The first rainbow appeared in the morning, stretching in a big, lazy arc across the farmhouse, dissecting the clouds in luminous colour. It looked like one of those stretchy rainbow-belts we used to cinch around fuzzy, mohair jumper-dresses in the 1980s. The rainbow felt like a portent, a promise of good things to come on our little weekend away, our first foray out of town since everyone started hoarding toilet paper back in March.

In reality, the rainbow turned out to be a promise of rain: first a sun-shower, which blew Ralph's mind ("the rain is GOLD!"), but then the sky closed over and down it all came. We gave up exploring on foot and made a dash for the car. 

There was a farm gate sign saying "Pine cones $2" and if you live in the country you will probably think that is CRAZY and why wouldn't people just go to the fun of collecting their own pine cones? But we live in the city and the last time we found our own pine cones the children were this little. And every year I say "We will find somewhere with old pine trees to collect some," but we never do. So we thought $2 was a pretty good bargain and pulled over to buy a bag to decorate them at Christmas, but there were no bags of pine cones left. Only worm juice.

The next day at the General Store they were selling bags of pine cones for $12, so I guess we know who bought all the ones at the farm gate. 

The truffière building was at the top of the hill, all wooden walls and wooden floors and wooden tables and chairs, with a wooden kitchenette where they washed and stored the truffles, and a roaring wood fire by which two springer spaniels were sleeping.

We crowded in gratefully, hands outstretched to the fire, as the dogs danced around us and the farmer handed around a big bowl of truffles from her morning's find. Ralph whispered to me, "I don't like the smell of wet dog," and I couldn't tell whether he was actually smelling the dogs or the truffles. 

(Something I learned: did you know you can put a truffle into a lidded container with your eggs overnight, and when you make scrambled eggs in the morning they will be truffle flavoured?)

I've heard truffles called "diamonds of the kitchen" and, as we stepped out among the oak trees, the winter sun was making a riot of the raindrops on the leaves and the entire farm was lit up like a million diamonds. Or a disco ball, if you're on a budget.

Thomas the springer spaniel led us through rows of oak and hazelnut trees. I asked the farmer, "Do the hazelnuts mean you get a double crop, or else a tasty consolation prize if you don't find any truffles?" She told me yes, in theory, except that the white cockatoos had eaten ALL the hazelnuts. All five acres of them. So there went my brilliant idea for homemade truffle Nutella. 

I don't know what I expected a truffle hunting dog to do: maybe race from tree to tree, sniffing and barking like a police dog in a detective show? Instead, Thomas ambled happily among the trees, apparently enjoying the stroll, until the farmer told him, "Find a truffle, Thomas!" and he began to sniff around with purpose.

When he found one, he was simply supposed to lie down. But he didn't want to, because the ground was wet. He wiggled and fidgeted from side to side, easing himself part way down and then leaping back up and looking for a treat. I couldn't blame him, I didn't want to lie down in that mud either. 

The next rainbow appeared over the oak and hazelnut trees, a brilliant arc reaching out of the sky and landing clearly in an open field to the left. We all paused in our dig for black gold to wonder whether there could be pot of real gold in that paddock. It reminded me of the time, when I was a teenager, that my brother's friend and I spotted the end of a rainbow at the bottom of our horse paddock. I raced down because I wanted to know what it felt like to stand inside the rainbow but when I got there, I couldn't see anything. Not until I looked up and there was the rainbow again, floating in a tantalising way above me. I leaped up and down, stretching to try and touch it, but to no avail. My brother's friend though, still watching from the top of the hill, said it looked as though I was dancing inside a river of colour.

Our first truffle was rotten from all the wet. The farmer cut it up and dropped it into a shallow ditch dug alongside the trees, so that the spores would soak into the soil and re-inoculate the trees. But after that, Thomas found his stride, and both children were given a turn digging up their very own "black gold." I thought they might have found it boring but they were excited: it was like a treasure hunt! They both made polite and appreciative "Mmmm!" sounds when the farmer passed them their muddy treasure to sniff, although neither was keen on eating anything more adventurous than truffle butter on their warm bread at lunch later.

We might have kept going but at this point the rainbow fulfilled its promise again and as "light sprinkling" transformed gradually but all too quickly into "decent downpour," I remembered that I had left our umbrellas inside the timber-clad shed with the roaring fire and the second sleepy springer spaniel, so we all made our way back up the hill and out of the cold winter rain. 

Later at lunch in a nearby winery, warm and dry, we watched the rain and sunshine come and go across the vineyards in dancing swathes of alternating grey and gold. The children approved of the truffle butter on their warm bread but truffle shavings over the potato soup was a bit too rich for their taste and both declared truffle ice cream to be "just wrong." That's when the third rainbow appeared, framing the vineyards like a bucolic oil painting.

Then the skies closed and the rain returned, gurgling through pipes and plonking and splashing off the wine barrels on the empty verandah outside. A frog started singing. Is there anything more cosy that watching winter rain fall outside, while you are inside where it is warm, with the people you love the most in the world, feasting together and sipping wine, with nowhere else to be for the entire afternoon?