The Savoie is idyllic. It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been to, rather like Devon on steroids but with mountain ranges. But this tosh about a peaceful life in the country is, well, tosh.

I am pleased to report that the well-known and well-documented international terrorist conspiracy to keep me awake has another victim: Rupert. I never thought I would see the day but since we have been here he has been woken up by:

An over-sexed or over-something moth living in the beams

Rats or some rodent with fast friends running over our heads

Cows mooing (I am not joking, it woke me up too)

A neighbour’s dog running upstairs

Lambs bleeting (I noticed he ate his roast lamb with particular gusto on Sunday)

Dogs barking (no change there, we are in France after all)

Tractors racing (or at least that’s what it sounded like)

Birds singing

Cockerels crowing (to be expected)

It feels like we’re living in a mini-farm. But I love it. I have invested in some multi-coloured ear-plugs and am fighting the forces of evil. Rupert says he can’t wait to get to London next week for a bit of peace and quiet. I might just stay here with my earplugs in.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

It is not often that reality turns out to be better than one’s fantasy. For example those red croc stilettos from Fratelli Rossetti are great, but they have yet to change my life. And a cream cake rarely tastes as good as it looks. But here I am, in the Savoie, in a cottage called La Clementine and I couldn’t be more chuffed.

I have had my eye on this little place for a couple of years. It is close to our friend’s Norrie and Mary’s house. It sits in the dip of a valley, surrounded by rolling hills and mountains. It is made of stone and wood and extremely simple.

“What if it’s not as lovely as you imagined inside?” asked Rupert as we drove towards it. There is no pool, the bathroom is tiny (I have had to spread my three suitcases of products around the house) and the kitchen is the size of our bathroom at home. Compared with many of the luxury places I have stayed on our travels (thanks to being a journalist, there has to be some upside) you could describe it as spartan. But I totally love it. Who needs all that marble and people running around after you anyway? This is the most magical place I have ever stayed in. It just feels like home, exactly what we need now that we’re homeless until we get to Abu Dhabi. Come to think if it, we’re homeless once we get there as well. Have you tried to rent an apartment in downtown Abu Dhabi recently? Well, don’t. It’s a nightmare, worse than London and more expensive.

We arrived here yesterday afternoon after almost 10 days of travelling. We unpacked the car and as I write the coffee machine is warming up and my yoga mat (much missed during our trip as it was hidden in the top box of the car, which by the way has split under the strain of all my creams) lies on the floor ready for me to do sun-saltues with a mountain view.
The children have all run up to Norrie and Mary’s for their morning “flying biscuits” ritual and in the distance I can hear farmyard sounds. I will shut up now as I run the risk of sounding like one of those dreary people one wants to murder because they’re always droning on about how marvellous life is. But right now, it is.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

I have been to the Ile de Re on France’s Atlantic coast three times and every time it has rained. Notwithstanding this, I love it. In fact I’m sure after two months in the desert I will be dreaming of its green coastline and soft showers.

To me it sums up why the French are the one nation in the world who have really got this ‘how to live’ thing sorted; beautiful countryside and wildlife, gorgeous little boutiques, beaches, fabulous food and wine and donkeys wearing trousers (I kid you not).

I just paid a visit to the post office here in the unfortunately-named Ars-en-Re. It was like walking into a Knightsbridge coffee shop. The cycle hire shop is run by a woman who would give Angelina Jolie a run for her money. Rupert keeps getting punctures, I can’t think why.

We have lunch planned (obviously, what else does one do during breakfast?) in a totally trendy looking spot called Le Bo and then we take a boat to another island called Ile d’Aix. I am assuming that once we’re off the Ile de Rain the sun will shine.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

So we have said goodbye to Sainte Cecile and begun the European tour. We drove away from a calm-looking Max (being looked after by the tenants) with the car jam-packed with our belongings. For some reason I have four bags of bathroom products; there are just so many things a girl can’t live without such as lavender oil, cleansing nose-strips and fake tan.

Included in the contents of the car are also; one electric keyboard for the girls to practice their piano on, one VAST coffee machine so Rupert can get his daily fix which sat on top of Olivia all the way to dance class yesterday, two rugby balls (almost as essential as the nose-strips), 27 bottles of Arrogant Frog wine, tennis racquets, too many unread copies of the New York review of books, yoga mats, Olivia’s new Nintendo DS (birthday present from her godfather), several sun-hats, the entire works of Marcel Proust in French (guess who won’t be reading those?) and Marco the brown and white furry dog.

