I should declare a bias before I start. I grew up in regional Austria surrounded by agricultural co-operatives. The Lagerhaus sold the seed, the fertiliser and the diesel. The dairy co-op collected the milk. I’ve known them from the farm gate and, briefly, from inside the farmers’ league that runs alongside them. I’ve seen what they do well when their members actually run them, and I’ve seen what happens when governance gets comfortable and they start behaving like the corporations they were founded to keep at bay. They remain, perhaps sentimentally, a favourite of mine.

Part one ended in a Tuscan osteria where everything on the table came from the valley outside. This one starts in a pub in an Australian wine region, vines on every side, where I asked what local wines they had and got a blank look.

I’ve just spent some time in the hills between eastern Tuscany and north-western Umbria, and I kept running the same small experiment without meaning to. Walk into an ordinary osteria in a town nobody outside the province has heard of. Ask for the house wine. Ask where the oil on the table came from, and the cheese, and the meat in the ragù. The answer, almost every time, is a place you can see from the window.