A colourful postcard from family of friends holidaying abroad brightens the day for you - even though some of them arrive after the senders have come home. More of a surprise is a phone call such as came in the other day from a voice which said "I'm sitting on the beach outside our hotel. The sun has just gone down and there is still a pinkish glow over the sea; it's warm still but just fresh enough." She and her family were in a hotel which she said was wonderful, and they were, as far as she could see, the only guests who were not French. The food was excellent. She was speaking from the west coast of France, well down that straight coast, on an island linked by a bridge to the mainland. A bit like looking out over the Atlantic from Aran, perhaps. The French newspapers certainly do their bit to enrich the summer reading of the followers by luscious holiday features. Thus page 2 of one is headed "Summer Figaro", and in an issue to hand, four topics and areas of the country are covered, including the beef of Aubrac, with elaborate cooking instructions.
A page of Le Monde is devoted, on the same day, to a sentimental and detailed look at Nationale 7, the favourite route of the writer to the Mediterranean from Paris. Again, food is prominent. A big picture at the top of the page shows an empty street: two signs low on a facing wall tell you that it is 58 kilometres to Aix-en-Provence, to the right, and 136 kilometres if you are going left to Valence. But in the foreground is a blackboard with the menu of the day in bold cursive handwriting. The first item is a beef concoction, next comes "larks in sauce", then roast pork and veal and ratatouille: that is, usually, a dish of fried aubergines, tomatoes, sweet peppers and onions, according to the books.
The writer reflects that his old road was and is, the most fantasised way to the Mediterranean - the Blue Route - the way to the promise of everlasting sunshine. At Montelimar, "intoxicated with heat", water and nougat were administered to "la marmaille" to keep them quiet. (The children, of course.) At the end of the last century, the writer informs us, three million trees were planted along the routes nationales. He wonders how many have escaped the axeman, for many have been felled for road widening. A loving look at a great road. You can go by autoroute and suffer huge traffic jams.