The children were all given new suitcases from IKEA which have a smaller bag inside where they were told to pack essentials. Leonardo was the most impressive packer by far. Inside his bag are one wooden sword, one soft-toy cat called Findus, one MP3 player with no headphones, one copy of High School Musical CD, 17 toy cars (when asked why he needed them all he replied “I love them”), one water-pistol and one Spider-man climbing doll. There’s a boy who knows how to travel lightly, unlike the rest of his family.

So far we have managed to lose the children (actually we’re leaving them with Chantal for a week) and end up a full hour away from home in a dreamy place called Peyriac de Mer where I am writing this listening to doves and church bells.

After a walk we are heading up to one of my favourite places in the world; the Ile de Re, where we will spend two days. Then it’s off to explore more French islands before we head back to the Languedoc to watch the girl’s ballet show, squeeze them and Leo’s bag back in the car and head off to the Savoie followed by Sweden, England, Wales and who knows where we might end up? 

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

When I was growing up there was only one supermodel who counted; Ines de la Fressange. She was Karl Lagerfeld’s muse, the face and body of Chanel, as good as it gets.

On my desk as I write I am looking longingly at an invitation to a reception next week to celebrate her being awarded France’s highest award: the Legion d’Honneur. I say longingly because I don’t think I’ll be able to go. Rupert and I are taking a break on the Atlantic Coast to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary and I don’t think his idea of fun is carting up to Paris with a sore knee.

There are apparently several people who don’t think Ines deserves this award. They say she is a clothes-horse. Nothing but a model. I don’t agree. I first met her when I was writing my book about French women. To me she has always epitomsied what makes French women so, well, French. She is thin, elegant, haughty and smokes. What amazed me when I met her though was how lovely she is. Not just beautiful, but genuinely nice.

“I treat everyone like my best friend,” she told me, and she has. She had no reason to be nice to me, heaven knows my book was hardly going to make or break her, but since that first meeting three years ago whenever I have asked her for a favour or a contact she has helped, whenever I have sent her one of my books she has written to thank me. She even thanked me for writing when her husband died suddenly a couple of years ago, leaving her and her two daughters shocked and alone.

If treating some random English hack who comes to interview you as your best friend isn’t reason enough to give someone a Legion d’Honneur, I don’t know what is. And Ines certainly deserves it just as much, if not more, than other recipients like Richard Jenrette (who he? some American investment banker apparently), Vladimir Putin and Celine Dion.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

When I went up to Paris for my style talk last week (which incidentally went very well except for the fact that I forgot the cardinal rule of hanging out with French women – never overdress – and consequently looked like a Christmas tree compared with the rest of them) I had lunch with my shopping guru and new friend Ghada.
The first time I met Ghada (in St Tropez, where else?) she recognised the designer of my hat at 20 paces. This is the kind of thing that bonds women for life.
Anyway, I suggested we have lunch and she sent me the following, truly incredible, list of choices which shows that there is no such thing as a casual lunch, at least not in Paris.
Can you guess where we ended up?
 

Café Charlot in the Nouveau Marais
o        Mood: low key café in an going up neighbourhood
o        Bistro food: Salads, grilled fish & meat
o        Shopping : Johnny Farah, Les Bouclards, Surface to air, Tsumori Chisato, Shine…
o        Who : people in the neighbourhood
 

Café de Flore in Saint-Germain des près
o        Mood: a bit Intellectual, a bit snob, a bit low key and place to be seen
o        French café food : salads, eggs
o        Shopping: Calypso, Sonia, Louboutin, Mona, Irié wash, Atika, Le bon Marché…
o        Who: Sonia Rykiel, Le Monde people, Prada team
 

Hotel Costes in Saint-Honoré
o        Mood: if the weather is nice, the terrace is the place to see and be seen
o        Costes food: Club Sandwich, grilled fish, pasta, vegetables
o        Shopping around: Goyard, Renaud Pellegrino, Miu-Miu, Jérôme Gruet…
o        Who : Actors, Comedians, Singers, Models

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

“I hate Sarkozy,” Leonardo told me this morning. The reason? He makes him go to school. “Does Sarkozy go to school?” he demanded angrily, throwing his Spider-man school bag across the room.

