The old monastery outside the village in the Charente rose up ahead: a dream to behold. Red shutters, gravel drive and hectares of sun-shimmering forest promised a week of long, peaceful, even romantic, walks. We had been travelling for more than six hours, excitement about our holiday a dim memory as we quarrelled: "If I could hold the map and drive, I would!" "If you could remember to drive on the right, then I could look at the map instead of checking to see if we're about to die."
Jane and Richard, our middle-aged, Middle English hosts, walked us around their property. The three huge dogs jumped, licked, slobbered, barked and generally terrified us. Then the lists began. The Do's and Don'ts.
"Don't let the children out of your sight, please. We don't feel it's right . . . with the dogs around," Jane said.
Richard helpfully showed us the unfinished pool: "Best stay away from here for your own safety, and don't let the children near it, will you?"
We were back in the beautiful courtyard. We'll sit out here for a drink and a fag when the babies are asleep, I thought.
But Jane had read my mind: "Best not to spend time out here because of the dogs. They are friendly but, just for your own sake, I feel you'd be happier if you didn't, erm, upset them."
Finally, we were in our room. There was just enough time to sigh at the stunning green acres from our window when Jane returned. "Don't put baby, erm, things down the toilet, will you? Do remember to put the fan on in the bathroom. Don't wash baby bottles in the sink, it's unhygienic. Don't tamper with the heating controls . . ." She paused for breath, looking around for something else that needed protecting from our tribe of oiks. "That's it. Enjoy your stay."
There is a type of British person who harbours the ability and petty intent to make the rest of us feel about as welcome as a late-night intruder at Buckingham Palace. It doesn't matter where they live on earth, they still take their little piece of the Home Counties with them, sealing all borders and patronising all visitors. We were paying a high rate in euros and a higher price in emotional discomfort for being this couple's first B&B guests. I assured her we would be no trouble, as "invisible as possible".
The next day, we left our room looking like the Marie Celeste after a chimpanzees' tea party had been interrupted by the England football team on a binge with Chris Evans. We were on holiday. The whole point of a holiday is not to spend your time tidying up, sitting up, behaving like the boss is in the room, isn't it? When my husband returned unexpectedly to our room an hour later, he told me that he had found Jane, complete with pinny on, standing amid the jolly familial chaos, wearing a pair of rubber gloves. And a look of horror.
The next day, Jane found us at the local market. "I'm afraid there's a chip in the bathroom sink. It's fine, really, and we won't charge you for it, but we feel you'd be more comfortable if you had more room, erm, somewhere else."
"You're kicking us out!" I gasped.
"It's for your own good," she smiled patronisingly.
Back at the house, with my husband videoing the entire scene, Jane pointed to the sink: "There, look: ruined." We craned our necks, strained our eyes. "There!"
She pointed to a dark spot the size of a full stop. It may or may not have been a chip. It may or may not have been there before we arrived. We decided we had had enough. We also decided not to pay a penny for our awful stay. As the woman left, she said: "Consider the bill quits, then," even denying us the pleasure of doing a runner.
Damn these patronising English - they get everywhere.
