Our first stop was an antiques fair at Briquebec.

Our first stop was an antiques fair at Briquebec, a pretty town with ruined castle and the quintessentially French, ivy covered hotel with red awnings nearby. Fairs offer not only the chance to browse all under one roof, but also to meet new dealers and those I had already visited. Madame Lannaud is a delightful dealer, a beaming woman, with an unquenchable enthusiasm for antiques. We adoringly cooed over and stroked an XVIII chest of drawers – the form! the quality! the colour! - but I resisted, the price tag was extremely high. Nevertheless I bought two elegantly legged walnut writing tables from a dealer I’d not met before. We chatted as Rene helped me load them in the van. He commented I’d probably be interested to visit his son. Two hours drive away he had barns piled up to the ceiling with pieces of furniture “dans leur jus”! A great contact that was to become a regular port of call for me.

Elizabeth meanwhile was either basking, in her little sun hat, or dozing in the van –thoroughly enjoying her French tour. The next morning I am completely awake at 4.30am. I realise I feel rather like a child on Christmas morning, waiting for it to be time to get up. Half an hour later I open the blind as the first bright rays of sunlight are pouring onto a landscape of white ground mist. There are strange lumps in the fields – these emerge from the mist as the cows. This spectacle must be captured! As I grab my camera, Elizabeth stirs in her bed. “Too much light, too much enthusiasm!!” is her only comment. I left her to slumber on.

Summer trips are easier in every way.

Summer trips are easier in every way. A calm late afternoon Channel crossing with broad horizons of palest greys, gentle clouds and shafts of creamy sun. My dear friend Elizabeth came with me early one July to stay at the lovely manor house near Valognes. The dainty purple and yellow violas were still bobbing amongst the cobbles, and we felt at home. Madame said she didn’t mind at all if we wanted to make our own supper and eat on the terrace.

In fact, the next evening, she brought out glasses of her home-made Pommeau – a Normandy aperitif made from apple juice and Calvados. She was insistent, in the way that French people can be over things that Must Be Done Correctly, that the apple juice should be freshly pressed before bottling and maturing with the 'Calva'. This Normandy spirit comes under the generic French heading of 'Eau de Vie' which is liberally used at all times of the day for all purposes – indeed a Café Calva is just the job for an early morning Vide Grenier in a field when one’s shoes and trouser bottoms are drenched with dew.

The French, of course, take their food and drink seriously. And when it comes to the local Vide Grenier, the food stand and bar are set out first thing, with rows of tables and benches under striped awnings, for later in the day when the spit roasts are cooked. I do enjoy a few minutes at the makeshift counter with a small plastic cup of fierce black coffee, picking up strands of local conversation between Michel and Serge, Patrique and Jean-Francois.

The Marche Paul Bert was more lively.

The Marche Paul Bert was more lively, with some beautifully presented stands opening onto the narrow lanes. At lunchtime the dealers, mostly in sheepskin hats, thick coats and scarves, pulled up eighteenth century tables and chairs and sat down to their hot lunches, baguettes, cheeses and bottles of wine. Not a plastic packed sandwich in sight.

As well as the small shops there are also the street dealers who set up on the pavement at the weekend and the whole place took on a different atmosphere. It was busy enough in January, and I was glad to avoid the heave of the summer months.

I learn with each purchase made – building up a comparative knowledge, and getting a sense of what most appeals to me. There is something about walnut wood that gets to me, and I found a wonderful writing table, small, pleasingly made, fine cabriole legs, deep patina. And I like monogrammed linens, and leather bound books printed before the Revolution (with the approval of The King), hand made wine glasses, small and intimate oil paintings, I could go on - and on! Here I have to mention mirrors. An eighteenth century Italian wood carved mirror, partly gilded and partly painted in cream and a chalky blue also sang out to me. Perhaps buying a piece is like having a brief affair – you love it, hold it and then let it go. Advice given to me subsequently backs this up: “Never, ever, buy something just because you don’t want to come back with empty space in the van”/”If you don’t like it yourself, don’t buy it”/”Only buy what you’d want to have in your own home”. There seems to be a sound integrity in that.