Gabrielle, my French friend was stoutly adamant: "Alsace is not like Germany. Never!"

On first sight it was certainly confusing, though - even the place-names routinely ended with 'heim' or 'wihr' - and when we happened upon a Wein Festival, well, that sounded about as German as you could get - especially when it came with a side-order of thigh-slapping music and a German oompah band, with players dressed in leather shorts, waistcoats and straw boaters.

We ate bretzels too, just a consonant away from pretzels, yet identical.

Alsace is known for its storks. I remember grabbing my camera the first time I saw a real live one. I think I might have even recorded the click-clackety-clack wooden clomping of its long bill - so taken was I with it. Seen from ground level, it sat like a messy blob on top of the slate roof, but when zoomed in, my picture showed a huge white bird perched precariously on its unmade bed of sticks, bits of nest dangling untidily around it. These comical birds really do stand on one leg and also fly in an unwieldy pelican-like way. They are so common that by the time I had spent a few days in Alsace, I merely nodded when I heard them and hardly looked up.

The lovingly preserved city of Colmar typifies Alsace's attraction. To mention it without using the word picturesque is impossible. I was just grateful we had cameras. Gordon was delirious, naturally, and even I was unable to resist snapping those meandering canals reflecting ancient half-timbered pastel-painted buildings, the Cathedral with its tiled towers, the umbrella-ed outdoor cafes, the winstubs, or wine bars, and the bustling outdoor market.

One morning we strolled along the quai de la Poissonerie, a walkway beside the canal in the appropriately-named Petite Venise (Little Venice) area. On that picture-perfect day, the reflections were superb. Our lunch spot, Winstub Brenner, sat overlooking the water and our group was inside at the large round table in the corner called 'au petit stammtisch'. This was the table, the staff told us, where people dining alone were usually seated, so they could eat together and talk to others.

One apéritif was something I had never tried before: Bertrand Amer Biére. This bitter mixture of gentian and quinine had an orange flavour and was poured into glasses then topped up with beer. I sipped Gordon's drink and could definitely taste the orange, although I reckon it must be a locally acquired taste, so chose instead some muscat, a dry aromatic white wine.

The place had a rustic happy feel with green-checked cloths and wooden chairs, copper pans hanging on the walls, and lace curtains. The chef, Gilbert Brenner, a cheery fellow, introduced himself. He was a large man, generously proportioned, who took great delight in showing us the massive Rugby shirt made for him by Gowings in Sydney on a visit to Australia some years before. Even he was dwarfed by it. Reason? They had inadvertently converted the measurement figures he had given them into inches rather than centimetres!

Once Chef Brenner realised how much his food was appreciated, the dishes just kept rolling out: samples of a crisp sauerkraut salad with caraway seeds was followed by blood sausage rissoles and bacon, washed down with Tokay, a pinot gris.

I ordered crumbed fried Munster strips on top of a green salad with tomato and prosciutto and hardboiled egg slices, and then shared a tourte de la vallee - which was really puff pastry covering a sausage filling, something like a terrine. Florentine de brochet (pike fish) a sort of fish souffle served in a spinach cream sauce was brought out, while someone else had a lapin en gelee. There was an unctuous oxtail (queue de boeff Brasee) dish too, and we all sampled a local Schlumberger wine, named for a textile factory boss who in 1810, as the story goes, planted vineyards just so he could give wine to his most valued clients. Nice guy!

 A few days later we visited Munster itself, the town that endorsed with its name that odiferous washed rind cheese which turns up everywhere in recipes locally. You have to blame some Irish monks in the 7th-century who settled here and pioneered the process, calling their stinky creation 'munster kaes'. The cheese is still traditionally made by rubbing the rind of the maturing cheese with salt and water to encourage bacteria growth.

The town itself is set amongst hills and has a delightful flowery town square full of red, white and pink geraniums. Gabrielle's parents lived here, so they invited us to join them and sit outside on their balcony with kir royales made from a mixture of cassis and the local cremant, a sparkling wine which can't be called champagne, because this is Alsace, yet it is made with an identical method.

What a way to soak up the view - the church spire and brickworks chimneys against the blue hazed hills, a train flitting across the middle distance - as bells chimed and the sounds of children playing somewhere below floated up on the evening air.