“No,” I said. “He has a job. Either you go to school or you have a job.”

As I said it I realised what a death sentence it sounded. Either school or work. Surely there has to be a third way?

I think in a way there is. A very smart lady from French Glamour magazine who was at the round table talk I attended in Paris summed it up well. She said that life nowadays is not as uniform as it once was. You go through several different stages, almost lives if you like. She called it “a Neapolitan cake life”.

For me, our life in England was one layer of the cake, as was university. Our life in France is another. And very soon we may be moving on to another, rather unusual, layer of cake. I’ll keep you posted.

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

After a lovely trip on the Eurostar (now my number one way to travel anywhere due to the opening of not one, but TWO, Marks & Spencer’s at St Pancras International, I am on the TGV speeding towards home.

I am desperate to see the children, Rupert, my dog etc but I have to admit that something approaching depression hit me as soon as I walked off the train and into Lille Station.
Suddenly all the signs were in French, people were speaking French and it all seemed horribly unfamiliar. Obviously after almost eight years of living in France it is familiar, but the fact is it is not home.

But if I am going to get over this depression I have to change my mind-set. When I go to England I stay in Chelsea (somewhere we would never be able to afford to live), I am able to be supremely selfish (I have no children in tow) and I spend most of my time shopping, applying fake tan, having my eyebrows threaded, seeing friends or painting my nails. This is not life. This is a holiday. So from now on, France is going to be home and England my number one holiday destination.

I am going to make an effort to feel more French by listing things I like about living here.

The weather
The countryside
The girls’ ballet school
The straight, empty roads
The TGV
The fresh food
The sense of civic pride
The view from our house
Our house and garden (especially fig trees)
The vineyard at the end of our road with a cross in the corner
Our almond orchard
My new beauty column in Sante Magazine
The lack of people falling over drunk in the street (yes, even in Chelsea)
The lack of women showing less clothes than flesh
The fact that they stop for lunch

And talking of lunch, it is now at least 15 minutes past the allotted eating hour of midday so I need to get my picnic out (from M&S of course, where else? I’m not completely French yet).

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

A survey published today concludes that the French are more miserable than ever. In fact they are more miserable now than any time since records began. That’s pretty miserable.
When I moved to France eight years ago with my children I expected them to pick up the spirit of Voltaire, freedom, liberty and equality.

Little did I know that almost by osmosis they would pick up another, more obvious, national trait: the ability to whinge, complain, curse one’s lot and go on strike at every given opportunity.

You might think the average Frenchman has a lot to be chuffed about: the choice of endless sea shores, fabulous skiing, the loveliest city in the world, great food and wine, sunshine and the sexiest First Lady since Jackie Kennedy. Are they happy? Non. They are not. I have never known a nation grumble so much. I can only assume that they are worried that if they smile the tax man will assume they are hiding money and come and investigate them.

Tomorrow I am leaving my grumpy children and going off to renew myself at my new anti-ageing spa retreat. It is May 1st so I will be almost the only person in France “working”. But somehow I can’t see myself grumbling, however tough the downward dog gets…..

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008

In order to break into journalism in England I was forced to become a financial journalist on leaving university. This was not, as you can imagine, my natural environment. I worked for the gripping title ‘Trade Finance Magazine’ which shortly after I joined became ‘Project and Trade Finance Magazine’. You can imagine my relief. I am still unsure of the difference between the two.

Anyway, for ten years I struggled on, despite an inauspicious start. I got back from my first ever meeting to find my editor fielding a call from the person I had interviewed who had called to ask her why she had sent “this bimbo who knows less than nothing about trade finance” to interview him.

Finally I gave up journalism altogether, only to reinvent myself as the Sunday Times French Mistress and lifestyle journalist years later.

I have now broken into French journalism which is extremely exciting. Barring the obvious problem that I am unable to write French I think it will go swimmingly. I am a columnist (which is rather like going straight in at number one) for a magazine called Santé.

My first column is Me and my foot cream. I feel I have finally found my level….

Copyright: Helena Frith Powell 2008