Our house in France is close to a beautiful medieval town called Pézenas. One of the best things about it, apart from its cobbled streets and stunning architecture, was that there was no McDonald’s. Then to my horror, one day it was there in all its multicoloured garishness.

“No one will go,” I told my husband confidently. Imagine my surprise when we passed “McDo” a few days later to be greeted by that unmistakable smell of unsavoury hamburgers mixed with car fumes as queues of vehicles stood at the drive-thru. This is a nation that used to walk to the bakery for a baguette, then the crémerie for a piece of Brie to complete the picnic, stopping off at the wine shop en route.

But McDonald’s opening in our home town was just one disillusionment of several about food in rural France. For example, I imagined that the French would shun supermarkets, preferring the weekly market with all its fresh goods and character. I wasn’t even sure there would be a supermarket where we lived. How wrong I was; cut-price supermarkets such as Aldi and Lidl were the shopping outlets of choice. There is, of course, a Saturday market in Pézenas, with stalls selling fresh, local produce, but this is stuffed mainly full of Britons and other expats living the French dream. A dream that the French themselves seem to have woken up from.

The sad truth is that in France it has been going poire-shaped for a while. I may have written a book (Two Lipsticks and a Lover) about how perfect French women are, but the kind of slim, well-manicured French woman that I wrote about is only found in Paris. The (very thin) former Chanel muse and supermodel Inès de la Fressange has also noticed a change in recent years: “French women don’t exercise. They are less obsessed by their figure, too. Maybe there is more wisdom now: they know health, children and love are more important. So in the country of fashion, women show less interest in their appearance.”

In my area of southern France, near Montpellier, I am actually among the thinner women. And, rather astonishingly, better dressed than most. I was also among the healthier eaters. I remember being utterly shocked at the junk that my children’s friends would be given to take to school as a snack, such as those terrible cheese strings and bits of processed ham.

On Thursday nights in our village, a man selling pizzas from his van would set up shop in the square. I used to buy a margherita, then cover it with rocket to make it healthier and tastier. That was if I could get through the crowds of Frenchies ordering their salami-strewn delicacies by the dozen. In fact, every new shop that opened in Pézenas was either an estate agent or a fast-food outlet. Everything from kebab shops to pizza-slice booths to deep-fried chicken. There is one particularly nasty fast-food chain called Quick, where the food is as unpalatable as the decor and the clientele are so enormous that they could have been flown in from Texas.

There are still Frenchwomen who subsist on a lettuce leaf a week, but they are in the minority. One reason could be that what is desirable has changed. As de la Fressange says: “Today being sexy seems to be an obsession, and very often sexy is the opposite of a bony girl.”

“It is about freedom of choice,” says my friend Sophie, a 44-year-old from Paris who weighs 59kg, so is not fat but jealously guards her right to be so. “We French women are very protective of our right to choose; our right to choose lovers, our careers and what and how much we eat.”

But surely they mind if they get fat? “Yes, of course, no one wants to get fat,” says Claire, a 50-year-old management consultant friend who lives in London but comes from Toulouse. “At least, I don’t. I suppose the women that do get fat don’t care about the way they look as much as we did. I think it is a younger generation thing, this letting yourself go. But I don’t think it will ever get as bad as it is in the UK.”

Helena Frith Powell’s first novel set in France, Love in a Warm Climate, will be published in September.

You can see more blogs about life in France here.

Tagged in: french lifestyle, Helena Frith Powell

It is 7.30 in the morning and I am in the courtyard of the Mayor’s office in Pezenas. No, I’m not in trouble with the authorities again, but am here to sell fresh almonds.

There is a bustling market in Pezenas on a Saturday and my husband’s latest money-making scam is that we sell the almonds from our almond grove.

In order to get a stall at the market one has to queue up with about 30 other hopefuls at the crack of dawn. Needless to say my husband is still in bed and I am queuing. My step-son Hugo has agreed to come with me, with the proviso that he is home before the start of the test-match.

I was amazed when I phoned the mayor’s office earlier in the week to ask what one needs to do to secure a stall.

“Just show up,” said a seriously surly woman who was clearly already bored even though it was only 9am.

“That’s all? No papers to fill in? No birth certificate translated by an official translator? No need to know what I’m selling?”

“No,” she said.

I could have been coming along with pornographic literature for all she knew, or even worse, Wellington memorabilia.

But as we check out our fellow stall holders, I realise things aren’t that simple. In front of me in the queue are two men. They not only have papers with them but are clutching great folders of official looking documents.

I explain what our plan is and they both shake their heads.

“They won’t let you do anything without papers. We’ve been coming here for years but we bring them every time,” says one, waving his impressive folder in my general direction. He tells me he is here to sell goat’s cheese. The other is planning to sell fruit and veg.

“One man last week drove three hours to get here and was turned away because he had no insurance certificate,” adds the fruit and veg man. Our little venture seems doomed to failure.

“I know,” says Hugo. “If we don’t get a stall, the fruit and veg man could take our almonds and 50% of the profit he makes on them.” This boy will go far.

I suggest Hugo’s plan to the fruit and veg man who agrees it’s a good one. Hugo then suggests we could take 50% of the profits he makes on his sales as well, but he doesn’t seem so taken with that idea.

I ask our new friends how the system works and they tell me you have to register the goods you’re selling and then you’re given a ticket with a number on it. At eight o’clock there is a raffle where if your number is picked you are taken to a corresponding spot in the market.

Finally the door opens and we start to file in to an office. Behind the desk sit a police officer and a woman from the mayor’s office.

“Oh dear, this looks scary,” says Hugo. “You’re going to need all your French for this.”

As he speaks he leans against the wall, inadvertently turning out the lights in the room.

“Uh, uh, that’s not a good start,” he says, switching them back on as the policeman behind the counter sighs.

“You can always tell the newcomers,” smiles the goat’s cheese seller. “They invariably lean on the light switch. We all know it’s there.”

Finally we get to the front of the queue.

“We’re selling almonds,” I tell the policeman.

“What?” is his response.

“Almonds,” I repeat. I have changed nothing in the way I pronounce the word almonds but this time he seems to understand.

“Where are your papers?” he demands.

“We don’t have any, this is just a one-off. We’re selling the contents of our almond grove.”

He and the woman look at each other in despair.

