The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Travel
The best (and worst) of France 2014
French region of the year
A strong field, as ever (it doesn’t change much from year to year; or at all), but the winner is Beaujolais on the grounds, first, that it is the most famous unknown region of France – famous for the wine, unknown because nobody goes there, or can place it on a map. (Try north of Lyon, south of Burgundy.) Second, it is replete with hills and villages that, were they in Provence or Tuscany, would be standing-room only. But they aren’t, so they aren’t.
In gorgeous goldstone spots such as Ternand and Bois d’Oingt, one doesn’t meet tourists or, apparently, anyone who has ever met a tourist. Third, and vitally, it is the only major wine region that embraces the stuff with joy and conviviality, rather than with the insane pretence that wine is a branch of high culture. Entering a Bordeaux château is like entering holy orders. Burgundians can be pretty damned precious too. But… arrive in Beaujolais and someone hands you a glass, someone else a plateful of hot saucisson, a third person refills the glass and it’s barely lunchtime. And, in mid-November (November 19 in 2015) in bitesized regional capital Beaujeu, they release Beaujolais nouveau amid fireworks, a banquet, a procession of flaming wheelbarrows and a crowd of thousands of several nations. Last time I was there, I ate with a Belgian and a French teacher from Thailand before the nouveau was poured at midnight. Near me were large Scandinavians, small Japanese and mid-sized Macedonians. One took a sip, one said, “That’s nice,” and one got on with the serious business of discovering how the hell Macedonians had ended up in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. Beaujolais nouveau is not for sipping and analysis. It is for taking by the throat-full and fuelling onward friendliness.
French chain establishments 2014
Hotels: no real contest – it has to be Philippe Starck’s budget design Mama Shelters, now in Paris, Lyon, Bordeaux and Marseille. They’re playful, comprehensible, practical, have free movies in the bedrooms and sex toys for sale in the lobby. Restaurants: roll up the sleeves, loosen the tie: the Auberges du Maître Kanter serve Alsace brasserie fare to growl over. A little debauched, too – all wood, red plush and alcoves. You say: “1980s”. I say: “So what?” Bars: Les Berthoms indicate that France has at last got the hang of beer bars, by marrying British pubs to German bierkellers.
French city of the year
By a short head, Rouen – partly because it is the only place I’ve been recently where the local media interviewed me, thus denoting a sound grasp of proper priorities. Other well-known personalities associated with the city include Joan of Arc. After a stupendously rigged trial, we roasted her here. A “historical” centre dealing with La Pucelle’s story opens on February 15 next. I trust it will do her justice.
Claude Monet, too, was long in town, painting the cathedral façade more times than seemed strictly necessary. He did so from the building opposite – now the Tourism Office, then a lingerie shop. A screen was put up to protect the ladies’ modesty – a screen into which, as was discovered after Monet’s departure, a series of small holes had been punched. Against stiff competition, this made Monet probably the perviest of the Impressionists.
Much less well-known is that Rouen is quite simply a smashing place of half-timbered streets, a great river and, in the Saint Maclou district, bars and restaurants as lively as I can handle. No time to waste.
French château of the year
Renaissance châteaux show up around every bend in France, but only one tells a story of topless dancing, a micro-skirt made of bananas, espionage, and a dozen children.
The story is, of course, Josephine Baker’s. Post-war, the music-hall mega-star bought the Château des Milandes, overlooking the Dordogne, near Sarlat. She had the money. After a tough start in the United States, Miss Baker crossed the Atlantic to become an exotic-dancing, billtopper in Paris. The château has the photos, the micro-skirt and a
French restaurant of the year
It’s a bog-standard place, the food is decent rather than extraordinary, but the welcome is great. I feel good there. And it’s only a 15-minute walk from my house. Should you ever find Le Patio at Restinclières, between Montpellier and Sommières, I’ll buy you a drink.* *(Joking. I shall speak Norwegian and deny all knowledge of myself.)
For more of Le Rosbif’s inimitable insights into the highs and lows of Gallic life, go to telegraph.co.uk/journalists/anthony-peregrine