Today I congratulated myself on doing something very clever: I chose a fourth cousin who over twenty years ago moved from England to a small town in France. Brilliant of me, if I say so myself. I told Lesley, if you lived in Swindon, I would still visit you. But not with the same degree of enormous pleasure.

This morning Lesley and Duncan spent two hours driving me around the countryside, to take in villages and a divine chateau, now a luxury hotel, in a middle of the village of Dissay. The French countryside is so different from England’s; as Lesley pointed out, the populations of France and England are more or less the same, but France has far more land and is far less crowded. All around us, green fields dotted with small villages, with, always, a medieval church spire pointing to god in centre ville. As we drove through the yoke-yellow fields of rapeseed lined with rows of trees, I kept saying, David Hockney would want to paint this. And probably has.

We stopped to look at the family home of French philosopher Michel Foucault, who grew up in a classic French maison de campagne with huge Paulovnia trees in bloom outside. These colourful trees are heavenly, as is the wisteria everywhere.

Home for a pit stop, and then a 20-minute walk along country paths to a gourmet restaurant, also a wine shop; I was taking my hosts for lunch to thank them for their kind hospitality. OMG! A superb meal. I had the daily specials: mousse of beet mixed with local chèvre, to die for. Pork with veg. A dessert medley with espresso. Accompanied by two bottles of wine — a frisky rosé and a Chinon with the meal. Let me tell you, more lunch than I’m used to, and far, far better.

I loved looking at the diners around me, especially the tables of men — several groups of five, both youngish and older, laughing a lot. Lesley reminded me that workers in France get meal vouchers and two hours for lunch, so these men were probably on their lunch hour, eating a superb meal and enjoying each other’s company. It was heartening. The female mayor made the rounds, shaking hands. She wrote a very complimentary note about Lesley and Duncan when they applied for French citizenship, and they were accepted into this exclusive club easily.

The bill came to $145 CAD. That is, three three-course gourmet meals with two bottles of good wine (and of course limitless bread) for not even $50 each. Yes.

We walked home along another leafy path, passing a field with sheep hired to keep the grass low, and later where they showed me something truly moving: the community, in 2004, began a tradition. Every child born that year had a small tree or shrub planted in a municipal ceremony, with a plaque in front with their name and dates. We started at one end with last year’s newborns and their tiny shrublets, and as we walked, the plants grew taller and stronger. What a brilliant way, first to attach young people to their community, but also to plant beautiful trees. Why didn’t we think of that?

I know this country has huge problems. But Lesley and Duncan have never for one second regretted their decision to uproot themselves and move here, and I understand why. Lesley told me that before their move, every time she and Duncan came here on vacation, as the car drove off the ferry, she felt she was finally at home.

And now she really is. And, in a strange sense, so am I.

Last night we watched a DVD of a fine British film, One Life, about Nicholas Winton, “the British Schindler,” who found a way to save 669 mostly Jewish children from Czechoslovakia just before the war. Very moving, with two great actors, Anthony Hopkins and one of my favourites, Johnny Flynn. Another story of struggle and courage against great odds. Winton was born Wertheim to German-Jewish parents, a fact mentioned but not highlighted. He was a hero. Recommended.

My last evening here. Tomorrow Phase 3 begins: after seven hours south in a train, a week with Lynn and Denis. We were lucky to have sun here yesterday afternoon and part of today, but it has not been hot, and is not in the south.

I joked with Lesley that I’m getting out just in time; “after three days, guests and fish stink.” But I’ve done my laundry here, so I hope I smell good.

Pix: sorry, out of order, can’t get them to move. Michel Foucault’s house. The chateau de Dissay. My family at lunch. And a happy camper.