“You can’t just sell to the general public without any papers,” thunders the policeman. “You need papers. Everyone before you had papers, you need to be a member of the Chamber of Commerce, you need insurance,” his list goes on and on. I am beginning to understand how an immigrant trying to bluff her way into France must feel. In fact I’m amazed they have a problem with immigrants here at all, such is the efficacy of their bureaucrats.

Hugo and I have no option but walk out of the office without our ticket to the day’s lottery, heads bowed as the rest of the queue stares at us.

Once outside we try to find our fruit and veg man. He is nowhere to be seen. But we find the cheese seller who asks another stall owner he knows if she would like to sell our almonds.

“No, we don’t even bother picking ours,” she says. “No one wants them. The only place you can sell them is the beach.”

We walk past our friend Jean-Luc’s grocery store.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, looking at his watch.

We tell him what has happened.

“Bring your almonds here,” he says. “I’ll sell them.”

We collect the almonds. Jean-Luc weighs them. There are nine kilos.

“How much were you going to sell them for?” he asks.

“I thought five euros a kilo.”

“That’s what you get for dried almonds,” he tells me. “It’s too much.”

I do some shopping while I’m there. My bill comes to €44. Jean-Luc charges me €28 and says the balance is for the almonds.

So we bought the land and the almond grove for several thousand euros, had the trees pruned by an Irishman for €100 and the ground rotivated for €60. We have made a total of €16 on the sale of almonds. As the saying goes, God hates a primary producer. Even in France.

Tagged in: french lifestyle, Helena Frith Powell

If you’re thinking of buying a property in France you’re probably worrying about how to deal with the French bureaucracy, the language and even the French themselves. But all these pale in comparison when treading the dangerous path of dealing with the Brits already installed here.

An English friend of mine owns a village house not far from here. She told me that another Brit had recently moved next door and came round to introduce herself. “Of course I immediately loathed her,” was my friend’s reaction. You see what I mean?

But never fear; you won’t be ostracised by everyone. There is at least one group of Brits living in France who will welcome you with open arms. This is the group that has moved here purely to take advantage of the weather, the cheap wine and the house prices. They speak no French, seeing no need to. “I find jumping up and down and pointing works a treat,” a member of this group told me at a Brit barbecue I had the misfortune of attending recently.

The Best of British group as I call them live in British ghettos, surrounded by British mates, playing golf, bridge and discussing where you can buy the cheapest marmite. Their idea of a national crisis is not being able to get hold of the English newspaper. I actually know one man who spent a whole day careering around the countryside trying to find a copy of the Daily Telegraph. Get it online, was my advice. But of course he doesn’t speak enough French to get his computer connected.

These are the kinds of people who remind me of a woman I once overheard chatting to an acquaintance at the airport in Malta. They were about to board the plane and he was asking her what she had thought of the island. “It was all right,” she said. “But a bit foreign.” That’s rather like complaining Shakespeare’s Hamlet is too full of quotes.

The second group of Brits already installed here may be less welcoming, but it will depend on how entertaining you are. They are the ones who have tried to integrate into the French way of life. They speak French, their children are at school here and they probably take two hours out for lunch. They are jolly pleased with themselves and convinced they have the balance just right. I call this group the Smug Expats.

This is the group that has the ‘I didn’t come to France to hang out with other Brits’ attitude. They may say this, but 90% of their friends will be from the Home Counties and they will be able to count their French friends on one hand. Funnily enough though they will have adopted annoying French habits like kissing everyone they meet (even perfect strangers) at least three times. It’s my husband’s pet hate. “I just don’t want to get that close to middle-aged women,” he says. “And apart from anything else, it all takes too long.” He should look on the bright side, if he were French he would have to kiss the men as well.

The Smug Expats will also refuse to call the bakery anything other than the boulangerie and sign off their emails with little French-isms like ? bientôt. Totally maddening. Why do we suddenly have to start writing emails in French to other English people? Did we do this while living in Blighty? I don’t think so.

This group will also see you as a bit of an arriviste (yes, I know that’s a French word, just thought I’d show you how annoying it is), demanding how long you’ve lived here and if you’re going to here full-time. If you are not going to live here all year round you will be viewed as way down in the pecking order than them, rather like a flea on the back of a water-buffalo. In fact if you don’t live here full time then you don’t really count. “There are two types of people in France,” one Smug Expat told me recently. “Those who live here all year round and those who don’t.”

The group that will really hate you, and cross the street to avoid you, is the third category. This is the group I call the Gone Totally Native. They have probably been here for more than twenty years and are more French than the French. They are of course fluent in French, probably speaking it with the local dialect. They can now hardly bear to speak English, let alone mix with other Englishmen. They don’t mind barking dogs (in fact they probably own a few), they smoke roll-ups, they drink pastis and they wear their slippers to the bar. By now they’re pretty good at boules too. Some of them have probably even run for mayor of their local town. They would love to wear a beret but are scared of being laughed at should anyone discover they actually weren’t born in a local field.

These people are so far removed from Britain they probably think Margaret Thatcher is still Prime Minister. In fact they most of them probably left Blighty to escape Margaret Thatcher. They are socialist down to their un-washed toe-nails and hate the idea of France moving anywhere near a more free-market model. They are hugely up on all things political, although of course they hate anyone that isn’t to the left of Karl Marx. They may sound unappealing (and indeed they are) but as it is election year here in 2007 you should try to befriend them. That way you will know what’s going on during the campaign and you’ll be able to impress all your new friends from category one and two by telling them all about it.

Of course there are lots of Brits living here that don’t fall into any of the above categories, like moi. The kind of expat you become will depend mainly on the company you chose to keep. I have one simple rule for life here. Talk to anyone that’s interesting but don’t become friends with anyone you wouldn’t have been friends with back home.

Just as there is no reason to avoid someone simply because they are English, there is also no reason to speak to them because you happen to be born on the same island.

Tagged in: french lifestyle, Helena Frith Powell

If you drive towards the Mediterranean coast from my house on a Tuesday evening, you will see a curious sight among the vineyards: people dressed in whites, playing cricket. The players are mainly English, but there are some locals, notably the owner of the village newsagency. “I have no idea what’s going on,” he says. “But it’s more fun than boules.”

Over the last year I have been invited to a curry lunch (tempting — I do miss chicken tikka masala), to a Christmas carol service, to join an English cinema club and to bonfire night. I was even asked to join a new branch of the Women’s Institute, which hopes to cater for British women around the Med. I told them I would only join if I could pose naked in their calendar. To date, they have failed to respond to my generous offer.

