Where am I? From my hotel bedroom before breakfast I can see, against a wooded background, a row of small cottages, some quaintly antique, some concretely contemporary, their terraced gardens thick with miscellaneous foliage, sunflowers and roses and plots of vegetables. Washing hangs on a line; there is an ironing board on a balcony; a housewife spots us and waves; a man next door is busy polishing his already spotless Citroën. Somebody has drawn a tastefully sexy graffito on a wall.