My mum and dad bought a house in the early seventies in the tiny village of Les Guichards in the south of France. It didn’t have a shop or even a bar. And we were the only British family (thank God). But it instilled a lifelong love for the French way of eating and their appropriately bloody-minded way of doing things.

 

a lot of the village was deserted and it was the case of ‘jouer au cache cache’ in the empty semi-derelict buildings.

Here we are clearing the front yard – which involved my dad moving some enormous stones. He was to have a heart attack later that night.

    
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The house was great but was actually a third of a barn. 

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Nixon

We watched the whole Watergate palaver in French hiding from the blazing heat, in the cool antiseptic confines of a French kitchen whilst drinking unnameable (because there is probably no British equivalent) refreshments and trying to make sense of what this important news might mean.