Just before Christmas, an English deli (a contradiction in terms some might say) opened in our local town. The biggest outcry came from the English community. “What are they thinking of?” asked one incensed lady. “I think it’s outrageous. I didn’t move to France to eat baked beans.”

Colette, a French friend, is more sanguine. “I think it is good news. I put Worcestershire sauce on everything and love custard powder. I wonder if they have that funny mustard you English eat?” In Montpellier, the hippest place to eat is an English restaurant called Auntie Lou’s. There you can enjoy favourites such as Thai curry and fish and chips. For some reason these are never on the menu at your local French bistro.

“I find it all very depressing,” says Charles, a neighbour of mine with a holiday home here. “I didn’t come to France to do all sorts of English things. I came here to live like the French.”

Another expat friend is even more vocal. “I find it offensive that Brits are moving here just to get cheaper housing, and then carry on living as if they hadn’t left Tunbridge Wells. What’s the bloody point?” When we first moved here, I was eager to live the French adventure. I shunned my River Café cookbooks in favour of Elizabeth David’s French Provincial Cooking. I manicured my nails, wore matching underwear and vowed to mix only with French people. I then decided to talk to the English as well, partly because they seemed to understand what I said. Now I have decided to talk to anybody, as long as they’re interesting.

I don’t see why one should immediately shun all that is English just because one is in France. Why would you suddenly give up Jamaica ginger cake? Now the supermarket stocks it in its recently revamped English section, there’s no need to. Would you rather watch George Clooney in English, or talking out of synch in French? The French have actually taken this invasion of Brits and their traditions better than some of the expats. At a screening last week by the film club, I spotted my daughter’s teacher. I asked her what made her come along to a film in English.

“I like to see a film in the language it was made in,” she said. “I can’t bear all that dubbing.” An English bookshop recently opened in Béziers. The owner tells me half her clients are French. They especially like the chick-lit genre. Apparently there is no such thing in France. No wonder French women are forced to create other diversions, such as sleeping with their best friend’s boyfriends, to amuse themselves…

Tagged in: french lifestyle, Helena Frith Powell

I am finally able to compare the criminal justice systems of England and France, having been in police custody in both. The first time was in England almost 20 years ago. The latest, in France.

Last week I had an accident, or rather a frenzied French woman had an accident with me. I was on my way to the cinema with three friends when we were diverted onto a small country road due to serious pile-up on the main one. I was driving slowly, discussing the perils of French driving, when a black car came speeding towards us. Just as I thought it was going to race past, it crashed into us.

This is the third time I have been crashed into since I moved to France. You might, as my husband suggests, think this has something to do with my ability to drive. But the first time I was stationary and the second time I was on my side of the road. Sadly so was the car that ploughed into me.

This time I was as close to the kerb as I could be but still the oncoming driver couldn’t avoid hitting me. I stopped and got out, as did the other driver.

“You squashed me,” she told me angrily as I approached her car.

“That’s funny,” I replied. “I had the same sensation.”

There followed a 15 minute argument. The other driver refused to swap details; she said she wanted to wait for her husband. I was in no mood to wait for her husband: he might try and drive into me as well. In addition, the traffic on the tiny road was heavy due to the diversion and I was worried we might cause another accident. The woman became increasingly unreasonable.

“I’ve spent 15 years working in Accident & Emergency,” said Beth Anne, an American doctor friend who was with me. “This woman has what we would define a hysterical personality. We need to get out of here.”

I took the arrival of a tour bus beeping behind my car to do just that.

On we went to the cinema; reasoning that it was her fault anyway and that would be the end of it.

Imagine my surprise when the local police showed up a few days later asking for my husband.

“What has he done?” was my first thought. As he spends most of his time cycling I wondered whether he’d been caught speeding on his bicycle.

“There was an accident a few days ago,” said the policeman, as his younger assistant, inspector Clouseau-like, waved a familiar-looking broken wing-mirror in front of us. “Would you like to tell me about it?”

“No,” said my husband. “But she would.”

I was asked to come to the police station. Naturally I bought Beth Anne with me as an expert witness. The woman who drove into me had come up with a very different version of events to what actually happened, even telling the police she was injured.

“I’ll see you separately,” the grey-haired policeman from the previous day told us when we arrived. I followed him down a corridor into an office with two tables in it. There was a chair against one of the grey walls which he told me to sit in. He sat behind his desk and started typing in my details into a large old-fashioned computer. The room was shuttered up to keep the sun out; Roujan police station does not have the luxury of air-conditioning.

After about ten minutes of laboriously spelling the names of every living (and dead) relation I have ever had, he asked me to tell him what had happened.

Half-way through my statement a young officer joined us. I recognised him from the home visit the previous day as well. They were both charming to the point of being flirtatious. Just what you need when you’re in a spot of bother.

Whenever the phone rang the younger one would leap up to answer it. Most of the calls were from a mad woman who spends her whole day calling. You’d think she’d have better things to do, like driving into innocent foreigners.

“Do you know how we found you?” asked the more senior policeman after I’d signed my statement. The car I had been driving is a Jaguar, belonging to a friend. It has a personalised number plate which I had always imagined would be impossible to track.

“No,” I replied. “How?”

“Your licence plate is untraceable. We had been looking for you for a few days when we saw your car by chance at a garage,” he told me. “Are you having the oil changed?”

“No, I took it in to fix the wing mirror.”

“I asked the mechanic why it was there and he told me he was just changing the oil,” said the policeman. “I asked him about the broken wing mirror and he told me he knew nothing about it.”

It’s not called the Garage Siciliano for nothing.

“By the way,” he added. “Your car is still on the national search system so if you get stopped just tell the police it’s been dealt with.”

Great, so now I’m going to be stopped by eager gendarmes every time I go shopping.

I am waiting to hear what happens next regarding the accident, but I understand we both have to sign some form saying it was a no one’s fault and that will be an end to it.

Even if I end up paying for the damage to my car myself the whole experience was so much more civilised than my encounter at Stoke Newington police station all those years ago. The police there cared nothing for justice but were only interested in convicting someone, anyone, for some class C drugs they found in the glove compartment of a car I was in. They weren’t my drugs but as I was the only one in the car without a criminal record the police convinced me it would save my friend (a rock star with a long list of convictions) from going to jail if I took the blame. Luckily the judge, when it came to court, realised what had happened.

Along with integrity, the other thing that Roujan police station has, and that was sadly lacking at Stoke Newington, is a Babyfoot table in the garden.

