BONJOUR mon amis. Last week I was on me holliers dans le Sud of France, zee land of onions, berets, and famous singers such as Charles As-no-voice and Edith Kiev. I was trying very hard to completely forget my humdrum life back in Drawda. Turns out, nothing's that simple.

Incidentally, I don't actually speak zee lingo, but that's a different kettle of poissons altogether.

The first day I decided to explore la histoire of zee area locale and after a breakfast of croissants washed down with a refreshing glass of entente cordiale I set out for the nearest Templar Castle.

And mon Dieu, would vouz believe it? The Knights Templar were set up by a bloody Godfrey! This was quite a revelation sans doute. He founded the organisation in 1119. Ooh la la! Please make it go away. I didn't think I was a Frankophile, but I suppose I must be.

Next I headed to a place called Carcassonne. But en route there a slow farmer driving a la carte overflowing with grapes, raison d'etres and nom de plumes, causing traffic havoc. He was obviously heading for the local laissez-faire. (Or is that a gay pride festival? I did say I didn't know the language.)

But there's never an avant garde around when you need one. As a result the journey took ages and was, as they say in France, chaise longue, chaise longue indeed.

After a short temps of exploring on mon sweeney I joined a tour groupe. It wasn't long before I began to think that le tour guide (an extremely jovial madamoiselle) knew exactly who I was and that she was trying to freak me out.

I could have sworn she kept talking about our poll-topping councillor from Ballsgrove all the time – Cllr Bell. The jour was belle, the vue was belle, the meteo was belle, I wouldn't have been sur-feckin'-prised if one of the town councillors was Bell.

Then some lecherous English bloke in the tour group said she had a terrific Derry air, but I wasn't hearing a Northern Ireland accent there at all.

Come to think of it, I don‚t think HE even understood ME; I called him a pomme when we sat down to eat later and he tossed an apple in my direction. Strange.

During our tour, our femme fatale informed us about the terrible massacres that took place in the 13th century during the Albigensian Crusade and that there were a lot of lives were lost 'dans sang-froid'. I didn't even know the bould Sigmond wrote any songs or who this singer Dan was. Just shows.

After a lunch that consisted of a couple more Granny Smith je m'appelles and a cool glass of prêt a porter, I badly needed the eau de toilette.

But I returned just as the merde was about to hit the ventilateur. Le guide started banging on about a French crusader called Hugh de Lacy who joined the Crusade against the heretical Cathars in 1210.

She added that he was really an Irish monsieur who had presented the Irish town of Drogheda in Ireland with a charter in 1194! Would I lie to vouz?

Well, haute couture! (As Miley from Glenroe would've said if he had been French.) I was gobsmacked.

Could this be the same Hugh de Lacy après whom we named a pedestrian pons over the Boyne River at le Scotch Hall?

I can now reveal that it is! Apparently he was banished from Ireland in 1210 when he fell out with King John and headed off to France avec le hump.

Later that same jour I had another realisation. Safely back at the pretty little ménage a trios we were renting out, as I stirred a potpourri on the hob for the evening meal, it struck me that I was in the Languedoc – the land of OC – Oliver Cromwell. Sacrebleu!

See I just couldn't get away. That same soir, I watched French TV. Naturally the only thing I understood were the ads.

But sitting there, immersed in le heart of France still trying to forget about home, the corny jingle at the end of a yogurt ad just reminded me of our coalman from Marian Park: Hmm-mm Dan Owens. Oh great. Just great.