It's too clichéd to talk about the picture-postcard views, yet it's hard to describe Alsace otherwise. The meticulously carved and painted ornamentation on the houses, those bright colours of window boxes dripping geraniums, medieval half-timbered houses twisting under the weight of centuries. It's almost impossible not to slip into some sort of stereotype.

"My mind keeps playing nursery rhymes," I said to Gordon at one point, "These villages are like something out of a storybook."

I remember one town in particular, and a visit to Christine Ferber, a confiturier (jam-maker) extraordinaire in Niedermorschwihr, a tongue-twistingly named village that could have been lifted straight out of the Brothers Grimm. Christine is known throughout France, yet makes all her jams in smallish copper pans in a spotless kitchen, and sells some out front in her gingham-pretty shop, Au Relais des Trois Epis.

The snapshots I took on our trip to Alsace are a grab-bag of the stuff of tourist brochures. Ribeauville, for instance, with storks perched high on its towers, has won many European Flowered City prizes, and I could see why. It is bordering on becoming just a wee bit twee, and about as choked with souvenir places as Rocamador or Mont St Michel. Nevertheless there was still a hot-holiday relaxed feel about it too, even though almost everyone we passed seemed to be a tourist.

At Turkheim, I took a picture of an ancient sundial over a gate; at Ammerschwihr, a fat tower and a stork sign above the street; a pink hotel at the Katzenthal turn; and Kaysersberg, Albert Schweitzer's birthplace, which is touristy and perhaps now better known as yet another winner of European flowered city prizes.

Above Katzenthal itself there was a castle overlooking the town, the slopes below it filled with vines, and then later at a winery we met that year's wine-queen, a student who travelled, when her studies permitted, to promote Alsatian wine.

"I don't drink, I taste," she was quick to tell us, perhaps forgetting that each year a wine is labelled especially for the wine-queen.

Alsatian food is hearty (think pig's trotters and potatoes, sauerkraut and dumplings) even in summer, and lunching one day at a taverne in Ingersheim, it was so very hot we merely played with our food, instead drinking bottle after bottle of mineral water, Wattwiller from the nearby Vosges mountains.

One day it was museums. This region is packed with history. Alsace-Lorraine has been fought over by various parts of Europe for centuries, yet there remains a rich tradition of artisans and craftspeople here.

Early one morning, after passing the stunning half-timbered village of St Croix, with tubs in the square filled with flowers, we arrived at the Ecomusée in Ungersheim about midway between Colmar and Mulhouse. Here more than ten hectares of land on the outskirts of the town has been painstakingly transformed to create a window into Alsatian rural history.

Over several years the creators of this place transported sixty or more typical old farm houses ranging from the 15th- to 19th-centuries from other parts of Alsace. Now turkeys strut between them, along with sheep and goats, and there is a fortified building, a wash house and school, a funfair exhibit and a walnut oil press, as well as other working exhibits. Chalet accommodation has been built nearby to encourage families to stay longer.

"It takes six to eight hours to see it all properly," our Scottish guide, Lisa, told us. "But you can get a day ticket and go back again within six days to complete your visit if you don't see it all at once. For families renting a chalet, a ticket to the Ecomusée is included too."

With barely an hour allowed there, we would see only a tenth of it, yet we set off at a sprint anyway. 

Next was the textile museum at Mulhouse ( pronounced Mo-loose). I'd had the flu this entire trip and was using a small tape recorder to help me remember everything. I realised that obviously I was not on top of things, and in the end gave up trying to record the commentary, when it turned out that with my mind was so foggy I was repeatedly recording the French commentary, then clicking it off when the English translation began!

It was most interesting (I think) but I was obviously not concentrating too well. It seems that originally Indian cotton prints were seen as a very real threat to the textile industry in this area and people could be put to death if they were found wearing it - which certainly adds a new spin to the term 'fashion victim'. In addition, if you killed someone for appearing in this alien fabric, you would not be charged. There was a lot more to it, but that was about all I could absorb at the time. The ban must have been effective though, as even today, textiles account for forty percent of Mulhouse's industries, and the city is called the Manchester of France.

