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arrived in Pézenas about an hour after landing. We had based our search from Pézenas for three reasons: one, we loved the town with its beautiful old stone buildings, bustling Saturday market and cobbled streets. Two, there are no less than twenty estate agents there. And three it is between the beach and the mountains, which is exactly where we wanted to be.
    “It seems to me that French estate agents are either extremely stupid or stubborn or very possibly both,” I said to Nick over lunch. “It doesn’t matter how many times we explain what it is we are after, we have been shown one hopeless property after another hopeless property. Why should today be any different?”
    We were in a little bistro at the edge of the Place du 14 Juillet, where we had enjoyed a steak and frites in the October sunshine.
    Nick shook his head. “Maybe it won’t be, but we have to keep trying.”
    “In an ideal world, would you rather order another bottle of wine, or go looking at unsuitable properties?” I asked him.
    “In an ideal world I would spend the afternoon looking at suitable properties,” replied my sensible husband, bless him.
    I smiled. “Yes, but the chances are they will show us nothing we like. And it is so lovely here. And we probably won’t come back until next year, so I vote for whiling the afternoon away with another bottle of rosé. What do you think?”
    “It’s a nice idea, Soph. But while I am not sure we will find anything this afternoon if we go, I know for sure we won’t if we stay here.”
    “No you don’t. Remember me and the number 36 bus? That man over there might be a vigneron on the verge of a nervous breakdown desperate to sell his beautiful château for a knock-down price to the first person that asks him,” I said, pointing to a man in a beret sitting a few tables away drinking a white drink that I guessed was Pernod rather than milk.
    “Go and ask him,” said Nick, laughing. “But ask the waiter for the bill as well, just in case he’s not. Remember, French women rarely drink more than one glass of wine – what was that Coco Chanel quote you read to me the other night from a magazine?”
    “Elegance is refusal,” I replied in a silly French accent. “But I’m not a French woman. You can tell I’m not because I have just eaten lunch. And it’s a book, not a magazine. Sarah gave it to me. It’s going to help me to find my inner French woman.”
    The more I read of that, the less sure I am that I have an inner French woman. They are all about seduction, slimness, perfectly manicured nails and matching underwear. None of which apply to me. In fact, Sarah is more suited to all that. She probably thought I needed the book more than she did.
    “And you’ll never get the chance to be French either if we stay here all afternoon. Come on, let’s go,” said Nick, calling for the bill.
    We left the restaurant and headed north of Pézenas towards the mountains. We were early for our meeting, of course. When the agent showed up he first showed us a tiny bungalow with several hectares of vineyards outside a town called Lamalou-les-Bains. He was the smallest man I have ever seen, about the same size as the twins, and came from Essex. The house was no good; it looked more like a caravan than a home, and we would have to knock it down and start again. The land was lovely, at the base of a mountain range with uninterrupted views over miles of unspoiled countryside, but the town itself was quite sinister, with more people in wheelchairs than on foot, and those that were on foot walking with crutches. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel young and healthy, even after a long lunch and a bottle of wine.
    “Why is everyone ill here?” I asked. “Is there something wrong with the water?”
    The agent laughed. “No, Lamalou is where the French send their war veterans. There is even an expression, ‘going to Lamalou’, which means you are getting ill.”
    “Not the worst place to end