US Edition IN my sunlit glass of lager I can divine waitresses in dirndls, cobbled pavements, and immaculate timbered faades tricked out with lovingly painted signs. It is a perfect reflected world, but on this day, there is also something rotten in the heart of Alsace: emanations from an ancient iron drain under the pavement table are almost putting me off my Kougelhopf.
My slice of traditional almond cake is gloriously authentic - as is, I suspect, the medieval pong rising from the ancient cobbles of Riquewihr, arguably the most picturesque of the area's Wine Route villages. The food, the hospitality and the service here are also reliably good and no-nonsense - and, of course, you are in one of the world's great wine regions. Your visit will almost certainly turn celebratory in the presence of Riesling, Gewürztraminer and Pinot Gris.
It is not surprising, then, that when I set off to walk to Riquewihr from the medieval city of Kaysersberg, on this morning, I was feeling somewhat fragile. I passed over the rushing waters of the Weiss by the old fortified bridge and made a quick diversion to the 13th-century castle for a panoramic breather and a peek at the Rhine Valley, before setting off up waymarked trails into the woods.
In spring, the lower slopes of these densely grown, but far from gloomy, Vosges hills are perfumed by bee-beseiged stands of false acacia. Higher up, under the fir and deciduous cover, asphodels, honeysuckle and dog roses are out and coppiced sweet chestnut in tassel.
A First World War bunker, half-buried under leaves and undergrowth, was not at first enough in itself to introduce a sombre note to this idyll - there are, after all, plenty of these redundant pillboxes to be found around East Anglia, where I live; it was just that this one, unlike those at home, had been punched in the not-too-distant past by heavy calibre ammunition. This contributed a note of uncomfortable reality, as had the abundant bullet pocks I noticed behind hanging baskets of lobelia on the pink sandstone walls of nearby Kientzheim.
Following wild-boar prints down the trail, I came upon a wayside shrine under an old oak. Our Lady of Perpetual Succour then directed me (or so I like to think) down the path to Riquewihr, to a beer and a slice of delicious cake and that drain.
Coming down here from the hills into the valley of the Sembach, you pass through vineyards. In this region, everything that isn't village or deep forest is given over to vines. And why not - when the equable, long-drawn-out summers and the distinctive qualities of granite, sand or chalk-based soil can bring forth such delight?
As Justin Boxler, full of a fizz that would do credit to a man a third of his age, assured me beside the barrels in his cellar in the village of Niedermorschwihr: "Without our special earth, nothing!"
"So an Alsace farmer must keep some under his fingernails to remind himself what is important," someone piped up. Mr Boxler, who told me that his family have been in the same house and the same business for 16 generations since 1548, grinned. But local hausfrauen, whose passion for cleanliness is legendary, would have disapproved.
Niedermorschwihr is five or so miles south of Riquewihr if you take the low roads through the vineyards, but a day's hike if you go by way of the wooded hills. With its twisted church spire, gables and timbered buildings and narrow cobbled streets, the town is very like Riquewihr, but has somehow escaped the cuteness.
It's worth dropping in on Mr Boxler, who will probably persuade you to try his favourite, chalk-grown Riesling together with some hors d'oeuvres of sauerkraut and sausage in pastry and - if you are lucky enough to be there early in the year - tips of wild asparagus.
You might then wander along the main street to the bakery belonging to the Ferber family. This unassuming little cornershop can reasonably claim to make the best jams and pastries in France.
Christine Ferber, whose parents started the business 40 years ago (originally just making breads), was 16 when she decided to train in the tricky art of pastry-making.
That was more than 20 years ago, and since women were not then accepted for training anywhere in France, she had to go to Belgium to learn the finer points of her craft. The rest is history: she went on to win the country's highest award for patisserie - and France's pastry mafia no longer excludes women.
As for the jam, the secret, reveals her brother, Bruno, is to use copper pans and never let the ingredients boil. He asked me to choose a sample pot and I unhesitatingly picked out a preserve of wild bilberries, probably because I'd happened to notice an order for the same jam from President Jacques Chirac stuck on a nail on the kitchen wall. Now I know why.
On a fertile edge of the Rhine, within sight of the Swiss Alps and the Black Forest, Alsace has been a doormat for the surrounding, world since it was trodden over by the sandals of the Roman armies who ruled here for nearly 500 years. Military dukes, princes and bishops have come and gone, leaving cannon-bruised castles. In more recent times, France and Germany seem to have claimed it for themselves on a regular basis.
Now, indubitably, Alsace is part of France, although with its customs, food and dialects - some German, some French, some something else altogether - you might be forgiven for thinking of this province as a small country in its own right. And probably the best way to see it - to get under Alsace's rustic skin - is to go on foot.
That way you can meet people such as Mr Boxler and the Ferbers - and you might even be lucky enough to nose out an authentic medieval experience along the road.
- Inntravel (01653 629010; www.inntravel.co.uk) offers independent walking holidays in the hills and vineyards of Alsace. Six nights' half board in two- and three-star hotels, picnic lunches, maps and notes, luggage transfer and return flights from Gatwick to Strasbourg, cost from £582 per person.