Last Minute Holiday in France

It’s a nightmare booking last-minute holidays. Left trawling through the Internet, gazing at villas and holiday cottages that no-one else wants, everything good has gone. And as usual, it was my fault. Mrs Leave-it-to-the-last-minute-and-hope-for-the-best had struck again and was beginning to panic.

We’d had more ambitious plans for the summer that involved the Mediterranean, but they had fallen through and as usual I had left things too late. And as I stared disconsolately at cramped or shared accommodation in places I had no interest in visiting, I cursed myself for not getting it together in time, for not having more organised genes which mean everything gets done at the right time. No £15 return flights to the south of France for us then. Bitter? Moi?

And then finally my cursor glanced on a nice-sounding gite in Brittany, found through ownersdirect.co.uk. Yes, it was next to the owners’ house but it had its own pool and tennis court, a boules pitch, an indoor billiards table, dart board and cost the same as renting a caravan in Cornwall for the week. Done.

A quick phone call to Brittany Ferries sorted out our transport, despite almost everything having been booked up way in advance by the aforementioned group of organised people. Because Come hell or high water, we were going to get there, even if we had to swim. But we managed to book a crossing from Portsmouth to Le Havre with only a few weeks’ notice, deciding to drive the rest of the way once we were on the other side of the pond.

There was a ferry early enough for us to ferry that meant we could arrive mid-morning and get there in time for tea. What could possibly go wrong?

My husband reminded me of my wise words as we drove through the rain to a village in deepest, darkest Brittany which was barely on the map. It was more of a hamlet, forgotten by civilisation and road signs, which was much further than it looked on the map. But then on Google Earth our gite was just a dot surrounded by green.

One forgets that France is basically a square, and driving east to west, from one edge to the other, is the same as heading north to south. We should have known better.

Eight hours later we climbed out of the car, still in the rain, having driven through the absolute middle of nowhere and were delighted to have "reached our destination" – as our sat nav kept telling us.

Detritus from the journey poured out of the car as our hyperactive, sugar -fuelled kids jumped promptly into the swimming pool, as is traditional. They couldn’t have cared less about the weather because the pool was heated. And as the week progressed, their ethos remained the same.

The weather only governed our stay however in that it determined our plans. If the sun was shining we ran outside and played tennis, or drove to the local markets to stash up on local cheese and meat, strange-shaped vegetables, fresh breads and cakes, tarts and pâtisseries, delicious seasonal fruit, local wine and beer, and anything else we fancied.

There wasn’t much else going on in the area, but as we had everything we needed onsite it didn’t matter. Come rain or shine the kids could be found bobbing about in the pool outside the front door. The owners told us we were the maddest bunch they’d ever encountered, forgetting that the Brits are weatherproof. But if you’ve only got one week away then dammit, you’re going to enjoy it.

The pool outside the front door

Despite my misgivings, enjoy it we did. It poured relentlessly all week mind you, often torrentially, sometimes pathetically, but pretty constantly. It meant we ate like kings, none of the usual stresses and strains hindering my culinary prowess, happy to potter about in the kitchen, cooking and making lavish dinners every night. These were eaten in the dark wooden farmhouse, which was our home for the week or, weather permitting, on the long trestle table outside. We barbecued – sometimes by brolly, had long lunches and chilled out.

And when we couldn’t play tennis, run about in the garden, or even swim, we were happy tucked up on the sofas watching Bond DVDs or playing board games. The pool room was well used and gave us adults some time off, but generally speaking it was a week spent together, and happily so. In fact, the days went by so quickly it was a shock when we had to turn tail and head home. Brittany Ferries’ Normandie Express meant we were back on terra firma two hours after leaving France.

On reflection, it was one of my favourite holidays. Not because we went anywhere glamorous or did anything particularly adventurous but because we were a unit, in it together, and it worked. Having said that, I’d booked this year’s holiday within days of returning. Come hell or high water, this summer is going to entail some sunshine, even if I have to import it myself. South of France here we come.