of blue gums and a small lake, it has just a few rooms. The main house takes its name from the South African Cape, from where its architectural styles and original owners came. The present owner, Joanne Clements, has turned it into a hotel. She came down here five years ago after working in Perth:

‘I used to visit Margaret River as a child and I kept telling people to come down, but I could never recommend anywhere for them to stay.’

Things have improved a bit in the last five years and a number of places have sprung up. Certainly Cape Lodge itself is extremely comfortable. The breakfasts there are just too good - filled croissants followed by a choice of exotic breads toasted and topped with locally made preserves including a fig jam that teetered on the edge of chutney - particularly when you bear in mind the epicurean excess offered by the rest of the day.

We set a rule of no more than two vineyards each morning and afternoon. It became a very pleasant routine, driving through stretches of neatly trained vines (almost entirely bare in September) and sauntering into the tasting cellar, running through Chardonnays, Semillons and Sauvignon Blancs and then their Shiraz, Cabernets and Merlots, ending up with a sticky like a botrytis.

Evans and Tate... Vasse Felix... and a stop for lunch - Nori pancakes with Tasmanian smoked salmon, wasabi mayonnaise, fried capers and red pepper essence. At least at lunch there is the chance of drinking at leisure. You can buy a bottle beforehand or you can select a glass to go with your meal as you order it. Afternoon it was out again, Hay Shed Hill... Cape Mentelle... Already by the end of the first day it was clear that our suitcases would be clinking and grinding with bottles as we headed home.

Dinner was at Driftwood Estate - local rack of lamb crusted with sesame seeds and served with a honey and wattleseed sauce. Australian wines seem to be alarmingly strong (often 13% and over). And so, bloated and tipsy, to bed.

Already on the second morning ...Cullens... Sandalford... the aromas and tastes were melding into an all too pleasurable but indistinguishable blend and so it was almost a relief to break the vineyard visits with a side trip to The Gunyulgup Gallery. It stands at a lakeside, all slender metalwork and hefty tables carved from local woods, cutlery and carving knives, ear-rings from blue titanium.

It was another spike to the atmosphere to discover a namesake of mine in the Dictionary of Western Australian Convicts: James Henderson, No. 8890, born in Glasgow. He arrived on the Belgravia in 1864, with a 15-year sentence to serve for house-breaking and worked as a woodcutter, sawyer, fencer and general labouring teamster.

Next day we had lunch at the Leeuwin Estate, beneath paintings that have become the trademark of their ‘Art Series’ of wines. Over yabbies (outsize freshwater prawns) in Asian spices and an extremely fine 1987 Chardonnay, Denis Horgan, the owner of Leeuwin Estate, explained the comparatively recent development of wine in Margaret River.

They were quite scientific about it. In the 60s a survey revealed that conditions were ideal for the cultivation of grapes, similar to Bordeaux, and so three doctors, a mining engineer and an accountant planted and crossed their fingers.

It has done them well. A proudly quoted statistic is that Margaret River produces less than one percent of Australia’s wine, but from that comes around twenty percent of Australia’s premium wines. After a tour of the wine-making process, we emerged, replete, with just enough time for one more vineyard.

By the end of the day I could bear it no longer. Liverishness was looming too heavily and I had to go for a run. I lumbered down to the coast for a work out on the sand. The waves, back-lit in the grim grey light of a cloudy evening, were as dramatic as I have ever seen. The Southern Ocean swell was throwing in 30 foot breakers, but an offshore wind was holding against them, suspending then unnaturally and ripping off the crests, sending swirls and spirals of spray a hundred feet into the air.

Back at Karriview Lodge, another small hotel, which takes its name from its magnificent stand of karri trees, I mentioned them as we assembled before dinner (tomato and panfried havarti salad followed by oven roast lamb loin with sweet potato mash and rosemary plum sauce and then an outrageously strong pudding wine (16%) from the Redgate Vineyard called Anastasia’s Delight). I found that the locals talk as lovingly of the waves as they do of their wines.

‘Of course, the vintners all keep a surfboard in their Porsches nowadays and it’s impossible to get pickers if the waves are up at harvesting time...’

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