As in so many things that really matter; such as the health service, education, public transport and pastry shops, the French come out on top.

Tagged in: french lifestyle, Helena Frith Powell

There are at least two places you will find snails on a French golf course. One is in the restaurant, where they will be marinated in garlic and served hot. The other is on giant posters on the golf course, encouraging people to play faster. While players tuck into the snails on their plate, they ignore the signs on the fairway. The French are adapting slowly to the game of golf.

Horror stories from Brits all over the country reach me. French players are pushing in, wearing strange clothes and even driving their golf carts into the bunkers to take shots. “They have a typically French attitude towards rules which is to ignore them,” says one exasperated Provence-based golfer. “For example if they miss the ball, they don’t count the shot.” Another Brit based in the Languedoc complains that they play winter rules all year round. This sounds heinous – but what does it mean? Apparently it’s all to do with the rule that you can pick the ball up in winter to wipe mud off it without counting it as a shot. The French, however, do this in the summer as well, when there is no mud on the ball. Worse, they are also accused of picking up balls in the rough.

I visit Souillac Country Club in the Dordogne to investigate these slanderous accusations. The club is part-owned by Brits, but has 250 local members. According to club President Sylvie Delcamp, they are trying to follow the rules. “But it is really something you invented and we try to follow,” says the glamorous Madame Delcamp (nicknamed Golfing Barbie by the male members).

Sylvie admits that the French aren’t so hot on dress code and that their manner can be a bit more laid-back than your average British player. They often wear shorts and T-shirts, although Sylvie tells me bare chests are frowned upon (unless it’s hers I presume).

During competitions the locals repeatedly have to be told to take things seriously and not to cheat. The French golfing association even runs courses to teach players etiquette and instil in them the importance of replacing divots. “But the upside is that we don’t have your snobbish attitude and ridiculous rules against women,” says Sylvie. “In Britain it is a more macho game.” In France 40% of registered golfers are female, compared with only 20% in the UK.

I talk to Pierre, a local farmer, who has been a member of the club for two years. He plays once a week and is astounded by the Brits on the course who show a dedication to the game he has not seen among his compatriots.

“They are on the course at 8.30 and they leave at 17.00,” he says. “They don’t even stop for a proper lunch and what’s more they do this every day. Even on weekends. It’s incredible.” If you want to ensure an empty course in France then you should play at lunchtime. The French see golf as something to be done before and after food, not during it.

A local agent I speak to says golf is one of the reasons people move to France. “They can buy a house next to the course and play golf all the time,” says Melanie van der Meer from Vallée de la Dordogne. “There is really no reason for them to leave the club at all.”

Mike Connor, a solicitor from Manchester, bought a three-bedroom cottage at Souillac in September 2002. He paid €200,000 for it. He and his family come out for all the school holidays. “For us it’s not really the golf that attracted us, it was the fact that we could have a house that would be looked after when we’re not here and also see the same people and their kids every holiday,” he says. “It’s great for the kids and totally safe.”

Brian Groocook, an agent who is based in the Var and specialises in properties on golf courses, says there is an increased demand for them. “This is due to the fact that you can literally just lock up and go without organising maintenance and also the fact that security is so good. The course has to be protected all the time, from the wild boar among other things, so your home is going to be safe,” he says.

I ask Pierre of he can imagine living at the club. “Oh no, I would miss my cows,” he says. “It’s a nice course though. Apart from the Brits complaining about us pushing in.”

Tagged in: french lifestyle, Helena Frith Powell

Although our house is thirty minutes from the Mediterranean coast I actually prefer the Atlantic. It might not be as warm but what it lacks in climate it makes up for in views, diversity and the sea pounding against the rocks. There is a tide, so every day the beaches are uncovered, then renewed. In contrast, the Med can be as dull as a large millpond.

For the British house-hunter there are many advantages. Parts of the Atlantic are reminiscent of England, a bit like Cornwall with good food, pastries rather than pasties. But unlike Cornwall (or indeed Cannes) you are unlikely to sit in a traffic jam for hours trying to get to the beach.

The Atlantic coast has escaped many of the horrors of the Med; the housing estates are limited and actually not even that bad as the quality of products used is higher. They don’t seem to build everything with breeze-blocks like they do down my way. Unlike stretches between Nice and Cannes which have been turned into industrial zones, up north you can still drive for hours through unspoiled countryside. And if it’s the jet-set you’re looking for you can head to the islands off the coast like the Ile de Ré or Noirmoutier.

Property prices are considerably cheaper than the south, with the notable exception of the Ile de Ré and parts of Biarritz. According to the French estate agency association FNAIM the average price per square metre for an apartment in St Malo is €2927 as opposed to €4157 in Cannes. For a house in St Malo expect to pay around €2463 per square metre. The price in St Raphael on the Côte d’Azur is €3985.

David Frere-Smith, Managing Director an agency which has over 9,000 properties for sale all over France ranging in price from £4,000 to £17 million, says the Atlantic coast continues to fetch a premium compared to inland. “Clearly prices haven’t been rising as fast as they have been in recent years,” he says. “But properties are not hanging around. Don’t forget on the Atlantic coast you not only have the Brits buying but the Parisians looking for second homes.”

One huge advantage of the Atlantic coast for the British home buyer is accessibility. You can easily drive to many spots on the Atlantic coast in a day, you can fly and you can even sail there in your Swan yacht. Budget airlines from the UK fly to La Rochelle, Nantes, Bordeaux, Brest, Rennes, Cherbourg and Biarritz. I met a couple who were holidaying on the coast who told me it takes them less time to get to La Rochelle from their home in London than it does to get to their country cottage in Norfolk. The TGV network also serves the coast very well with into many of the major towns and a new line to Sables d’Olonne makes prices likely to rise there. The town itself is ghastly, but there are some nice bits of countryside around it.

Whether you end up in Biarritz or Boulogne there is much to see and do on France’s Atlantic coast. Bear in mind though that between October and May it doesn’t only look like Cornwall, the weather can be just as bad. Which is partly why I chose to live near the Mediterranean. Here is a choice of eleven spots to get you started.

