Just back from a farmers’ jolly to France. Organised by Natural England as part of their Heathland project, I was fortunate enough to be invited to join one of the cultural-exchange visits.

We few, (we happy few), consisted of  6 farmers (the other five all from deepest, darkest West Penwith) and a couple of conservation officers; and we trundled in our minibus from Cherbourg in Normandy, visiting many Heathland sites over four days, ending up at Roscoff in Brittany for the boat home to Plymouth.

From the moment we set foot aboard the French owned Brittany Ferry at Poole, the cultural differences began to show. The food and service in the restaurant were not only superb but also very reasonably priced (not that we were paying , you understand). And I had barely enough time it seemed to digest my wild salmon (washed down with a very nice Beaujolais), before we had disembarked and were unpacking in our hotel and getting ready to meet our first French guide in a very swanky seafood restaurant overlooking the night time harbour – local oysters and mussels followed and the chilled white wine flowed freely.

And so the trip went on, and I can honestly say that I have never eaten quite as much – or so well - in such a short time; and if it were not for the occasionally foray onto some French Heath we would all have come down with early onset gout.

Those of you who have already discovered the joys of North-West France will not be surprised; but I was truly taken aback by the miles of empty roads, the relaxed attitude to life, the fine local cuisine and the sheer peace and calm of the small towns and villages we visited. This seemed even more surreal as the surrounding countryside bears a remarkable resemblance to Cornwall – just without the traffic and tourists.

And whilst the farms we visited were not perhaps the tightest of run outfits, and some of the Heathland restoration projects looked unlikely to succeed much past their European funding, they did seem to have their priorities right – good food, good wine & convivial conversation.

Back home again and it is all I can do to stop myself pouring a glass of plonk midday and if I find myself becoming at all stressed, I take a deep breath and recite to myself B.M.F. – Be More French!