Later Gabrielle led us through the lunchtime-empty streets of Mulhouse to the Auberge du Vieux Mulhouse. This restaurant is a choucroute specialist (even belonging to a club to prove it) located in an attractive square near a tromp l'oeuil painted building. Shaded tables stood outside and we sat at one of them while nearby some Russian musicians serenaded us on accordions, a piccolo and a balalaika.

A waiter brought us a pichet of Edelzwicker wine, which is really just a generic name for a blend of local grapes. I ordered lapin a la moutarde (rabbit in mustard), however my tastebuds must have gone on strike due to my grippe (flu) as I couldn't really taste the moutarde at all, although the others said it was first-rate

Our musée-day began to wrap up at the Wallpaper Museum in Rixheim (a suburb of Mulhouse) in the shaded grounds of the home of the family which owns the business. This was a much smaller museum, displaying different styles of - well, wallpaper. Then, just for good measure, our guide added a visit to the Textile and Costume Museum at Hussering-Wesserling in a textile factory set amongst fir-tree covered hills. The view from the top floor was magnificent and the range of exquisite fabrics and ornamented clothing was worth a full day's visit, not just the tail-end of a long (for me) flu-jaded day.

The following day, when we met the guides for the silver mines at St Marie-aux-Mines there was much tutting and I heard mention of 'le moccasins'. They were talking about me, I knew. I was wearing the only walking shoes I had with me and it seemed my footgear was not acceptable for the terrain underground. I started to feel that if these people wanted to take me somewhere that my moccasins were not welcome, then maybe I would not like it either, so I gracefully said I would be happy to stay in the town. That seemed to relieve them.

So while the rest of the group headed off down a track into the forest, to inspect the constricted and slimy shafts once used to extract the precious metal for which this entire place once existed, I set off up the quaint main street and window-shopped. The souvenirs, consisting mainly of eau-de-vie and storks crafted in a variety of poses did not challenge my resolve not to buy too much, despite the Hansi-ware.

This is everywhere in Alsace. 'Hansi' was the name assumed by a local artist, Jean Jacques Waltz. He was sentenced to prison in 1914 for publishing illustrations construed to mean he was making fun of the Germans who were in control of Alsace at that time. On release, his whimsical naéve-art drawings of children skipping and playing became hugely popular and now turn up on everything from eggcups to platters.

I strolled some more, getting the feel of a lazy French village in the sleepy morning, and stepped into the tall shadowy church of Ste-Madeleine built in the late 1800s. It was blissfully cool and quiet, seeming much smaller inside than it appeared from the outside. Every hour and half hour bells rang out around the valley and, as always, they rang twice. French bells have a way of doing that, just in case you aren't paying attention and missed the first time.

This area, just 30 kilometres from the German border, is called the 'centre of Europe'. It was the birthplace of the Amish who came from Anabaptist stock and fled to Ste-Marie-aux Mines in the 16th- and 17th-centuries. Waves of immigration from Switzerland to Alsace followed. Their name supposedly derives from a corrupted form of 'der Amischen aux Mines'. In 1993 many Amish returned to the area to celebrate the 300-year anniversary, and each year there is an extensive patchwork quilt exhibition here too, I was told.

When the others returned, we lunched on the 'repas marcaire' or shepherd's lunch at the Ferme Auberge du Petit Haut at Ste-Marie-aux-Mines. A ferme auberge was once the small and isolated place where the oldest son of a family would stay when he brought the family's cows to the hills for the summer. In those days the family would visit, bringing food to the shepherd, but now it refers simply to farm-style accommodation and dining.

The intentionally alpine feel to this place high in the Vosges was enhanced by pine panelling on walls and ceiling, green floral cotton tablecloths, a cuckoo clock, and an antique tiled stove in one corner. The menu du jour turned out to be a hearty tourte salade (basically a wedge of meat pie) with green salad and chunky bread. To finish, we were brought a young and spritzy Tokay pinot gris, followed by Munster with cumin seeds (for digestion, they said) and a plate of fromage blanc with cream, dribbled with strawberry jam and kirsch.

Alsace is justly proud of its cuisine, yet despite Gabrielle's remonstrations, I still felt it leaned much more towards German than French. One of the best known dishes perhaps, is tarte flambée, a disc of very fine bread dough, rolled out like a pizza then spread with creme fraéche, sprinkled with sliced onion and grated cheeses then cooked in an open, wood-fired oven at almost cremation heat. In ten minutes, miraculously, the thing comes out blackened and blistered on the bottom, yet bubblingly delicious on top.

