Family holidays always carry a risk of dismaying revelations. Suddenly you are thrust together, 24/7, over many days, in a way only matched by Christmas (which is equally perilous). And so it was that, after ten days of driving around Provence and Occitanie, from Arles to the Camargue to the mighty Gorges of the Tarn, my older daughter this week suddenly said: ‘Why is Britain so hideous?’
The outburst was clearly prompted by the comparative beauty of France. My daughter is 18 and her only prior experience of France was grey wintry Paris in a boring school trip, so she was probably expecting more of the same dreariness. Instead, she was exposed to the extraordinary loveliness of France’s natural landscapes, in the sun, along with the plushness of the smaller cities, towns, and villages. And the swish public amenities. And the fine public lighting. And the lovely pavements.
And the trams. And the speeding trains.
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