Invading Normandy

Situated in the hamlet of La Haye d'Ectot, about 20 miles south of Cherbourg, our gîte was a wonder of old-style rustic charm and cutting-edge Swedish design. It was fully equipped with everything a high-maintenance family could need - washing machine, dishwasher, walk-in shower and the obligatory espresso maker.

There was a huge enclosed garden with swings, slide, barbeque and sun loungers. All that was missing was a French maid, but you can't have everything. Surrounded by fields and woodland, the sense of rural isolation was profound. The only sounds were the occasional lowing of a cow, the distant rumble of a tractor and the gentle echo of church bells that seemed to emanate from some point deep among the trees.

Any worries of having to scour the hedgerows for truffles, or stalking wild boar in the forest, were soon forgotten with the discovery of a supermarket only five minutes' drive away.

So having stocked up on the finest French food we were free to explore our surroundings. The nearest village was Carteret, about three miles away. This lively coastal resort on the Cotentin Peninsula is something of a hidden gem, with impressive clifftop walks, blue flag beaches backed with windblown dunes and a small but elegant high street.

Seemingly free from tourists and a favourite escape for stressed-out Parisians, it certainly had the feel of something a little bit special. Almost like a less commercialised St Ives.

Our first visit was marred somewhat by losing our son Harvey, who paid scant regard to his parents' sanity by deciding to make his own way down the cliff to the beach below.

Despite this, our first sight of the sea was nothing less than spectacular. Pure white sands stretched undisturbed into gently breaking waves, where the rock face descended in a jumble of jagged boulders.

Having recovered our son, who rather sheepishly asked what kept us, we had the beach practically to ourselves for the rest of the morning. I guess the locals were too cool to be out before 10 o'clock, unlike us desperate English hankering after every available bit of sunshine.

There are no amenities on this stretch of the beach - for that you need to go back into the centre of Carteret where the usual ice cream parlours and cafés line the front - but the clean white sands and gentle surf are perfect for families with small children.

As the day wore on, more and more locals arrived and we got the impression that this was the place for those in the know.

When the heat became too much, we headed into the village centre, having completely forgotten that the shops shut for two hours over lunch. It became something of a theme for us that despite the number of trendy boutiques selling everything from jewellery to nautical home ware, we never actually got to buy anything, as our timing was always off.

Still, we found plenty of good restaurants, particularly the Tivoli, which served a great seafood pizza and whose terrace tables offered a fine view of the resort. For something a little more upmarket, you could try La Marine, where renowned chef Laurent Cesne serves up an exquisite array of fine seafood dishes. In another life we would have dined there, but not this time, with a dishevelled three-year-old in tow.

Having mastered the French way of driving - although the organised chaos on roundabouts still eludes me - we ventured further afield to Bricquebec. This is a sleepy little town dominated by a medieval castle. Most of its walls and fortifications are still standing and for those who crave something a little different, part of it has been converted into a sophisticated hotel and restaurant.

From the looks of the cars in the car park, most of its guests are probably well acquainted with such styles of living.

In contrast, the town itself is the epitome of insouciant calm. Middle-aged men sat around in bars reading Le Figaro and smoking cigarettes, beatific OAPs wandered the streets with baguettes under their arms and furtive teenagers sipped cola under the town clock.

It was so quintessentially French I half expected to catch a glimpse of Gerard Depardieu and Isabelle Adjani huddled in conversation over a worn copy of Proust.

It becomes a little more lively on Thursdays, which is market day, when the streets are bustling with shoppers buying the biggest, freshest produce I've ever seen.

This is the perfect way to sample some of Normandy's culinary delights, Livarot (soft cheese), boudin noir (black pudding), oysters from Cote Quest and of course Calvados (apple brandy).

Haggling with the stallholders is a sure-fire way of improving your grasp of the language, even if you do end up buying something you didn't want or don't recognize.

For a more sobering experience, the D-Day beaches are a humbling but fascinating day out. We drove to Utah Beach on the only grey and wet day of the holiday. It seemed appropriate to arrive at this windswept beach under such dark skies, met with the ominous sight of a bullet-ridden landing craft and the skeletal remains of an anti-aircraft gun.

The museum is a thoughtfully laid out interactive experience, with enough to interest all age groups. Harvey was particularly taken with the amphibious vehicle that he could clamber over and pretend to drive.

The only way to get him out and appease the long line of children waiting to have a go was to bribe him with ice cream.

For me the most moving artefacts on show were the personal items left behind by the troops. Cigarette boxes, a German flag signed by the men who captured it, torn family photos and bullet-ridden uniforms.

It's sometimes hard to get past the sheer scale and violence of the attacks but these little reminders are a more immediate connection with the soldiers who risked everything. Before the trip, I wouldn't have considered Normandy as a family holiday destination.

It always seemed a little too far to go, perhaps too quiet and rather intimidating. How wrong I was. The ferry crossing was fast and efficient - about two-and-a-half hours - and the drive from Cherbourg less than half an hour.

Plus, there was more than enough to keep everyone entertained - fine food, great beaches, culture and history. Everyone we met was friendly and accommodating, despite my poor grasp of O-Level French. We really didn't want to leave.

Very different from my first trip to Normandy, as a pale and earnest young man desperate to get to Paris and write a great literary novel.

If I tell you I only got as far as Bayeux you will have some idea of just how pathetic my attempt was. I arrived home after only a few days with nothing more than a page of mediocre poetry and a fear of berets. It was another 10 years before I went back to France.

But as Moliére said "Everything comes with age", and that includes the good sense to know a good holiday when I see one.

We stayed at one of the many gites featured by Brittany Ferries Holidays and found on their website www.brittanyferries.co.uk The price for our family for one week during peak season in July, including return ferry crossings for ourselves and our car was £715, but out-of-season this falls to £479.

We chose to travel on the Portsmouth-Cherbourg crossing because of the convenience of the route and the fact that it takes only three hours by high-speed ferry.