French Letter: Is the North bound to remain France’s problem child?

When I read about the thousands of migrants who cross the Channel each week in small boats in pursuit of a new life in the UK, my mind goes back to twenty years ago and more, when the so-called Côte d’Opale was studded with the ferry ports of Calais, Dunkirk and Boulogne. Travellers from England routinely viewed it as a mere stepping-stone into the “real” France. 

True, some got off the boat, or in the case of Boulogne, the hovercraft, with no other purpose than to fill their car boots with cheap wine and beer from warehouses denoted by a British telephone box or an old red double-decker bus.

But the booze cruise craze had little to do with tourism, still less cultural exploration. Even the snatched lunches offered for sale in the local cafés were, for the most part, made up of fish’ n chips, burgers and – if you really wanted to show off – steak frites.

La vraie France – la France profonde – only started two hundred miles down the road when grey roof slates gave way to red tiles, and the first vineyards made their appearance. If we exclude Paris (always an exception) what the English middle classes meant by France was, essentially, the Dordogne, the Var and Provence. 

Good food and better wine, all enjoyed under an umbrella that kept the sun at bay, were the principal object of the exercise. On an afternoon that was not too hot, there would be an excursion to the local museum or chateau. On market day, rough ham, smelly cheese and exotic vegetables would be brought home in triumph to render the evening’s al fresco meal authentically French. 

I have no problem with any of this. Holidays are supposed to be a time to relax, and where could be more relaxing than a southern French town in August? Who cares that most of us don’t speak French? 

So long as we don’t get drunk and throw up in the fountain, the French are more than happy to accommodate us. Indeed (whisper it softly), they may even like us, especially if we act the part – straw hats for the men, floral dresses for the ladies and a jocular manner that shows we are having a good time. 

They know that, in spite of Brexit and all the bluster over submarines and fishing licenses, we love France, and always have. Still, we’re talking here about the France that lies south of whatever approximates to the Mason-Dixon Line.

What about the rest of the country? What about the North? There are, of course, those who can happily spend a weekend in Normandy, with its half-timbered houses, sheltered coves and echoes of the Impressionists. 

Others have “discovered” the north coast of Brittany, so ruggedly “authentic,” yet boasting miles of sandy beaches and a range and quality of seafood to which even Paris defers. 

In more recent years, Alsace has attracted a following, both for the climate (surprisingly hot in summer) and for its subtle franco-german ambience. And Lille, abutting Belgium, was added to many mental atlases by the arrival in the 1990s of Eurostar. Who knew that a city as fine and lively as this could be little more than an hour from St Pancras?  

But with all that said, large parts of France remain terra incognita to the typical British tourist – nowhere more than the Pas de Calais. Only Le Touquet – Paris Plage – is regarded as a plausible holiday destination in this neck of the woods. This is mainly because of the town’s associations with the likes of H.G. Wells, Noel Coward and the great P.G. Wodehouse, none of them recent inhabitants. 

Today, Calais itself – or at any rate its port and the vast penumbra that shields the Eurotunnel approaches – is like a town under siege. It has become migrant-central – the number one jumping-off point for a new life in England. 

Gendarmes are everywhere, patrolling the beaches and the fields and woods beyond. The Eurotunnel terminal area, occupying hundreds of acres, is totally fenced in, more like a fortress or concentration camp than a point of departure. 

In the town centre, there are still plenty of shops, restaurants and cafés, but they cater almost entirely to the local population, as well as migrants, customs officials and the police. 

Transport – logistics – will always provide Calais with a living. But it is no longer somewhere to enjoy a day out, merely – and this is no small thing – a place where people and goods are loaded and unloaded en route to and from its sister port of Dover. 

Elsewhere, Boulogne is much more itself than it used to be. It is a handsome town dating back to Roman times; it is well worth a visit, except that no ferries call there anymore. The port – home to the largest fishing fleet in France – is ugly, but the old town, surrounded by its thirteenth-century ramparts, remains a place to get lost in, which in my book is always a recommendation. 

Boulogne, with its many small hotels, is also a base from which to explore le Boulonnais, a belt of chalk downs dotted with small farms, red-brick villages and orchards that, if you are quick, can be glimpsed from the Eurostar as it emerges from the tunnel en route for Paris. 

The French themselves – by which I mean those who live in more favoured parts of the country – tend to apologise for the North, or, worse, to ignore it. 

There are jewels, of course – Reims, Amiens, Rouen, Soissons, Laon – but these are noted chiefly for their monuments rather than as places to live, which is monumentally unfair. 

On the Belgian frontier, Valenciennes ought to be better known, but isn’t. Metz – pronounced Mess – the capital of Lorraine, is magnificent, an almost perfect German city that after centuries of conflict is happy to be French. I haven’t been to Cambrai or St Quentin, but if Wikipedia is to be believed, they too have a lot going for them. 

So what am I saying? I think it is that latitude and proximity to the Mediterranean play too big a part in our assessment of France. 

More than six million people live in the region of Hauts-de-France, incorporating the departments of Pas de Calais, Somme, Nord, Aisne and Oise. Another five-and-a-half million live in the Grand-Est, home to Alsace, Lorraine and Champagne-Ardenne, while the Seine-Maritime department of Normandy, which includes Rouen, has on its own a population of one-and-a-quarter million. 

The North of France is deeply imbued with history, extending back more than a thousand years. Without the North, Paris would be a country town. It is where the idea of France was born and where the wars were fought. 

It is where, in the Age of Coal, France’s industrial revolution began. The South may feel these days that the North has become a problem child, due for a sustained dose of levelling up (preferably paid for by Brussels). 

Still, the territory itself is in no doubt that it remains vital and – perhaps as climate change works its black magic – that its time in the sun will come again. 

In the meantime, what of the centre? Can it hold? I will have to think about that.