Features

We've just returned from a short motoring holiday we took together in France, and I have to say we ate simply and excellently; even in a remote hotel, the British equivalent of which was no doubt serving something sold as 'oven-roast' - as if you could do it any other way.

The French really do seem to be more discerning in the matter of salad leaves and take more pleasure in serving them to you.

It pains me deeply to have to concede a point from the Main Land to those subsidised, sheep-burning bastards, but there it is. Mind you, they pay rather less respect to the opposite end of the alimentary system.

The khazi I used in a roadside cafe appeared to have been untouched since Richard the Lionheart passed through.

Great food but crap bogs, which means no matter how exquisite your croque monsieur is, it's going to end badly.

But what really bothers me about France is this: if you go there in a nice car, it will be destroyed and you'll be killed. Simple as that.

The French drive like les lunatiques half an inch (12.7mm) from your rear bumper and there isn't a car in Gay Paris without a stoved-in panel on it somewhere.

Or are they? On our Boys' Own hols I was driving a Ferrari F430 - not a car you'd normally want to take on to the so-called 'roundabout' that is the Arc de Triomphe.