Farewell to France

I HAVE spent the past 14 years living, for as much as the tax laws allow, in an unfashionable corner of Normandy. Why?

- Charles Quest-Ritson

Well, largely because I wanted to garden in a mild climate with fertile soil in which I could grow acid-loving plants. My longsuffering wife pleaded caution, but eventually acquiesced: she likes camellias. And almost all our married life had been spent in areas of chalk upland.

I grew up in a woodland garden, where we planted rhododendrons, azaleas, camellias and all those funny ericaceous shrubs that no one notices unless they’re in flower. It was a joy to have nine acres of French woodland into which to introduce rare trees and shrubs, plus three acres of ancient cider-apple orchard where we could grow roses—we ended up with more than 1,000. What’s more, blue hydrangeas and blue Meconopsis poppies were possible for the first and last time in my horticultural life.

Most Brits in France live further south, in wine-growing areas such as Vaucluse, Charente-Maritime and the Dordogne, so why did we choose the Cherbourg peninsula? Two reasons: first, I hate hot summers and cold winters, but am happy in wind and rain; plus you can’t grow Rhododendron macabeanum south of Caen. Second, the fastest ferries to England run from Cherbourg, so we could have breakfast in Hampshire and lunch in the Cotentin.