Firstly and perhaps most importantly there is space. With a land area over twice the size of the UK and a similar population many of the frustrations and hassles of everyday life simply disappear which makes for a less stressful lifestyle. There is very little traffic congestion apart from around the major cities and along the coast in the summer, and the roads are excellent and well maintained. Driving is a pleasure and with the spectacular French countryside all around, touring France is a delight. Parking is no longer a nightmare, and you are not endlessly surrounded by throngs of people whatever you want to do. I believe that this also contributes to the less pressurised atmosphere in towns where you seldom get the drunken and loutish behaviour so prevalent in England these days.

Of course the weather, particularly in the south makes a huge difference also. Would the markets be as attractive and lively in the pouring rain? I think not. Those who have holiday homes here often say with wonder “You were here all through the winter” as if one was living at the North Pole! In fact the winters in the South are short and seldom very cold and it is unusual to have several consecutive days without sunshine for at least part of the day. Not a month goes by when one cannot have lunch on the terrace in the sunshine on at least one day.

Then there is the fact that many shops are still owned by the people serving you. Few French town centres are crammed with national chains and those that there are can often be found on an estate on the outskirts. This makes for interest and diversity adding to the pleasure of shopping. And the markets still function not only as a place to shop but also as a meeting place, somewhere to have a coffee or beer with your friends. Life is less frantic and stressed than in the UK, and you are not eternally worrying whether you put enough money in the parking meter.

There is also in many parts of France the delight of tasting and buying wine from the producer rather than the supermarket shelf. How extraordinarily pleasant it is to spend an afternoon tasting and chatting to the man or woman who has worked so hard to produce what you can look forward to enjoying at very modest cost.

Restaurants, again mainly owned by the proprietor and not a chain, provide a huge range of opportunities at all price ranges, and it is seldom that one is disappointed. France is after all famous for its food. The fruit and vegetables, particularly in the summer, are mainly grown locally and taste as if they are.

And having overindulged in the delights of the table, the Health Service is reckoned to be the best in the world. Out bicycling with friend a couple of weeks ago, he sadly fell off and broke his hip. Within an hour he had been transported to hospital, X-rayed, and installed in a hospital bed. Within 48 hours he was operated on and 48 hours later he was back home. And he was not a French resident but a visitor.

In the countryside there is the vibrancy and diversity of village life with endless festivals,musical events,fairs,and markets,which seem to have been largely abandoned at least in the South of England, except for the endless tawdry car boot sales.

Support for the arts is abundant in France and this stretches way beyond Paris and the larger cities. Any musician can obtain state funding providing he or she gives a certain number of paying public performances per year and the local authorities provide support for local activities. During the summer in the valley in which I live you can go to a concert almost every day of the week.

Life is also less materialistic. No one cares what sort of car you drive or indeed what you wear. I went to a lovely country wedding this summer and the dress code was “Summer chic.” I do “Summer scruffy” extremely well but this presented more of a challenge. People turned up in all sorts of outfits which added fun and gaiety to the party and I don’t think anyone felt uncomfortable because they were incorrectly dressed. Incorrect dress simply did not exist.

In fact life here is more real and less trivial. The appalling cult of celebrity ,and by celebrity I mean someone who has appeared briefly on one of those”Reality” TV shows which in my admittedly very limited experience are about as interesting as watching paint dry,indeed may be less so, seems to be slightly less apparent in France.

So life in France is sweet which explains why so many Brits come and live here and perhaps why one does not get the feeling that there are hordes of French people retiring to the UK!

If you came across it on a mountain walk you would be unaware of the extraordinary story of courage,determination, energy and fortitude that its old stones have witnessed, although you might be surprised by the sounds of musicians rehearsing classical music in this isolated spot.

In the 1950’s a young German student, Klaus Erhardt, came to settle in the Languedoc, married an American, Jean,and determined to do what he could to bind up the wounds of emnity that still existed at that time between the French and German nations.

In 1965 walking in the mountains he discovered and fell in love with Bardou which at that time was in ruins,only one old man still living there. The buildings had all fallen in and were covered with brambles and thorns. With a small legacy he and his wife bought the hamlet and in 1968 moved there with their 3 children. For the first 6 weeks they lived in tents as there was not one building that was habitable. For the first 10 years there was no electricity. The children had to walk 1 1/2 hours down the mountain to get the bus to go to school. However Klaus and Jean had decided to make the restoration of this beautiful place their life’s work.

