France is my favourite European country. There! I can already hear a chorus of denunciations among certain Brits. And do I detect a derogatory comment or two about the French people? It’s only natural. Who’s the most unpopular child in the class? It’s the intelligent pupil with upstanding morals. Nothing shakes us to the foundations more than someone of a higher standing. That’s why France is hated. But, then again nothing cures an (intelligent) Francophobe faster than a spell in France itself, as a writer revealed in The Guardian last week.

Other reasons for France’s unpopularity? Is it their alleged lack of military prowess? France was overrun within three weeks during World War 2. Later, just before the second Gulf War, the Americans dubbed the French "cheese-eating surrender monkeys" for opposing the conflict. But perhaps the French were right, after all?

Perhaps also Jean Marie Le Pen’s "success" gave France a xenophobic image. I notice that French filmmaker Julie Delpy gave a nod to this in her movie 2 Days in Paris by introducing a racist taxi driver. But the Brits are just as xenophobic; it’s just that Britain’s far-right was too obviously Nazi to win (as many) votes.  We used to drive through France on the way to Portugal. The moment we stepped off the ferry at St Malo you noticed an improvement. The streets were cleaner, the music more subdued, town centres better maintained and the women more curvaceous and elegant. Driving down via Nantes, Bordeaux and St Jean de Luz I was struck by the aesthetic appeal of everything: well painted houses and meticulously kept gardens.

Sadly, that civic spirit is lacking in the UK today.  Many visits later and the list expands. Hospitals are more modern, trains cleaner and more efficient. French women, in particular, dress up before going out. They like to apply make-up, don an elegant coat and jewellery. British women, terrified of being mugged, go to great lengths to dress down.

The food? Even minor dishes are prepared with meticulous attention. My favourite meal of recent years was sitting outside at a bistro in St Paul-de-Vence overlooking the undulating hills of the Provencal countryside in winter, sampling a superbly ripe avocado vinaigrette as smoke billowed from cottages upwards towards the setting rose-tinted sun. Magical!

Nothing - but nothing - matches the first arrival in Paris, the heady excitment of the Champs Elysees or the unique atmosphere of Montmartre. That’s why it always puzzles me that so many Brits head off to New York or Miami before they’ve even tweaked the Parisian nose.  Resorts on the Cote d’Azur make their equivalents in Spain, Portual and Bulgaria look tacky. Many years ago a package holidaymaker regaled me with his choices : "I’ve bin to Spine, Grice, Porugal, done ‘em all, mate" (sic). I mentioned the Cote d’Azur and he did a double take. "Where’s that then?" I knew then that a holiday in Nice was safe. You see, contrary to popular belief, visitors to the south of France don’t all have to be wealthy but they must have taste.