Biarritz and St Jean-de-Luz
Old world charm and exclusive designer shops meet in Biarritz to create a luxurious and cosmopolitan environment which is reflected in the property prices. Apartments in town with a sea view start at €6,000 a square metre. A small modern house without a sea view that needs renovating will cost you at least £250,000. But Biarritz is expensive with good reason. It is a magnificent town, reminiscent of a grander version of Brighton in the nineteenth century with glorious buildings and grand walkways. The Atlantic Ocean crashes onto the beach in the middle of town and you can watch the surfers do battle with the waves from any number of bars along the front. “I get a lot of clients from London,” says Julia Troccaz, a local agent. “They are mainly outdoor types who come here for the surfing, golf and skiing.” If you can’t afford a house within sound of the surf go half an hour inland where property is half the price. Alternatively rent room 702 in the Hotel Windsor and go for the weekend. It is a basic room but the view is one of the best along the French coast.
A few miles down the road is St Jean-de-Luz. With its half-timbered chalet-style houses it looks like a ski resort that’s been washed up on the beach. There is a horseshoe-shaped bay where the water is calmer than in Biarritz so better for children. Much of the centre of town is pedestrianised and the streets are lined with plane trees that provide shade in the summer. Property prices are not much lower than in neighbouring Biarritz.

Ratings out of 10 (note: 1 is bad 10 is good on all ratings)

Weather	7
Accessibility	9
Property Prices	2
Food	8
Scope for value increases	3
Sports	10
Culture	8
Scenic beauty	8
Quality of housing	9
Brit-alert	6

(note on this rating: 1 means there are no Brits, 10 means the place is crawling with people wearing knotted handkerchiefs on their heads.)

Arcachon
If you like sandy beaches this is the place for you. Head for the highest sand dune in Europe the Dune de Pyla. On a windy day as you clamber up to the top you can feel like an extra in Lawrence of Arabia. The view from the peak is breathtaking. Some property in Arcachon is marginally less expensive than it is in Biarritz. Possibly because you don’t have designer shops or the crashing waves of the Atlantic as it is on an oyster-shaped bay. But it has plenty to recommend it. A beach in the middle of town, two piers and plenty of good restaurants. Villas in and around the town start at €450,000 for a 100 square metres of living space with little or practically no garden. For a large house with a sea view you’re going to pay at least €1 million. According to Caroline Berg at CBI Immobilier prices have been rising steadily and will continue to do so. “People are prepared to pay almost anything for the right property,” she says. She says there is increasing interest from Brits in the Atlantic coast of France. “They used to buy old farms inland, but now they’re beginning to be interested in the coast.” Some people will suggest you head for Hossegor, down the coast towards Biarritz for the great outdoors. Don’t. It is an ugly little place with a beach surrounded by housing estates. The surf may be great, but for most people that’s not enough. Although I guess if you spend most of the day with your head under water it’s immaterial what your surroundings look like.

Ratings out of 10

Weather	7
Accessibility	7
Property Prices	7
Food	8
Scope for value increases	6
Sports	9
Culture	5
Scenic beauty	7
Quality of housing	8
Brit-alert	5

La Rochelle
Brits have been buying in the countryside around La Rochelle for years, but they are just starting to discover the city itself. “The property market in La Rochelle has really taken off since Ryanair started flying there and we are seeing much more interest from Brits than we did a few years ago,” says Langton Highton from the Agence des Iles agency. “Prices went through a dramatic increase but look to be stabilising now. For €150,000 you can buy a two-bedroom apartment in the centre of town, and for between €250,000 and €300,000 a villa with a garden.” Flybe also fly from Bristol as well.
The old port with its medieval twin towers and moored yachts is a heavenly place to stroll around or stop for a coffee. La Rochelle also has the added advantage of being a short drive to the Ile de Ré which is as close to heaven on earth as it is possible to find. Another advantage is that Craig Dennis, masseur to celebrities like Sharon Stone and Jody Foster, has a house in La Rochelle and for a small fee will make you feel like a film star.

Ratings out of 10

Weather	7
Accessibility	7
Property Prices	8
Food	7
Scope for value increases	8
Sports	8
Culture	6
Scenic beauty	8
Quality of housing	8
Brit-alert	6

Noirmutier
Between La Rochelle and the island of Noirmutier in the Vendée region there isn’t much to recommend. The most famous place is les Sables d’Olonne, but sadly this is now just an example of how a coastal town can be wrecked. The main square is rather lovely but the seafront is now so full of modern horrors it’s hard to see beyond them and enjoy the splendid beach. It is twinned with Worthing and I think I’d rather go there.
Luckily for the inhabitants of Noirmoutier there have been stricter building regulations in place here. The island is idyllic; there is no other word for it. There are two styles of classic Noirmoutier house. One is white-washed with a pink tiled roof, reminiscent of properties in Greece. The other is old stone houses built in the 19th or 20th centuries. Land will cost you €150 per square metre and an old stone house anywhere near Le Bois de la Chaize, the chicest spot on the island, start at €1.5 million.
Brits are a rarity. “I’ve rarely seen an English person on the island,” says Alexandra Mas whose family has owned a house on the island for the last 40 years. When her grandparents bought the house you could only get to the island by driving there during low tide. Now there is a bridge. The closest airport is Nantes.

Ratings out of 10

Weather	7
Accessibility	7
Property Prices	7
Food	7
Scope for value increases	8
Sports	8
Culture	5
Scenic beauty	8
Quality of housing	8
Brit-alert	1

Ploumanac’h
This is just what you expect from the pink granite coast in Brittany; wild flowers, wild sea, rocky outposts and dramatic landscape. Ploumanac’h is as good as it gets. Access is easiest by helicopter but failing that you can get the boat from nearby Roscoff to Plymouth. Airports within driving distance include Rennes and Brest. “Prices in Brittany have risen by 30 % over the last three years,” says local agent Chris Slade. “Far fewer people are now expecting to find something for €25,000.” Just as well. In Ploumanac’h there is nothing you could expect to live in for less than €100,000.

Ratings out of 10

Weather	6
Accessibility	5
Property Prices	8
Food	7
Scope for value increases	8
Sports	8
Culture	6
Scenic beauty	9
Quality of housing	8
Brit-alert	7

Dinard
Brits have been holidaying in Dinard for more than 100 years. In fact, judging by the amount of old people’s homes in the town, that’s about the average age of the inhabitants. This is everything you expect from a genteel seaside town. The buildings are solid and attractive, the beach clean and picturesque, the beach huts striped and the grass is groomed. Everything in Dinard seems to be under control, even the boats bob the same way. There are four flowers on the Ville Fleurie sign that greets you. Only 161 towns in France have achieved this maximum accolade. Property is expensive. According to John Orset from the estate agency Guy Hoquet a two-bedroom apartment with a sea view will cost you between €350,000 and €450,000. A villa with a sea-view is anywhere from €1 million. “But we don’t have many Brits buying here any more,” he says. “They prefer the south-west and the south where there is plenty of sunshine.”

