Small town blues, lucky red smalls

Tastier baguettes for under 50p, sunshine instead of freezing fog and a view with room taking the place of a room with a view.

One of the things I liked even less about living in the heart of Paris than the high cost of everyday purchases was that in common with most others sharing the experience, I had no outside space.

Of course the Tuileries were opposite, the Luxembourg gardens and other parks were within easy reach and Paris lives up to its City of Light image in splendid fashion.

But there is something about being able to go outside and still be at home.

A terrace, as we have here in the Var, is one great asset - and it was almost warm enough to eat lunch on it today. A modest garden, like the one we left behind in London, is another.

In Paris, even a small balcony would have sufficed provided we could have sat outside on it.

If the terrace here, with its uninterrupted view across the hills, is something for which to be mightily grateful, small town life may take some getting used to.

I spent all but the earliest three months of my first 23 years in Shildon, County Durham (being born in Hove is naturally a source of both shame and constant impudent reminders from friends).

Then I had short spells elsewhere in Durham - Darlington, Hobson (though not by choice, I used to say) and Newton Aycliffe - before moving to London. And for the past 30-odd years, it's been the big city: Bristol, another stay in London and finally Paris.

Wandering around Le Lavandou today, I was impressed as ever by the palm trees, the lovely bay and the sea air.

But lots of bars, shops and restaurants had congés annuels signs up. Tonight's fireworks display drew a fair-sized crowd to the promenade, but it still did not truly feel like a place that was "lively all year round", as my wife was assured the last time she had her hair done here.

Time - and the occasional reference on Salut! - will doubtless tell.

But I should add that things did look up a little on the marina, where a poster for the Equateur nightspot promised a hip réveillon. Customers were offered two bits of advice: book early and wear red underwear "for good luck".

It wasn't until I switched on the news an hour or so later that I discovered that the second part of the advice - red knickers for New Year's Eve fortune - was a recent tradition originating in Italy.

If, in the coming days, anyone comes across a beaming Bill Taylor - Salut! regulars will know he is spending tonight in Rome - they may be able to guess what he packed before leaving Toronto.

Bonne année to all.