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As July is now upon us, I am girding the loins for the spate of summer visitors, intent on the family holiday in France. Dust has been swept from the less frequented rooms in the house, that wretched towel rail has at last been fixed and the plastic jerrycans have been unearthed, washed and sterilised ready for their visits to the vignerons, where they will be filled with whatever wines have caught the visitors’ fancy.

It will be life, but not as we know it especially on the markets.

For one thing, nomatter how long they have been coming over, visitors do not seem able to grasp that France is a game of two halves….before lunch and after lunch. If you want to go anywhere…shopping, markets, chateaux, you have to get up with the lark if you don’t want to arrive just as the doors are about to be shut in your face at midday.

Visitors do not get up with the lark. Given that they have been sitting on the terrace until one in the morning drinking epine and trying to attract the owls by hooting back at them, that might not be surprising. A good night’s sleep cannot be guaranteed even after that as someone is bound to have left their bedrooom window open to the balmy night air to allow the bats free ingress. Not so bad, except they will inevitably have left their door open as well to let the bats get into the stairwell so that everyone has a chance of spotting something swooping by in the dark as they try to get to the bathroom while not remembering where the light switch is situated. Eldritch screeches will rend the air at this point….and it’s not owls.

I am not a great fan of croissants, but knowing that no visit to France is complete without their presence at the breakfast table, I have laid in a vast store of edible ones from the big town supermarket, where they are made with butter and reheat well from the freezer. They even look good, as long as no one has forgotten where they are and thrown a leg of lamb on the top of their plastic boxes. People come down at irregular hours, so breakfast lasts from when I get going to when the last guest emerges from the shower, and at some point between, the croissants will have run out. It is always the croissant fanatic who arrives to find the plate empty and he will not be pacified with bread, while it is too early in the day to stay him with flagons. He wants to go out to buy more. His car is inevitably the one parked behind all the others who have to start hunting for their keys in order to let him out. The dodgems has nothing on it. He will return in due course, beaming, with the offerings from the local baker – a specialist in disguising cement mix as bread – and the kitchen will soon be reeking of the industrial fat used in their manufacture. But never mind, the guest is happy.

Given the number of bathrooms we have, you would think that everyone would be ready to go out after breakfast, but at the mention of setting out, all the women will take flight up the stairs like a flock of birds and will occupy the facilities for at least another half an hour while the men decide to have a coffee while they’re waiting and then all disappear into the garden. Getting them all together to go out makes me realise what a sheep dog must go through when dealing with a strange flock.

A visit to the market is a must. By this time, the morning is wearing on and parking is scarce. I have long abandoned the idea of letting them park wherever they can as looking for all the cars afterwards is a nightmare.

‘I know just where I parked…it was behind a red Renault…’

is a phrase to turn the blood to ice when you have been buying fish for lunch, so, even though it means a longer walk, we park in a distant car park, lagered up together like Boer wagon train, and head for the market on foot. En route, the croissant fanatic will spot a cafe and the whole gaggle, as one, will turn in there to enjoy the delights of Robusta coffee and, of course, croissants.

The family dictator will now form an ops groups and decide what we are buying on the market. He will install himself at a cafe whose terrace overlooks the scene – with Robusta and croissants – and his reconnaissance platoons will be sent off. By the time they have reported back and partaken in their turn of Robusta and croissants, the market is starting to close up, so it’s back to the fish stall to beat the owner of the local chinese restaurant to what is left on the slab. Thank goodness for the early training at the Scouts’ jumble sale in the church hall…no better training in the use of the elbow exists.

Once back at the house, I am  in the kitchen, scaling and gutting,while  the horde are on the terrace, slurping and gulping. One of them comes in with a jug of wine and two glasses.

‘Here you are, dear…I think you deserve this, and I’ll keep you company.’

He pours the wine, and I forget my frustrations….after all, it’s their holiday and I really love to see them….croissants and all.

Stumble it!