Ratings out of 10

Weather	6
Accessibility	7
Property Prices	4
Food	7
Scope for value increases	5
Sports	7
Culture	7
Scenic beauty	9
Quality of housing	8
Brit-alert	6

St Malo
St Malo is one of France’s most popular tourist destination in Brittany but if you own a home here and visit off season you can enjoy everything it is famous for. This includes the walled city which reminds me of a Victorian infirmary but somehow remains charming and endless beaches with sand and rocks for children to climb all over. The light and views are superb. Houses don’t come cheap. The Brits have been buying here for too long. “An apartment within the city walls with a sea view will cost you around €5,000 per square metre,” says Jean-Francois Fontou from the St Malo-based Hery Immobilier. “We sold a property to some Brits in the centre of Saint-Servan, which is a few minutes walk from St Malo, but really the Brits we see are looking for the countryside more than the coast.”
That may be so, but there is evidence of the British presence all around; some signs offer English breakfast, most of the restaurants have menus in English and there is even a decent curry house.

Ratings out of 10

Weather	6
Accessibility	9
Property Prices	4
Food	7
Scope for value increases	5
Sports	8
Culture	8
Scenic beauty	9
Quality of housing	8
Brit-alert	8

Cancale
One of the most charming drives in France is the back road that takes you from St Malo to Cancale. There is a view of the sea almost all the way, as well as sweeping green fields, forests and sandy dunes. Cancale is a lively sea-port, famous within France for its oysters. It has been classified a ‘Site Remarquable du Goût’ by the Conseil National des Arts Culinaires. This is a place to come if you like seafood.
The demand for property here is more from the locals so it has an authentic feel to it. Prices are around 20% less than in neighbouring St Malo. “An apartment with a sea-view will cost you around €4,500 per square metre,” says Benoit Jacquet from the Blot Immobilier in Cancales. “A small house in the centre of town without a sea view starts at €200,000. But there is much less interest here from Brits than in St Malo or Dinard.”

Ratings out of 10

Weather	6
Accessibility	7
Property Prices	7
Food	9 (if you like seafood)
Scope for value increases	7
Sports	7
Culture	6
Scenic beauty	8
Quality of housing	8
Brit-alert	4

 

Montmartin-sur-Mer
The Normandy coastline stretches eastwards for 375 miles from Mont Saint Michel to the resort of Le Tréport. The first gem along this stretch of France is Montmartin-sur-Mer, a protected town which has yet to be discovered by the masses, even in summertime. The houses are made from local Normandy stone and prices are reasonable. It’s a lovely spot and totally unspoilt. This is a place for people who appreciate the natural beauty of Normandy and also like somewhere that is very family-oriented. The beaches are very safe. Access to Montmartin is possible via boat, train or plane. Cherbourg is a short drive away as are Coutances and Granville where you can catch a train. The closest large airport is Rennes.

Ratings out of 10

Weather	6
Accessibility	7
Property Prices	8
Food	7
Scope for value increases	8
Sports	7
Culture	6
Scenic beauty	8
Quality of housing	8
Brit-alert	4

Barfleur
Barfleur is said to be the prettiest village in France. I haven’t been to all of them so can’t confirm this, but it is stunning and certainly up there among the best I’ve seen. This historical fishing village at the end of the Cotentin peninsula with its grey granite houses and slate roofs has an active fishing port that lends it an air of authenticity other seaside resorts lack. It was the favourite port of the nobles after 1066 as they travelled back and forth between the two countries. Properties come up rarely in the main village and when they do normally get snapped up very quickly. Access to Barfleur is extremely easy if you live in Poole or Portsmouth as Cherbourg is half an hour’s drive. From the end of May Flybe will fly to Cherbourg times a week from Southampton.

Ratings out of 10

Weather	6
Accessibility	8
Property Prices	8
Food	7
Scope for value increases	8
Sports	7
Culture	6
Scenic beauty	8
Quality of housing	8
Brit-alert	4

Tagged in: french lifestyle, Helena Frith Powell

France is more class ridden than Britain, and where you end up buying says a lot about who you are.

If you think that by moving to France you can escape class-ridden England, you are wrong. It is true that the French have cultivated an air of equality – they call their plumbers ‘Monsieur’ – but that is probably because they are so grateful to find somebody who wants to go anywhere near a French toilet. Even after the Revolution and years of socialism, the French aristocracy is going strong. At a dinner party to celebrate Bastille Day in the summer near the southern French town of Béziers the host proposed a toast: “Liberté, egalité, fraternité”. “I’ll drink to two of those,” said the count sitting next to me. “But not to egalité. Men are not equal. Some come from very bad families and live in unspeakable parts of France.”  

They have developed cunning ways to tell if somebody if from a different class. For example, when you meet somebody, what should you say? Ever since I heard the word I have been using the seductive ‘ravi.’ You also hear a lot of people say ‘Enchante’. Both wrong. All you should do is say ‘bonjour’.
Nor should you say ‘Bonjour messieurs, dames.’ The count explained that this phrase is
for shopkeepers only. He told me the story of how his son came back with a girl one weekend. This dreaded phrase was the first thing she said to him and his wife.
“What did you do?” I asked, feigning horror. 
“We totally ignored her.”
“For the whole weekend?”
“Of course,” he delicately wiped some bread from the corner of his mouth. “He’s married to a perfectly nice girl now.”

The Mills & Boon tragedy of not being allowed to marry someone due to a careless phrase killed my appetite for the dinner but roused my curiosity. Have I really landed somewhere more class-ridden than Surrey?
Apparently I have. There are just as many things to avoid in the French language as in English – maybe more. Even the popular expression we Brits use innocently all the time ‘bon appetit’ is not considered terribly vulgar, as is bon courage.
“When I worked in London,” says a now retired French aristocrat who spent some years working for a French company in London. “Everyone would say bon courage every time the lift door opened. I just ignored them. In the end I began to regret having an office on the top floor, although of course the view over St. Paul’s was splendid.”
My French count also said that you can tell a lot about a person from where they live. “It is to my eternal shame that my family have lived in the Languedoc for more than a thousand years,” he said. “Every smart Frenchman knows that you should come from Paris. The only smart place in the countryside is the Bois de Boulogne.”

