Salut!

Cheesy smells, hidden treasures

Image: Alec Vuijlsteke

Any tedium felt on the long trip through France, from shores of the Med to Calais, is relieved by both the dramatic changes in landscape and the fascinating reference points offered by the signposts passed en route.

Behind the wheel, my interest is predominantly guided by the need to reach B from A, or C from A with a stop at B along the way.

Allez les enfants: children's newspapers thrive as France-Soir fails

Image: Bixentro

un grand bienvenue aux citoyens et citoyennes qui tombent sur mon site en suivant le tweet de François

François Dufour, my old confrère from Paris days, though the last time we met was in a park in Gothenburg, knows a thing or two about the French press.

He can be disdainful of some of its practitioners. To the question posed by the title of his book, Les journalistes français sont-ils si mauvais?, he replied that yes, they are as bad as that.

But François remains a champion of the le presse écrite, says so loudly when he thinks it deserves praise and fights its corner as a board member of the World Association of Newspapers (pipe down, the man who shouted "isn't that a bit like having a world association for dinosaurs?").

Trishna, Madonna and a festival of film

Returning to London from my part of France has already yielded benefits: plush cinema seats, posh Green & Black chocolate and mineral water supplied, for a couple of notable gala screenings ...

Twice over the weekend, Tube journeys into London had Salut! as close to superstars as he ever was to Col Gaddafi (the other side of a coffee table in Tripoli, just before it collapsed under the weight of a heaving bodyguard/media mob), or has been to Nicolas Sarkozy (in the same room, more than once).

My judgement as a film critic has been known to be questioned. However, I am happy to proclaim my admiration for Trishna, Michael Winterbottom's inspired transposition, loosely speaking, of Thomas Hardy's Tess of the d'Urbervilles: A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented , from Wessex to India.

Veils, kilts and a presidential gender issue

And so to Avignon. Not to dance on the bridge but to interview* Kenza Drider, a French mother-of-four who is not only spearheading Muslim resistance to France's ban on the face-covering veil in public but proposing to stand for the presidency in next spring's elections.

The race for the Elysée is very much in the news; Pam, an American woman of my acquaintance from a Joan Baez internet discussion group, wrote this: "... she (Baez) might be happy with the woman who just won the Socialist Party's nomination. To the French folks in this group: what is your opinion of Hollande? And does she have any chance of winning?"

A bientôt, the south of France: the late season's end

When the beach looks like that, even on a moderately sunny Sunday morning, you know the season's at a close. Of course, it really came to an end weeks ago, but the balmy autumn weather has kept people coming.

Somalia and the Euromillions: tears of pity, feelings of rage

Today Salut! is proud to offer space for a special guest slot. Step forward Joëlle Randall. Last night, I had been at badminton; she had been in tears of pity as she watched a programme about an African human tragedy. She narrowly avoided shedding tears of rage at another news item ...

Last night, I caught a programme on French television about Somalia.

A grandmother was shown travelling 60km across barren land to a hospital in a desperate attempt to save her two grandchildren, aged three and one.

Tales from two museums: Monaco and, er, Shildon, County Durham

In the past few weeks, I have had a weekend in Carcassonne, a day trip to Avignon, lunch in Cannes, two days in Monaco and two days in Shildon. The last word of that sentence simply confirms my reputation for choosing only the most chic and invigorating of destinations. Take away "chic" and it remains true.

Mike Amos: a colossus of the dying trade of newspaper journalism

Mike and friend greet guests at Hardwick Hall

Flying from the sunshine (and fierce mistral) of the south of France to face the chillier winds buffeting the North East of England, and the need to borrow long sleeves and pullovers from a friend, was no hardship.

It meant I could be present at the retirement party of a man I regard as one of the finest journalists in the world. Note to fellow pedants: I do not claim to be familiar with the work of more than a thousand or so other practitioners, but opinion pollsters judge such numbers to be a representative sample and so shall I.

The Paul Ricard Circuit: Ferraris, Porsches, Lamborghinis but no Ricard

Comme Prost, comme Patrice

It is no secret that I do not really regard motor racing as sport.

Yes, the drivers are skilled and courageous and, as I was able to confirm up close at the Paul Ricard Circuit in spectacular Var countryside near Le Castellet, the cars are sleek, chic beauties. But sport, for me, does not involve quite this level of powered movement.