On its native ground, that splendid French institution – the Michelin Guide – provides a reliable and rigorous guide to worthwhile establishments in obscure locations, so Red Guide in glovebox, you find yourself in Somewhere-sur-Somewhere for no other reason than the promise of a very good meal.

The village of Crossmichael (just outside Castle Douglas in the neglected south-west corner of Scotland) is the Scottish equivalent of Somewhere-sur-Somewhere and boasts an establishment – the Plumed Horse – with a coveted Michelin Star for chef Tony Borthwick.

The Plumed Horse inhabits tricky, potentially unpromising premises, small and on two floors.  Décor? Think Jocasta Innes on acid.  The walls are glazed sunshine yellow with Jackson Pollock silver-grey splatters. The wine list is extensive and not rapaciously priced. There are five choices for each course, with twice baked Cheddar Soufflé of Loch Arthur Cheddar served with Sauce Soubise.  You start by nibbling first-rate home baked rolls, and just to conclude my current obsession with crispy Duck, Borthwick’s confit has to be the best yet.  The succulent meat fell off the bone while its skin was delightfully brittle under a heavy coarse salt and pepper dusting.  He serves it on a toothsome compote of beetroot, red onion and red cabbage, delicately flavoured with a hint of caraway and possibly cumin seed.  Terribly good, as was his ballotine of Goose and Duck Foie Gras, studded with explosive green peppercorns, napped with a light Muscat wine-spiked calf’s foot jelly which dissolved in the mouth into a savoury elixir, all encircled with win-soaked white sultanas and dabs of intense orange sauce.

Any grandiose Michelin establishment in France offers the chef’s selection of desserts, brought to the table with more pomp and circumstance than a ceremonial haggis and verbally introduced with awe-inducing eloquence. Borthwick does a lavish and eye-catching job with his. His ices are fabulous: Pistachio ice cream like liquid marzipan, a cassis sorbet reeking of blackcurrants, an apricot sorbet that tastes as though it had been made with fruits soaked in the sun of the Midi, a sorbet that smells like freshly-harvested ripe Bramleys and a subtle cinnamon ice with a perfume of those archaic Oddfellows sweets. What can I say? Not basically either my kind of place, my kind of clientele or my kind of food, but once in a while, you have to admit that Fat Mitch does have point.