As English people living in France, we are exempt from much of the subtlety of the class system. However, you can also be undone is in your choice of where you live. Other Brits, and increasing numbers of French people, know exactly what kind of English person you are from your choice of French home.

For example, when we first thought about moving to France, we were attracted by the prices of houses in Limousin. For £35,000 we could have bought a farmhouse and land. The landscape was dreamy, reminiscent of Sussex 50 years ago. I happened to be staying with my French uncle, who is a related to the photographer Henri Cartier-Bresson, and mentioned this to him. He went white and clutched my arm. “You mustn’t go there,” he said. “No good ever came of living somewhere named after a cow. The people are terrible. No culture, no finesse.” He explained that there is a phrase in French which involves sending them to Limousin. It is the equivalent of being sent to Siberia.

In my research, I have discovered that there is a certain type of Brit who goes to Limousin. On visits to London, no less than four cabbies have told me they are moving to Limousin. It is perhaps fitting, for there is not much else to do there but drive around.
Burgundy, on the other hand, seems to attract more middle class types. Some would say this is partly due to the fact that they are wine snobs, but I think it has more to do with the landscape. It really is like the green and pleasant land all the middle classes love to reminisce about.

The Dordogne is Sussex with wine. People with houses there are likely to be middle-class, have a family and drive a Volvo. Teachers go to Normandy, because that’s where Flaubert came from, and besides, if you are going to spend your long summer holidays there you will want to take the car on the ferry, and bring it back laden with cheap cider.

The jet-set go to the Cote d’Azure, but for the rest of  Provence, you are likely to be either in the media, a designer, or an American who ‘just loves Peter Mayle’s books’.

I am obviously biased in favour of the Languedoc – the thinking person’s Provence – where the wine is better, the roads are emptier, and the people are friendly. Even some of the Brits talk to each other. There is also a better class of journalist moving in. Frank Johnson is my new neighbour and all summer his house is full of writers and supermodels.

Bordeaux still has a magic ring to those involved in fine wine and you will find wine-makers, marketers and even wine artists like David Eley living here. However you need a thick skin. Bordeaux is one of the least welcoming places in France, as David has found. “They really don’t make things easy for us Brits,” he says. “When my wife was stuck in a lift during the heatwave last year, their response to my panicked call was to tell me to learn to speak better French.”

Wherever you end up, you will find that the strange little things that tell the classes apart in Britain are just as important in France. In fact the class differences are really more pronounced, despite all their talk of egalité. Where I live there really isn’t a French middle class. You’re either an estate owner or a peasant that works on an estate. And how you say hello will reveal which of the two it is.

Tagged in: french lifestyle, Helena Frith Powell

The French coast runs for some 5,500 kilometres. The landscape is incredibly varied; there are the sandy beaches of the Languedoc, the rocky shores of Normandy and Brittany, the cliffs of the Riviera and the marshes of the Camargue. Each region has its own traditions, climate, food and culture. To help you choose the right spot for you, I have compiled a guide to the best of the French coast. It is in two parts, starting with the south (Bordeaux and below) and continuing with the northern coast.

St Tropez

No investigation of the French coast would be complete without St Tropez where Brigitte Bardot pranced on the beach in a bikini and a legend was born. Despite the fact that it is the most famous place on the French coast, St Tropez retains some of its old style charm. Unlike other Riviera towns, it still has a village feel to it in parts. According to Bernard Desterac from the estate agency Goldo International prices have increased dramatically in and around St Tropez since 1998 when the pound was at its strongest against the franc. “It was the arrival of British people which originally pushed the prices up,” he says. “We have seen increases of as much as six times in some areas within seven years. Now of course the prices are being sustained by a Russian clientele.” Basic villas in or around St Tropez start at €2 million. If you want a place on the water’s edge you’ll pay between €10 and €20 million. A more manageable option is to buy into a new development such as the Le Roc Golf and Spa Resort where three-bedroom apartments start at €530,000.

Ratings out of 10
(note: 1 is bad 10 is good on all ratings)

Weather: 8
Accessibility: 7
Property Prices: 1
Food: 8
Scope for value increases: 4
Sports: 8
Culture: 4
Scenic beauty: 8
Quality of housing: 7
Brit-alert: 7 (note on this rating: 1 means there are no Brits, 10 means the place is crawling with people wearing knotted handkerchiefs on their heads.)

Sanary-Sur-Mer

Sanary-Sur-Mer probably hasn’t changed that much since writers Sybille Bedford and Aldous Huxley hung out there in the 1930s. It has escaped much of the British influx to France as it was traditionally a town full of Germans. Not of the ‘first on the sun-lounger’ type, but the literary kind. During Hitler’s ascent, Sanary was the capital of German literature in exile. It is extremely accessible, just off the motorway and within easy reach of airports at Marseille, Toulon and Nice. According to Christian Gambarutti who runs the Agence Gambarutti in Sanary the Brits prefer to be in British ghettos like Le Lavandou, a few miles up the road towards St Tropez. “The handful that has bought here has chosen properties around the expensive area of Portisol,” he says. “It’s very pretty but if you buy on the wrong side you can’t open your windows when the mistral is in full force.” A decent sized house in Sanary will cost you around £500,000. A small apartment with a sea view will start at £200,000. It is not a cheap place to buy property but in my opinion it is the most charming and unspoilt town on the French coast. Though like anywhere in Provence, it is best avoided in August.

Ratings out of 10

Weather: 8
Accessibility: 9
Property Prices: 4
Food: 8
Scope for value increases: 6
Sports: 7
Culture: 7
Scenic beauty: 8
Quality of housing: 7
Brit-alert: 1

Cassis

Cassis, or Cassi as the locals pronounce it, is almost as charming as Sanary and shares, according to a local restaurateur, a great literary tradition. “We have lots of intellectuals here,” he told me. “Joanna Trollope for example.” Moving swiftly on, Cassis has one big disadvantage. Rather like St Tropez, you can only get reach it from one tiny windy road, so getting to and from town during July and August becomes difficult without a helicopter. But it has the same charming old-style port as Sanary (bar the horrible tourist information office which one wonders how they ever got permission to build). Traditional fishing boats mix with the luxury yachts and the waves crash against the lighthouse. Prices are a little less than Sanary due to the road issue. Villas in and around Cassis start at around £400,000, an apartment in town with a sea view will set you back around £150,000.

