I NORMALLY AVOID British newspapers on holiday. But such has been the excitement of the Ashes series that I have found myself gorging on them as I seek to fill the enormous gap left by the fact that France does not acknowledge cricket.

Inevitably, I find myself flicking through other parts of the papers, which seem to be full of irritating articles by contributors anxious to tell us all about their summer holidays. Apologies in advance for feeling a compulsion to add to their number.

Because British journalism is now dominated by a culture of negativity, particularly about Britain, these “wish you were heres” tend to be articles saying what a nice time the author is having, and why oh why can’t Britain be more like (insert as appropriate)? Local bar owners will be granted sage status to back up a pet theory owned by the author. One good journey will be taken as evidence of a perfectly integrated transport system. One particularly ludicrous comment piece in The Daily Telegraph, purchased purely because of my desire to read Geoff Boycott on the Ashes, was little more than an elongated postcard from marvellous, marvellous Switzerland. Matthew Parris had a piece in The Times from Australia which added up to the idea that British journalists could cover Australia perfectly well, and what a nice time he had reaching this blinding observation.

Then at the weekend, we had (Sir) Simon Jenkins telling us that France was a better place to live than Britain, a conclusion reached by a series of logic-defying steps that included his observation that French roads were empty (this as the French papers were carrying the usual appeals to tourists to stagger their journeys because the autoroutes were full).

I have never found it easy to take Jenkins terribly seriously since he was part of the delegation deputed to persuade Tony Blair in Opposition to commit a Labour Government to supporting the Dome. It took a couple of days for us to reach his desired conclusion, at which point his eyes welled up and he said Blair had committed a heroic act of leadership that none of us would ever regret. I have to say it didn’t feel like that as midnight chimed a few years later. Indeed one of the worst moments of many was getting home to find the image British TV stations were using to illustrate the new millennium was fireworks exploding out of the Eiffel Tower (something else our victorious Olympic bid helped to erase).

Like Jenkins, I love France. I lived here for a year as a student. As a family, we have been coming to the same area for holidays for 20 years, and will keep doing so. There is a lot in his current analysis I agree with — above all, I share his support of the French respect for localism and its importance to planning and protection of community and cherished traditions.

But not all Brits who come here believe that France is a better country than their own. Some of the country’s most vociferous and well-known Europhobes nonetheless take their holidays here. Equally, if you talk to the same kind of French people we have been talking to, you could hardly underestimate their sense of depression and decline.

At the risk of elevating bar owners to sage status, I can report that virtually every one of the French businesspeople we have met this year has expressed strong opposition to the 35-hour week. Perhaps more surprisingly, the opposition seems to be shared by virtually every one of the French tourists we have talked to. Their complaint is not that they work less than they did — that bit seems to please them. It is that they now have more time for leisure and holidays, yet severely reduced spending power. Restaurants report the French to be eating and drinking less. Hotels report that Belgian and Dutch families tend to be the ones taking the de luxe bedrooms and expensive set menus.

I have detected this year a far closer echo of the persistent complaint heard so often in a far less regulated Britain — that regulation is doing real harm to the economy and people’s living standards. The French are a proud people, but seem to be going through a period of depression. If you ask which country has the better political leader, most will say Britain. Their own President is undergoing death by a thousand cuts at the hands of the pretender , Nicolas Sarkozy. They have a right-wing Republican President to fuel their basic cyncism about America, but press them on the detail of policy and they seem to be coming closer to the Anglo-Saxon model, and fearful that their own ways are failing.

We have just had the local fair. Attendance was down. So were takings. The town-to-town fairground operators were muttering about not coming back — not as cherished a tradition as the centrally priced, locally baked baguette maybe, but still a chilly gust blown by unwelcome economic winds of change.

Finally, another anecdote to illustrate regulation here on a scale that no sane Brit would ever contemplate. My son and I spotted a piece in the local paper about a 10km run in a beautifully named place called Cheval Blanc, an hour’s drive away. We called to get directions. We arrived to register, only to be told we could not enter unless we had a licence or a medical certificate to say we were capable of running 10km without fear of illness or death. This was not some big athletics meeting but an amateur fun run round a small provincial town.

The race organiser conceded the absurdity of it, and after a discussion with his colleagues decided we could run the course but not be part of the race officially. It meant that when my son came in third overall, and first in the juniors, third place actually went to the man who finished just behind him. The organisers were very friendly and charming, and the race was brilliantly organised. When we talked about the ludicrous need for licence or certificate, we were greeted with a series of nods and shrugging shoulders and the observation: “Hein, c’est la France.”

A great place for a holiday, but not a country moving in the direction we or they necessarily want.

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