WHY is it the Irish and the English never feel they've actually arrived in France unless they've driven the best part of the day (and sometimes a night) from where they first hit land? There's no logic to it (imagine foreign tourists careering through Co Corks under the impression that it's not "Irish" enough), least of all when those far off destinations are now hopelessly" overrun by northern Europeans.
In Provence the curse of Peter Mayle lingers on, though he has sensibly moved away. In the Dordogne, God help us, there is even an English language radio station. The obvious answer is the sun, but those to whom France still means culture and food should do their backs, wallets and, taste buds a favour and stay within an hour or so's drive of the port where, they land, where the tourists are French and where nothing is imported, bar cheese.
So it was that in late May I took the Derry to Roscoff in the company of my parents, and drove an easy hour and a half across the Finistere peninsula to Pont Aven (pronounced Pont Avenne), a small town barely more than a village that, apart from offering every kind of active holiday potential (walking, sailing, cycling, wind surfing) also played a crucial role in the history of modern art. Oh yes, and the kind of cooking you only dream of.
I first went to Pont