Ratings out of 10

Weather: 8
Accessibility: 6
Property Prices: 7
Food: 8
Scope for value increases: 8
Sports: 7
Culture: 7
Scenic beauty: 8
Quality of housing: 7
Brit-alert: 4 (mainly intellectuals)

Sète

Thierry Cazin who runs the Abessan estate agency in the Languedoc, says the coastal town of Sète in the Languedoc is as good an investment as you’re likely to find on the French coast. “It is easily accessible, only 25 minutes from Montpellier airport, has a very pretty centre and sandy beaches, it is perfect for second home owners,” he says. Sète is France’s principal fishing port on the Mediterranean so if it is an authentic town you’re looking for, this could be it. There is nothing poncy about Sète. It is not as picture perfect as Sanary or Cassis, but it is has a rustic charm which rubs off on most visitors. Locals call it the Venice of the Languedoc, which is an exaggeration, even if there is plenty of water. The best place to buy in Sète is on the Mont Saint-Clair which rises 183 metres above the town with views towards the Mediterranean, the Pyrenees, the Cevennes and the Thau lagoon. Property prices on the peak are around 20% higher than they are in the town. Cazin has a five-bedroom villa for sale with a living space of 210 square metres and a garden of over 2000 square metres for £555,000. Agde and Cap d’Agde are other coastal towns in the Languedoc. They should be avoided. Unless you like house hunting in the nude, in which case head for the nudist colony at Cap d’Agde where you can pick up a small apartment for less than €80,000, among other things.

Ratings out of 10

Weather: 8
Accessibility: 8
Property Prices: 6
Food: 8
Scope for value increases: 6
Sports: 7
Culture: 5
Scenic beauty: 7
Quality of housing: 7
Brit-alert: 7

 

Marseillan Ville

Just down the road from Sète is Marseillan Ville. It looks like St Tropez probably looked before Brigitte Bardot decided to grace the beach there. It is staggeringly pretty, with one of the most unspoiled ports in France. You can while away many an afternoon at the Château du Port restaurant, drinking wine and watching the boats go by. Do not confuse it with Marseillan Plage, which is worse than Margate. There is a beautiful stretch of beach that goes on for seven kilometres, all the way to Sète. Marseillan is extremely easy to get to as its only 40 minutes away from Montpellier airport. There is also a nearby TGV station at Agde. “It’s the perfect place to buy a holiday home,” says Alex Charles who runs a website dedicated to the region. “And with effective marketing you can easily rent property out. Expect to pay around €160,000 for a two-bedroom apartment and €200,000 for a three-bedroom villa.”

 

Ratings out of 10

Weather: 8
Accessibility: 7
Property Prices: 8
Food: 8
Scope for value increases: 8
Sports: 7
Culture: 6
Scenic beauty: 8
Quality of housing: 7
Brit-alert: 8

 

Collioure

Collioure in French Catalonia is known as the city of painters and attracted some of the best, including Matisse who invented modern painting there in 1907. There is evidence of painters all around; from the romantic Les Templiers bar and hotel where painters exchange their goods for beer to the Fauvism walk along the coast. Collioure is relatively easy to get to, with regular flights to Perpignan and Gerona just over the border in Spain. The Collioure real estate market remains bouyant with a strong demand for correctly priced properties. Demand is truly international with French , Scandanavian , Irish and of course British buyers. Prices start at around €120,000 for a studio and from €150,000 for a one-bedroom flat. You’ll pay around €230,000 for a two-bedroom flat with garden in the old town. ”

Ratings out of 10

Weather: 8
Accessibility: 7
Property Prices: 7
Food: 7
Scope for value increases: 6
Sports: 5
Culture: 7
Scenic beauty: 8
Quality of housing: 7
Brit-alert: 7

Biarritz and St Jean-de-Luz

Old world charm and exclusive designer shops meet in Biarritz to create a luxurious and cosmopolitan environment which is reflected in the property prices. Apartments in town with a sea view start at €6,000 a square metre. A small modern house without a sea view that needs renovating will cost you at least £250,000. But Biarritz is expensive with good reason. It is a magnificent town, reminiscent of a grander version of Brighton in the nineteenth century with glorious buildings and grand walkways. The Atlantic Ocean crashes onto the beach in the middle of town and you can watch the surfers do battle with the waves from any number of bars along the front. If you can’t afford a house within sound of the surf go half an hour inland where property is half the price. Alternatively rent room 702 in the Hotel Windsor and go for the weekend. It is a basic room but the view is one of the best along the French coast.

A few miles down the road is St Jean-de-Luz. With its half-timbered chalet-style houses it looks like a ski resort that’s been washed up on the beach. There is a horseshoe-shaped bay where the water is calmer than in Biarritz so better for children. Much of the centre of town is pedestrianised and the streets are lined with plane trees that provide shade in the summer. Property prices are not much lower than in neighbouring Biarritz.

Ratings out of 10

Weather: 7
Accessibility: 9
Property Prices: 2
Food: 8
Scope for value increases: 3
Sports: 10
Culture: 8
Scenic beauty: 8
Quality of housing: 9
Brit-alert: 6

Arcachon

If you like sandy beaches this is the place for you. Head for the highest sand dune in Europe the Dune de Pyla. On a windy day as you clamber up to the top you can feel like an extra in Lawrence of Arabia. The view from the peak is breathtaking. Some property in Arcachon is marginally less expensive than it is in Biarritz. Possibly because you don’t have designer shops or the crashing waves of the Atlantic as it is on an oyster-shaped bay. But it has plenty to recommend it. A beach in the middle of town, two piers and plenty of good restaurants. Villas in and around the town start at €450,000 for a 100 square metres of living space with little or practically no garden. For a large house with a sea view you’re going to pay at least €1 million. According to Caroline Berg at CBI Immobilier prices have been rising steadily for the past six years and will continue to do so. “People are prepared to pay almost anything for the right property,” she says. She says there is increasing interest from Brits in the Atlantic coast of France. “They used to buy old farms inland, but now they’re beginning to be interested in the coast.” Some people will suggest you head for Hossegor, down the coast towards Biarritz for the great outdoors. Don’t. It is an ugly little place with a beach surrounded by housing estates. The surf may be great, but for most people that’s not enough. Although I guess if you spend most of the day with your head under water it’s immaterial what your surroundings look like.

Ratings out of 10

Weather: 7
Accessibility: 7
Property Prices: 7
Food: 8
Scope for value increases: 6
Sports: 9
Culture: 5
Scenic beauty: 7
Quality of housing: 8
Brit-alert: 5

Tagged in: french lifestyle, Helena Frith Powell