In most children’s stories, the good characters live happily ever after. Works suitable for older readers tend to greater realism. Even ‘Gaudeamus Igitur’, that most joyous of drinking songs, presses the case for carpe diem. ‘Get stuck in to your pleasures laddie,’ it seems to be saying, ‘before it is too late.’

With the world in such a mess – less carpe diem than dies irae – the case for a vinous route to escapism might seen persuasive. Housman seemed to think so. ‘Could man be drunk for ever,’ starts one poem, then all would be well. Not for long. ‘But men at whiles are sober/ And think by fits and starts/ And if they think they fasten/ Their hands upon their hearts.’

As often before, but never with such a threat to civilian wellbeing, the Middle East is a heartsore region. ‘Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world/ The blood-dimmed tide is loosed.’ Last time that I wrote on this page, there was almost a note of complacency. I congratulated myself on an evening spent drinking excellent Italian wine in equally excellent company, and we never once mentioned the Middle East.

Was that mere escapism, or was it a necessary respite from the hard questions which will return with the next day’s news programmes? Perhaps it was a bit of both. Anyway, there has been plenty of the Muddle East since, with one interesting aspect.

In previous controversies – Brexit the obvious example, though an older generation would cite Suez – heated arguments would turn into storms at the dinner table, sometimes with actual storming out, followed by strained or broken friendships. I have witnessed none of that over Gaza, possibly because I have not yet met anyone who thinks that they have the answer. So rumination and almost consensual pessimism is followed by ‘Yes, I’d love some more of that excellent stuff’ and – Gaudeamus Igitur.

For joy, read Dorset. I was gazing at a lime tree, autumnal and sensuous. I have always regarded the lime as a feminine tree and this one was certainly bewitching. I was trying to do some writing, knowing that there would be no prospect of that after lunch, but the tree seemed determined to distract me, never hard in that setting.

We were having a grouse, adequately bloody, middle-aged but still succulent. We may be in the fall of the year, but the glorious sight of the birds falling on the moor – not a frequent occurrence if I am the gun – followed by the perfectly prepared carcass falling to the fork is one of the consolations of autumn.

We were drinking Beychevelle ’09, an excellent claret. Bottles often bring back memories. This was hardly a Proustian madeleine moment, because there was nothing of Proust about the late Ewen Fergusson, who played rugger for Scotland and had a distinguished diplomatic career. A former ambassador to South Africa, where his sporting credentials were appreciated, he finished up in Paris. That embassy is a magnificent building – indeed, Ewen insisted that it was finer than the Élysée. Over the years, I have known ambos who did not really have the port and carriage to live up to its splendours. The late Ewen did, and Beychevelle was one of his favourite table wines. We toasted his memory.

In recent days, I have drunk more Burgundy than claret. Morey-Saint-Denis Domaine des Lambrays ’15 was a big wine, as one would expect from the year, and was perfectly attuned to game. Everything was as it should be, except for one point. The whole world is in a mess.