It's easy to get caught up in all this doom and gloom, which is why, for the last month I’ve been busy reminding myself (and hopefully readers too) of just why France is such a magical place.
The first reminder came in an email from my mother with a link to an advertisement for our former French house, which is now being sold on by its current owners. Flicking through the picture gallery was an exercise in nostalgia. There was the beautiful oak staircase we’d fitted, my former bedroom, the terracotta floor tiles my mother sweated blood over, the wood burning stove that had kept us cosy at Christmas and the swimming pool where my siblings and I whiled away many baking summer afternoons. If I had a spare €200,000-odd, I would have snapped it up there and then. The memories we built up from our sojourn in France are irreplaceable and certainly enough to fuel my dream of returning one day.
However, three trips to France in quick succession have only served to confuse the issue of where I will live when I do take the plunge. My first stop was Picardy, which became a serious contender in seconds, being unbelievably easy to reach from London St Pancras via the Eurostar. I adore taking the train to France; no ridiculous security checks, no tiresome and over-priced airport transfers and no baggage restrictions – not to mention brownie points for the old carbon footprint.
On to Bordeaux barely two weeks later and it was love at first sight, not just because of the magnificent 18th-century buildings that the city has been busy restoring, or the wide promenade and park which has been installed along the riverbank for residents to stroll, cycle or rollerblade along, or even because a chance to sample some of Bordeaux’s excellent wines meant I was permanently tipsy. No, I loved Bordeaux because, unlike many French cities and towns that I’ve visited, it is truly cosmopolitan. There were Indian, Turkish and Thai restaurants, shops of every description and – gasp – signs of nightlife, not to mention theatres, galleries and museums. I’m a confirmed Francophile, but I also know from experience that man cannot live on bread alone…
On a visit to Dijon later in the month, another love affair began. It was the start of a cycling tour around Burgundy’s vineyards and, being the third time in the space of a month that I’d mentally moved to France, it led me to consider what it is that is so charming about French cities and the French approach to town planning in general.
Seeing these beautifully restored town centres is uplifting, not just for the beautiful buildings revealed in all their glory or the charming café culture played out on every street corner, but for the thought that has gone into creating spaces that will directly enhance the life of the city’s residents. No expense has been spared, no consideration thought too trivial.
In Dijon, for example, what was once a tarmac-covered parking lot outside the town hall has been transformed into a marble-paved square, interlaced with fountains, created to ‘bring the community together’ of an evening and encourage social interaction. Meanwhile, free shuttle buses are on hand to help the less able navigate the shops. It’s a far cry from the prevailing attitude in the UK, where exclusion zones and ASBOs are the order of the day. Walking the streets of Dijon and Bordeaux, it was clear that the French approach to building community relations was infinitely more effective. No hoodies here.
Then, cycling down through Burgundy, I could hardly help but notice the incredible facilities laid on for cyclists there. It is not surprising that the country that plays host to the greatest cycle race of all time caters well for its cyclists but still, I was impressed. Some 400 miles of cycle paths built along old railway lines, canal banks and between the vineyards, all immaculately tended. Compare that to my daily commute to FPN HQ; it’s 10 miles by bike, just half a mile of which is via a designated cycle path. The rest of the time I’m at the mercy of London’s brutal drivers. What’s more, in Burgundy, every cyclist or pedestrian we encountered along the way called out a cheery ‘Bonjour’, while the occasional car we came across was content to wait and let us pass. I can’t print the word most commonly yelled at me by London drivers, but suffice to say, it isn’t friendly.
To plagiarise our very own George East on this one… those are reasons 3,003 and 3,004 for moving to France.