At the end of the first week of a fortnight’s stay on holiday in Brittany in the North West of France for the dave27 clan, it seemed appropriate for tonight’s little epic to be devoted to the region, and I’m going to double up with the story of our own little bit of La Belle France, and, given how long it’s taken to perfect, the title seems pretty apt. But I’ll come back to that a bit later.

Brittany has always seemed to me just that little bit different from the rest of France. Ever since me and Mrs D and the dave27-ettes first visited the place getting on for three years ago now, we have been enchanted by the place. It may well have something to do with the fact that it’s very reminiscent of the countryside of southern England, and its geographical closeness is perhaps the reason for that.

The beaches of Brittany are beautifully clean and fresh, as is the water, although the majority are of rock and stone rather than sand and you will need to take sandals if you are visiting to protect your feet from cuts, as the dave27-ettes now know to their cost.

Among the main towns in Brittany are Quimper (pronounced Camp Air), Vannes, Dinan, Rennes (the capital of Brittany), St Brieuc, St Malo, Roscoff, Perros Guirec and the beautiful haven of Mont St Michel. They are all distinctive little towns and villages, full of romance, back alleys, markets and good food (it says here). Crepes (pancakes) are a speciality in Brittany (the dave27-ettes love them) as is live sea food in the supermarkets (you can marvel at the sight of live crabs crawling aggressively over each other, and this will keep the kids amused for hours).

The main supermarkets are E Leclerc, Intermarche and Carrefour and in general they resemble the Asda/Walmart experience, with huge hangar type set ups stocking pretty much everything under the sun, including computer equipment and other electronic goods. Most of them also boast their own bakery and there’s nothing like a geduine newly baked croissant to start off the day.

The people of Brittany I have always found to be a genuine pleasure, and there’s none of the stereotypical French arrogance or ignorance to be found here. As far as I’m concerned, that’s all a bit of a myth put about by English xenophobes, who like to paint pictures of ignorant Frogs reeking of garlic and Gaulloise fags and sporting berets. Haven’t seen any like that, although they do like their wine and their roll ups and their long lunch hour.

As I said earlier, we first spent a holiday in France about three years ago, in a mobile home on a campsite in Brittany. We loved the place almost from the off and decided that it would be wonderful if we could somehow get our own place over there. At first Mrs D was determined to get our own mobile home to stay in, but she soon got apprehensive when she heard that they only last about ten years and are prone to getting flattened in gales.

All the work is more or less done on the place now (even though we’ve had a few issues with builders, but the less said about that the better), and we’ve extended our living space with a conservatory and have got an outdoor swimming pool out the back, and at a modest valuation our gite is now worth about fifty grand, not that we’ve got any intention of selling our romantic retreat.

Bargains like this aren’t as easy to find these days, but they can still be had if you’re prepared for some work and/or refurbishment bills, and you’ll never regret the investment when you’ve plunged in, although me and Mrs D do occasionally refer to Lindily (the name of our gite) as The Money Pit (a la the film starring Tom Hanks).