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we stop at the little stone church as arranged, waiting for Jean-Michel to show us the route.
    A few minutes later a dodgy-looking truck rattles straight for us. It has barely skidded to a stop when a bear-like bloke leaps out, bellowing at the trail of kids and dogs that tumble out after him. Before I can breathe bonjour , two massive hands clamp my face, practically lifting me off my feet. Loud, smacking kisses land on either cheek, amidst a babble of French endearments— ma petite puce, ma poulette. My little flea, my baby hen. Then Frédéric disappears in a huge hug, which is followed by more kisses and affectionate backslapping. ‘What are these ridiculous things?’ teases Jean-Michel, tickling his friend’s neatly trimmed sideburns. ‘You look like a bloody Parisian!’
    It would be difficult to imagine a more unlikely pair. They strike a comical, Laurel-and-Hardy contrast: Frédéric, somehow chic in a shirt and shorts, alongside Jean-Michel, who on this day is exposing half his bottom. A white belly pokes between slipping shorts and a filthy, ripped T-shirt. While Frédéric smells lightly of Davidoff aftershave, Jean-Michel’s personal aroma is flavoured by ripe armpits. Showering is something he does on Sundays.
    They’ve known each other since they were fourteen and their friendship is as solid as ever, even though one has chosen to pursue a career in the capital working for a large law firm, the other a serene existence as deputy mayor of a quiet village in northern France. While Frédéric’s lifestyle is rushed and urban, Jean-Michel has ample time for hunting and fishing. In France, the friends you make at school remain mates for life. You’re bound by a shared past and in this country, it seems history is everything.

    The house sits at the end of a potholed track overlooking a gentle valley sprinkled with cows so content and motionless they look as though they’ve been painted on the landscape. Empty and abandoned when Jean-Michel bought it, the former farmhouse has recently been subject to some erratic restoration. The toilet, I note in dismay, has no door and looks straight onto the dining table. Chortling, Jean-Michel promises to erect a curtain for the ‘soft Parisians’.
    For me, la France profonde is like sliding back fifty years in time. Allier has a rough-hewn authenticity: its villages are charming but devoid of the postcard prettiness which draws tourists. The boxy silhouettes of Citroën deux chevaux wobble gamely along skinny roads edged with poplar trees. Jean-Michel says the region is pretty much undiscovered, although to his chagrin, a neighbouring farm was recently sold to Parisians. (To Jean-Michel, all Parisians are pretentious snobs.) They plan to restore the place and use it as a holiday house.
    I can understand why. It’s so peaceful here. There are similarities between the way Australians and the French view their rural regions, I discover on this holiday. In both countries, the land is a powerful element in the national psyche. And as in Australia, in France youth are fleeing rural areas for cities and many villages are dying. But listening to Frédéric and Jean-Michel, it’s clear there are also fundamental differences. There is a gentleness to the French countryside that contrasts starkly with the rural idyll I’m familiar with—the mythic outback.
    For the French, the countryside is a vital refuge. They snatch time there whenever possible, as though they still haven’t fully adapted to the idea of city living. Every French person dreams of retiring to the countryside, Frédéric tellsme. On weekends, his Parisian friends flee to family houses in the provinces. But for most Australians the outback is an awesome, unforgiving place. You go there to be overwhelmed, for adventure, not to relax. Many of us know it only from books or films—rarely from sweet childhood holidays. The outback might fascinate and inspire us, it might have shaped our national identity, but