Last year my wife, who shares the same birthday as me, arranged a surprise visit to the Camargue, an immense salt marsh that forms the Delta of the River Rhone on the southern coast of France. Having circumnavigated the hurdles and minor irritations of Ryanair (Mr O’Leary’s winged money collecting system), we landed at Nimes and took a taxi to Arles. This delightful walled town is full of Roman interest. The ampitheatre was built in the 9th century AD and seated 21,000 spectators and there’s an imposing bathhouse to keep them clean and healthy after their questionable “entertainment”.
My wife Ann and I are Francophiles, having written about France for a quarter of a century. We love the laid-back French way of life. My French is dreadful and being deaf, I find accents almost impossible to understand, but a smile and a polite request in halting French and I…
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