Stone by stone they set about restoring the broken down buildings. Gradually word spread of their endeavours and visitors came from all over the world to help them with their project. They had no money, so in order to produce some income, Klaus decided to become a farmer and breeder of sheep,knowing nothing of this before he started. He ended up with over 200 sheep and many prizes for his breed.

Although they both enjoyed the physical demands of their work,they felt that they needed some cultural activities in this very special but isolated spot, so they encouraged musicians to make use of the peace and serenity to practice and to give small concerts. Over the years this has developed into a music festival every summer with concerts from July to September in Bardou and in other venues in the vicinity. These attract musicians of worldwide fame and skill who enjoy the ambiance of this unique environment.

Klaus and Jean are no longer young. Their life’s work is evident in the stones and sounds of Bardou. To meet two such extraordinary individuals is a privilege that comes rarely in a lifetime.

( If you should be in the Languedoc in the summer and would like to attend a concert ,contact me and I can provide details)

When I first rented a house here in the Languedoc it had a bicycle in the hall. I thought I would give it a try, and found it very enjoyable. However the frame of that bicycle was not really man enough for my frame, and furthermore it only had three gears which is apparently about eighteen less than any self- respecting cyclist has these days. So my friend Rupert Wright, who is a serious cyclist, took me off to Decathlon, the sort of hypermarket that I have resolutely steered clear of in the past, which sells every imaginable type of sporting kit, and much that is unimaginable.

I had no desire to have a “racing” bike favoured by most Frenchmen, neither did I want a VTT, ”mountain bike” to you and I. Something in between would be fine and Decathlon had just the thing, a sturdy gold machine with twenty-one gears. I also bought the least obtrusive bone dome, and a lurid yellow jacket, but drew the line at those lycra skintight suits, as my skin is no longer tight, but flows unctuously over the accretions of time and overindulgence. Despite the wonders of modern fibre technology, I felt certain that looking like the Michelin man would ensure ridicule, and the prospect of getting in and out of it was not something I wished to contemplate. Tucking my ordinary trousers into my socks in a typically British fashion would suffice. Fortunately, in France, the sight of a fat old man in a silver helmet and bright yellow top causes not a moment’s ridicule or surprise. Everyone of all sexes, shapes and ages has bicycles here, and therefore strange sights are no cause for comment. Furthermore, while courtesy is a rare commodity on the roads in France, it is almost unfailingly extended to cyclists.

I also bought a jell-filled saddle in the belief that the jell would be kinder on the ancient derrière. However this jell bore a huge affinity with solid concrete, so I returned a week later and bought a jell-filled saddle cover which made the pressure on the coccyx slightly more bearable.

Thus equipped I set out on my first ride. In my cycling days, almost Biblical times in my daughter’s view, when changing gear, one stopped pedalling for a moment. Now one just continues. Things have moved on since then, as Rupert kindly pointed out. That may be, but I haven’t.

Once one has the hang of the gears almost any hill is climbable, providing one’s lungs and limbs are up to it, which, of course, quite frequently they are not. However, where is it written that hills have to be taken without a moment or two to admire the view, and at the same time discretely contemplate whether cardiac arrest is imminent or not? Furthermore, I have found that a judicious pre-ride consultation of a large scale map will almost always allow one to reach one’s destination by a route that excludes those contour lines that are close together, signifying steep hills, or at least they did when I was in the Cadet Force, and that hasn’t changed. I have also found with hills that it is better not to look all the way to the summit and think what a long way off it looks, but rather to look down to the road immediately in front and think of other things apart from the pain in one’s legs and the inadequacy of one’s lungs. Contemplation, for example, of the number of calories melting away, or the prospect of that unopened bottle of wine that will put them all back again, somehow makes the kilometres flow by.

There is an unwritten etiquette about cycling here. If meeting another cyclist along the lanes, one greets them with a friendly “Bonjour” or “Salut”, and one certainly does so if one overtakes a fellow cyclist, not of course that I have had any experience of this manoeuvre.

And what a delight it is to reach home! Blood returns to the nether regions, and the sense of achievement is huge.

Chuntering through the lanes of the Hérault with a big blue sky above and the vines on either side promising endless evenings of vinous pleasure is about as good as it gets for a clinically obese geriatric!