I won’t bore you with the background, but there is a famous quote in football that “every man thinks they have the prettiest wife at home”. That notion is rooted in pride and applied to many aspects of our lives; the areas we live and/or come from, our chosen careers and the places we visit on holiday. This pride derives from the positive memories of the places, people and experiences they choose, but also can, unintentionally, evolve into defensiveness about those same life experiences that they are defined by, limited to and therefore sometimes endure.

For holidays, my own example of this is reserved for France, specifically Provence and the Cote D’Azur. My family has holidayed in Juan-Les-Pins since I was young enough to stare at all the topless women and get away with it.

Juan is a seaside resort between Cannes and Nice, which was made famous by the patronage of Charlie Chaplin and Ernest Hemingway in the early 20th Century and is now sustained by overpriced, slightly tired, mid-late 20th century glamour. But my affection for Juan (and more so for the surrounding area) is drawn from memories of those family holidays and particularly the food; “Omelette a la confiture” (plain omelette with jam – a pancake like dessert, without the flour and eggs), creamy mushroom Vol-au-vent, the intensely flavoured and deep, ochre coloured “Soup de Poisson”, Tart au Citron (delicate, quivering and slightly acidic lemon tart), Tart Tatin (caramelised, tart apples with rich, flaky pastry), “Millefeuille Croquant aux fraises” (layered flaky pastry with strawberries). All sampled for the first time in this part of France.

My affection for the area results in a form of constant torment when I’m not there. Being so close (two hours flight) is tantalisation too great and the conflict of being so emotionally attached to and physically detached from a place leads to irrational feelings. I’m caught between my desire for permanence there and the awareness that I would never truly belong, no matter how much of the “pigeon” I might manage to remove from my spoken French.

I regard myself as awkwardly somewhere between the invaders and the natives, resenting the hypocrisy of those who move here but whose main motivation seems to be to redeploy the “United Kindgom-sur-mer”. The natives reluctantly accept us tourists, the necessity of our economic contribution tempers their distaste for the “invasion” and disturbance of their place. The hypocrisy of ex-pats being when “foreigners” live in the UK, we expect them to assimilate Britishness, as if they were born within earshot of the “Bow Bells” and with leather and willow in hand. Complaints about the work-ethic, different attitude to the pace of life, manners and politeness and service may be valid in the context of UK, but not elsewhere. Adapt and adopt I say! You might even enjoy it...

As for tourists, I fail to understand (and I have tried) why do people go abroad, on what is probably for most their one and only main holiday each year, but only crave a difference in climate. To travel for many hours and miles in order merely to baste their pasty complexions underneath nature’s grill is odd to me.

To that end I’m proud to announce, exclusively to you, the launch of the new, fantastic, money-saving concept to rival the package holiday. I will be rolling out, across the UK, a state-of-the-art combination Tanning salon/sauna/, complete with overhead UV sun-lights, authentic beach sand, swimming pool and parasols and bar. We’ll even offer you a choice of tanning mediums; traditional sun-cream, tanning oil or for something more quintessentially British, beef dripping. This way the sun seeker can go on holiday without the torture of having battle airports, the shock of learning that there are other languages apart from English or eat food without ketchup or gravy (*gasp!*). Plus you wouldn’t have to miss Eastenders or Corrie!

Anyway…back to the lunch in Cassis (likened to St Tropez before hurricane of glitz, glamour and hype bruised its charm). Driving down from Provence to the pretty seaside town of Cassis (for all you linguists, the last “s” is silent), my wife and I anticipated a simple lunch of simply cooked fish, nothing fancy or fussy, one that would prove that quality and freshness will always conquer all else.

It was one of those implausibly glorious Provence summer days, the intoxicating mix of a salty breeze and pine-tree infused heat heightening our anticipation for lunch as we strolled down to the port. Now having urged you earlier to adopt the lifestyle, we were a little surprised that some of the kitchens were closed by quarter to two. But Nino’s took pity on us and we sat down to a splendid view across the port, into the faded green hills and out into the glistening blue horizon. Bliss.

The menu offering was typically simple, fresh fish and crustacean, a couple of concessions to the meat fraternity, salads and sides and of course, the famed Bouillabaisse. This region is famed for this dish and it is considered the pinnacle for most visitors. It is originated as a fisherman’s stew with a variety of mainly white fish lightly poached, with potatoes, in a light fish broth. It has developed into an expensive version of its humble ancestor, emboldened by saffron, fennel and the addition of more expensive cuts of fish.

So, although priced at €44 per person, we ordered it with guilty glee. Our charming, English-speaking waiter (he’d lived and worked in London in his youth) marked us out (rather frustratingly for me) as first-time tourists from our over-excited ordering of the dish. His admonishment of me for ordering an “Orangina” (a nostalgic choice) to accompany the meal (“all zat sugar with zee bouillabaisse eez chrahzee, non?”) was jarring, but refreshing in its sincerity and desire for customer enjoyment. I am all for polite guidance for the ignorant or uninitiated, especially when I’m that person. A lesson here, the customer does not always know best.

Our discipline wilted in the heat, with the introduction of baguette croutons, rouille (garlic, saffron and chilli mayonnaise) and parmesan (the former being topped with the latter and then covered with the broth), which we nibbled on until the fish and broth arrived. When it did, the waiter delicately and nimbly removed the flesh from bones and then poured the warm, fishy broth into our bowls over the garlic-rubbed rouille croutons that we’d prepared.

The broth was light, balanced and subtle with hints of aniseed (from fennel) and sunny saffron. The fish (some filleted, some whole) were poached delicately and the potatoes, having absorbed the broth, added substance to the whole dish. I’ve not eaten bouillabaisse many times so my frame of reference is not wide, but we agreed between us it was a well composed version of the dish, even if my wife was a little underwhelmed that there was no red-meat involved. As for the price, it could have easily fed four, so therein perhaps lies the justification? Although next time I don’t much fancy asking our waiter if we might share a single person’s portion.

A conclusion? If you’re lucky enough to be in the area, take a drive to Cassis. It’s a pretty place to be. Get there early, take a stroll and enjoy a long lunch. My only plea is that you choose somewhere that has a small menu mainly consisting of fish (e.g. Ninos) and avoid one of the ubiquitous pizzerias. Otherwise it is a waste of their beautiful natural resources and you may as well have stayed at home.