It's very nice to be back in France -such lovely countryside and quiet, albeit pricey, motorways and reasonably priced wine (see below). And don't let's forget their weekday jazz slot on the equivalent of Radio 3 and related weekend bonanzas. Not to mention the musical treats at the Parc Floral. Those I haven't been able to enjoy since I left Paris but I like to know that they're there.

You think Edinburgh is a village but here it's the same. I stopped off at a supermarket in a town half an hour's drive away to buy something for my tea and bumped into a couple who play golf at Les Dryades.

The drive down from Dunkirk was relaxation in spades compared to yesterday's run to Dover. At some point my wipers failed and I had to choose between risking my life in the thunderstorms that pursued me almost all the way or missing my boat. I don't recommend crawling along the M25 trying desperately to keep your vehicle between the white lines that demarcate the slow lane while huge pantechnicons thunder along on your right hand side casting waves of glaur onto your windscreen. After that bungee jumping holds no fear.

My neighbour Alain had kindly cut my grass in expectation of my arrival but unfortunately he expected me last month so it's grown a bit since. I shall have to grovel.

The house is in good order but the spiders have been busy over the winter so I shall have to put my shoulder to the wheel tomorrow and hoover their works away, not to mention getting to grips with the grass. Fortunately I have fortified myself this evening with a wee steak and the best part of a bottle of Bourgogne. That was reassuringly expensive at five euros and something compared to the run of reds at two to three euros a throw.

My support for the SNP's minimum pricing for alcohol strategy is undimmed. The French are not the Scots and the Scots in France are not the Scots either.