Alsace has an important wine industry, too, and vineyards form a rippled patchwork coat on almost every hillside. There's a route de vins as there is in other wine regions and the light white wine produced here is a perfect foil to the ubiquitous rich Alsatian pork-and-potato based dishes. It always seems somehow appropriate to me, too, that this region is almost sausage shaped.

Another day we arrived at Colmar's outdoor market just as the stall-holders were setting up, selling a wide range of tableware, clothes, bags, and food - and more food. Stalls had been set up to offer cheeses and fruit, hams and sausages, kugelhupf, a rich cake, several varieties of chevre, spices and farm cheeses, honey, eggs, jams, and griottes which are the sour cherries meant for jam-making. It was inevitable that I smelt the Munster stand before I saw it!

Perhaps to counter the effects of the local diet, some tour companies arrange walking expeditions through the vineyards from one hotel to another, and make it easier by thoughtfully couriering the walkers' bags on ahead. They even tell each place what dishes participants were served at dinner the night before, so they are not given a repeat meal.

Lunch had been delayed the day we visited and, too late to do the walk ourselves, we were driven on the approximate route ending up in Kientzheim at the castle gate. I admit to being rather glad about the reprieve as the day was blisteringly hot. Inside the castle some members of the grand-sounding Confréries de Saint-Etienne met with us and showed us through the wine museum. This 500-year-old society is dedicated to the tasting, appreciation and knowledge of Alsatian wine. What a tough job!

It was cooler inside and the cold white wines we tasted at the end of the guided tour were especially welcome. As a concession to our missed hike, we strolled through yet another picture-postcard town and found ourselves ultimately at the end of it beside vineyards. Here a shady cherry tree, which conveniently seemed to belong to nobody, stood loaded with ripe cherries. Surreptitiously we hooked some down. They were the best I have ever eaten, sun-warmed and stickily sweet.

Next day we visited the Miclo distillery in Lapoutroie, purely in the pursuit of knowledge, you understand. All these spirits were made solely from pure fresh fruit - no sugar, that would be illegal - the owner Monsieur Miclo, assured us, He proudly showed us the huge 40,000 litre stainless steel tanks lined with enamel in which many of the different fruits were fermented, although berries were treated a little differently - instead, they are macerated in 76 percent alcohol in 200-litre plastic vats.

As I participated in a blind tasting of poire, kirsch, bouillon blanc (a flower) and some others, the flavours were surprisingly hard to define. One sip, and for a brief moment I thought I had it nailed - the waft of a scent, a fleeting fragrance - then, a moment later, another fruity taste-memory made me doubt my initial choice. I pinned some, but others were too fragile and ephemeral. When Monsieur handed me raspberry and I was positive it was lychee, I knew I had no future as an eau-de-vie taster.

Our visit to Staub's showroom with its range of exceptional baked enamel cast-iron cookware was easier

"Alsace has the most three-star Michelin restaurants in the world," Monsieur Staub, the owner, told us, "so we need the best cooking equipment."

Once a child film star, starring opposite Rock Hudson and Julie Andrews in 'Darling Lili', Staub's charm and suave good looks made us wonder why he had not pursued that career instead. Still, he seemed happy enough with the new brilliantly coloured range of cookware he had devised. He explained a new feature, the smart addition of a wooden disc under the steel handles, a take on the chef's old trick of wedging a cork there to protect the cook's fingers from the heat.

On our last day a visit to Gertwiller had been arranged. This company wanted us to see how Pain d'Epices (spice breads), another speciality of Alsace, were made. Here Monsieur Risch, the director, showed us around, giving us permission to taste as we did so. Upstairs in his office he presented us with samples: Christmas bread, chocolate-covered biscuits, and small marzipan sweets. Most of us groaned inwardly. We'd already packed for the trip home - yet who could have resisted those spicy treats?

Alsace itself is a bit like that too. Irresistible. No wonder storks, always connected with birth and delivery, are this region's symbol. Alsace certainly delivered us with a mixed bag of delights.