Of all the reasons to visit the French lakes between Geneva and Chambéry in the Savoie - clear water, friendly locals and good food - there is one attraction that gives them the edge over their better-known counterparts in Italy.

As you saunter round the French streets or take your first spin on a pedalo, you know that you are not about to encounter George Clooney, who will doubtless leer at your wife.

And she will leer back, and talk about the experience for the rest of the holiday. It is perhaps for this fact alone that Italian is the foreign language most widely spoken around the shores of Lake Annecy in the summer. There is also a reassuring lack of Brits, who perhaps prefer fleshier pots.

The locals call them the grey lake, blue lake and green lake (they are officially known as Aiguebelette, Annecy and Bourget)but this part of France is not known for its creativity. With the possible exception of Paris's rue Saint-Honoré, this is as bourgeois as it gets.

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It is the heart of the Savoie, which became part of France only in 1860. The landscape makes up for the locals' lack of imagination. It is sublime.

Annecy is the capital of the Haute-Savoie, a taxed man's version of Geneva, less flashy because French taxes are high, with fewer watch and chocolate shops and banks that have to lend money as well as keep it in safe boxes. It is known as the Venice of France because of the canals, but there is no comparison: Annecy is much better.

Clear water runs through the canals and the air is clear. When we visited at the end of April, there was fresh snow on the mountains, which went nicely with the feathers of the swans that paddle serenely up and down the canals.

I tried to interest my wife and daughter in the architecture of the old town, but they were keen to explore the shopping possibilities. (Apparently there is a very good H&M.) Much of the old town is pedestrianised: this means you have to walk a long way with your shopping bags back to the car. Or you can head to the lake along canals lined with plane trees. There are lots of parks to entertain the little bourgeoisie, pedalos for hire, and mountains to gaze at. Of the three lakes, this is the most beautiful.

If you were really energetic, you could pedalo to Talloires, a small town on the eastern shore. We were lucky to be staying in the Abbaye de Talloires. The building dates from the 17th century. The hotel is a dream: our room had lovely high ceilings, a view of the lake if I craned my neck around the balcony, and a comfy bed. There are grand pianos dotted around on landings, which look almost small, so large are the proportions of the building. It was a good place for my daughter to practise her piano; less good perhaps for some of the other guests.

We arrived in time for Sunday lunch, which is a splendid affair. Many of the locals look as if they have been preparing for their outing since midweek. On a beautiful spring day with not a cloud in the sky, we were informed that we could not eat outside. “The weather has been bad all week,” we were told by way of explanation.

In exceptional circumstances, they might let us have an apéritif in the sunshine, but when the time came we were ushered straight into the darkened dining room. The menu looked - and tasted - good: carpaccio of salmon, magret de canard, and a pink pudding that I didn't eat.

“Who is that man in the skirt?” asked my daughter. The man in the skirt was the sommelier, and technically it was probably an apron. Armed with a fantastic knowledge of wine, he advised us to drink a cabernet sauvignon from the Languedoc.

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