Basqu-ing in it

'A re you a faggot?' the Ryanair lady shouted down the plane's aisle, occasionally pointing at different men who she thought might fit this description. 'We cannot take off till we find a faggot, ' she insisted, louder and ever more insistently.

Silence. Giggles. 'Last chance, ' she shouted, 'Mr A. F-A-G-E-T. Mr Faget, we need you to come forward.' At least she didn't say 'come out' as a pink-faced Frenchman eventually put up his hand and claimed a stray bag. The charm of the no-frills airline lingered like a cheap scent. Sickly and reeking most definitely of 'you-gets-what-you-pays-for'.

Checking in for our flight from Stansted to Biarritz (three children and three adults), two of our six cases were deemed overweight -- despite the fact that four were under -- and we were asked to cough up .100. 'It's how we make money when we give you such cheap tickets, ' continued the Ryanair charm offensive. And so we queued for 30 minutes while our plane was 30 minutes behind schedule and no one bothered to explain why. Still, it was all worth it as we glided through Biarritz airport. Charming, speedy Customs and broad smiles. Forget shady characters in sunny places: Graham Greene could not have visited the Basque region. And the people are not Basquards or even Basquettes, they are Basques.

Basques have got their priorities right with a love of the good things in life.

Twenty minutes after leaving the airport we were ensconced in a country house that had once belonged to the Bishop of Bayonne. Painted black shutters, pink stuccoed walls, red-tiled roof, lizards scurrying across a hot sun-warmed terrace, the Pyrenees looking down on us over a patchwork of fields, the sun turning the wheat yellow and greeting the grapes ready to ripen. We were just outside St Jean de Luz which is everything a French seaside town should be. Narrow streets, wide white sandy beaches and delicious restaurants with large hams, fresh fish and great cheeses. More Michelin restaurants are crammed into this area than anywhere else in the world. And the history dosage is good with Louis XIV marrying his Spanish bride in the main church. No Tesco. No Esso. Everything is local and refreshingly un-global. Hurray.

And the joy of being here is that Spain is just 20 minutes away by car over an unmanned border. Euros suddenly seem bliss as we don't have to fumble for different currencies at different tolls.

What to do on holiday? Laze or learn?

Walk or waddle in the pool?

Snooze or snorkle? The school of activity won the toss and so it was off to the pea-green slopes of the Pyrenees we decided to go. Past dread-locked wild ponies up steep paths until we reached a life-size crucifixion scene on a hill: Jesus and the two thieves looking like some giant Jeff Koons sculpture, the thieves writhing in contorted agony in brilliant Technicolor. It seemed utterly natural to have such a shocking sign of religious suffering open to the elements, where once churches overflowed with faithful flocks but now struggle to attract congregations.

The next day we went off to Bilboa to see the Guggenheim Museum (www. guggenheim. org). It is staggeringly dramatic and beautiful -- not unlike a Tiffany-designed set of shiny tin cans -- all a-glitter and perfecting architecture as formal chaos. 'It's like Sydney Opera House, ' suggests my eightyear-old son, Jasper, his school project suddenly seeming purposeful, sophisticated and no longer about ridiculously far away places with no relevance to his young life. Our final trip is to the top of the other side of our Pyrenean slope. We are on a 50-year-old train with wooden seats and open windows, the air becoming quite glacial as we huff and puff to the top Thomas-the-Tank-engine style. Twenty Spanish children in our carriage sing and clap and laugh. They are charmingly polite and we are asked to sing an English song. Why does my mind turn blank and my tongue turn to lead? Why can I only think of drifts of the Beatles, a halfremembered snatch of The Grateful Dead or Elton John's 'Rocket Man'? Why are we not taught English or Scottish folk songs? It takes a gentle bearded Spanish teacher in charge of the Spanish teens to lisp helpfully.

'Sing "My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean".' We enthusiastically belt it out. A standing ovation follows. They love it. Maybe Ryanair will ask us to sing on the way back.