As it was for many of my generation, 1968 was the formative year of political education for me. At the end of the university term in June, I was at a loose end. My friend Philip had somehow secured a commission to drive a Volkswagen Beetle, belonging to the wife of the Tunisian ambassador, through France to Marseilles. He offered me a lift as far as Paris. I leapt at the opportunity to witness at first hand the riotous événements that had engulfed Charles de Gaulle’s Fifth Republic.

At Dover, we were almost blocked from crossing the Channel by an obstreperous British customs inspector who, ignoring the proudly displayed CD plates, demanded to know how much cash we were carrying.