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  Paris, France
Monday, June 15, 1981

My first foray outside the British Isles was to the country that I have visited the most and like the best.  I have vague ideas of retiring here, to the country that has everything - mountains, seaside, snow, sunshine, fantastic food, the best wines........ aaah, bliss.

We stopped somewhere outside Paris for one night - this was a family trip - and then headed on towards Switzerland and Leichenstein.  (Leichenstein gets a blog entry as we stayed there for two weeks - Switzerland doesn't because we drove straight through it in under a day and although we did pop across and visit I can't really remember it, so it's not ticked off the list.  My thoughts on what constitutes a "visit" will follow).

I don't recall a great deal of that first drive across France, even though we spent another two days driving back across it a fortnight later

Avoriaz

.  But I do have two clear memories:  One was my Dad doing two circuits of the Arc de Triomphe at 4.00am and the other was seeing a bloke with a bloody face in Reims.  Actually, I also remember that my Mum bought me a green icecream.  Mint ice cream is my favourite (well, mint choc chip) so I when I spotted an ice cream seller with something distinctly green, naturally, I asked if I could have one.  In fairness, my mum did warn me that it probably wasn't mint, but (much like now) I wouldn't be told.  It was pistachio.  yuk, yuk, yuk.  As I bravely tried to lick away the pistachio imposter my mum said "Don't look".  Guess what I did?  Looked straight at him.  I don't know whether the bloke had been a fight or what, but the image of his bloody face and the revolting taste of pistachio were my only recollections of Reims for many years.

Happily, my subsequent visits to France have involved a lot less blood and pistachio.  I revisted Reims in 2004 and was able to enjoy the fine Cathedral, the statue of King Clovis and the Caves of Taittinger (and Mercier).  Consumed large amounts of Champagne, bought several more bottles back home, and nearly broke the sound barrier on the way home.  My mate Deb drives like a demon on an open road.

Living on the south coast of England as I do, forays to Northern France are almost obligatory, so I have spent more than one day at Le Touquet, Boulogne, St Omer and Calais

Belle Plagne

.  We had a family holiday in a village near Quimper .... name currently escapes me but it began with a K.  It was a hot summer that year - I burned my shoulders so badly that they blistered and I ended up with stupid pink patches at the top of my brown back. tch.

France is also the best place to ski, because the food and wine are so good.  I've liked all the French places we've managed to ski in so far - Val Thorens, Avoriaz, Tignes/Val d'Isere and La Plagne.  That magic combination of excercise, fresh air and fantastic food.  I've already booked next year: Alpe d'Huez.

Of course, we are also close to Gatwick and thanks to a certain Stelios we managed to fly to Nice for Bastille day a couple of years ago.  That was a cracking day out - glorious sunshine, military men on parade and a long lunch on the beach by the Avenue des Anglais (where else?).   We also used Easyjet for a weekend in Marseilles and that worked out a bargain because we flew out on Friday 13th.  It was cheaper to go on the Friday and pay for another night in the hotel than to fly out Saturday morning.  This is one of those times when the fact that so many people are idiots really pays off.

I'll be back in my beloved France in the next month, when we take a weekend break in Bordeaux.  Naturally, there will be something of a wine-flavoured theme to the trip and we have already booked ourselves a day exploring the vineyards of St Emillion. 

With my love of all things French, you'd think I'd be better at speaking it.  Sadly, however, as my father always said; Je parle Francais comme une vache Espagnol.

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Boulogne	Disaster at Taittinger - Reims	Me in Le Touquet, with two good friends	Mr Mon-san at the Eiffel Tower
Nice for Bastille Day	On Chateau d'If, Marseilles	St Omer	Tignes

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