French bring a certain je ne sais quoi to camping

IF you ever want to feel old, fat and naff, go to the South of France.

There, you will be amongst people so golden, so light, so stylish, that you will no longer feel human. As a Northern European, you will feel like an albino hippo who has wandered off course, beached amongst the lithe, shimmering perfection of French limbs and torsos, sunning themselves in savage heat without ever breaking a sweat or melting their hair. Make sure you pack extra reserves of emergency self-confidence. You’ll need it.

There’s a reason the French regard themselves as culturally superior — it’s because they are. Only the French could transform camping — that most earthy of outdoor pursuits — into an elegant art form. Down to the last detail, French camping is so effortlessly perfect it is actually a form of anti-camping. Think of your average campsite shop — generally a place of tinned beans, loo roll and torch batteries, perhaps with a sad shelf of stale baked goods. Now imagine the French equivalent, with its own patisserie, making freshly baked baguettes every morning and hand-made pastries like you’d get in Harrods Food Hall, served by someone in a uniform with gold buttons. Oui. I kid you not.