Well, actually, precious few Brits, Americans and Anzacs know or care much about the Peninsular war either. But he knows what he means. The war against the French invaders of Spain during the Napoleonic era was a gentlemanly affair for the British. For the Spanish and French, it was a conflict of unspeakable savagery. You only have to look at some of Goya’s paintings to see that. Which is what we’d been doing in the Prado Gallery, Madrid, the day before.

For most people throughout history war has never been something kept at arms’ length, something that can be calmly studied and dissected like a football match. It’s a disaster which for many people throughout the world is still going on, or which remains within living memory.

But for three Brits and an Irishman who had, as teenagers, been into the Napoleonic Wars with all the spoddy obsession that modern teens are into computer games or Warhammer, a visit to Salamanca was, well, an interesting adventure. It's astonishing how much you remember of things you learned about as a kid, even though you've not given it a second thought in decades.

In the summer of 1812, British/German/Portuguese/Spanish army led by the Duke of Wellington had been shadowing a French army led by Marshal Marmont for some time. On July 22, the French thought Wellington was retreating back towards Portugal and rushed to try and cut off his escape. Wellington was doing nothing of the sort. He was sitting down to a late lunch, noticed they were dangerously overstretched, threw away his beef sandwich and ordered his army to fall upon them. It was the most decisive victory of his career.

So thanks to my great mates, who also went to the trouble of tracking down Miguel to show us around, I have not only been there, but am also the proud owner of three musket-balls from the mostly-undisturbed field of Salamanca.

At the age of 14 I’d have thought: “how cool is that!?”

Now I think it’s even better. Miguel put it all into the political and human context that never bothers 14-year-olds, delineating the tragedies that befell several officers and men on both sides, and the even greater horrors that resulted for the people of Spain.

In Spanish it’s known as the Battle of Los Arapiles, for the name of the village nearby and/or the two hills in the middle of the battlefield, the Arapil Chico and the Arapil Grande. There’s a monument on top of the Arapil Grande, with a fresh wreath of poppies on it.

“People here really aren’t very interested in the battle,” he shrugged. “We have managed to get some of it preserved, but they are building a motorway across part of it.” He holds down a day-job as well as trying to run the Museum with a few helpers, but it’s hardly likely to become a major tourist attraction.

It should be, though. Not because of a battle hardly anyone cares about anymore, but because the city of Salamanca is very, very beautiful, a real eye-opener. Lots of renaissance buildings, some stupendous churches and warrens of ancient, narrow little streets branching out from the main square. Wandering alone around here early on a sunny Sunday morning is one of those calming, but humbling experiences.

It’s famously a university town, which gives it a nice buzz, though the Spaniards’ behaviour is every bit as conservative as their dress. It’s also the first place in Europe where I’ve been in a long time where almost nobody speaks English, not even at tourist/waiter level. But then who needs English? The future belongs just as much to speakers as Spanish as Mandarin. Salmantinos pride themselves on speaking the “purest” Spanish, and people come from all over the world to study it here.

That’s Salamanca, a two-hour train ride from Madrid, which itself is only two hours from Bedminster International. Madrid’s OK, too. Can’t understand why it’s not more popular. See Salamanca, though. You won’t be sorry.