Masks are ubiquitous here in France, but the allure of oysters, rosé and the wild Atlantic coast remains

Well before travel restrictions began to lift, I took a punt and booked a Eurotunnel crossing and a stay in a little cabin in a Cap Ferret campsite on France’s Atlantic coast.

The lure of the Bay of Arcachon’s oyster shacks, plentiful rosé and the addictive scent of pine forests baked by the sun was too strong to resist.

I’d be travelling on one of the busiest weekends of the French summer. I didn’t care. I was just desperate to get back to a country I usually visit half a dozen times each year.

Last September I passed a wonderfully mellow week in Cap Ferret, but I knew that July in one of France’s holiday hotspots would be a very different prospect. And it’s certainly proved to be so – at least in the busy villages. The beaches are livelier this time round, despite everything, but there’s plenty of space for everyone.

The French, like everyone else, have been just as desperate to enjoy their vacances after a particularly tough and lengthy lockdown. At the same time, they’re more diligent than the British about wearing masks in public.

I wandered around the indoor food market in Claouey in the northern part of the peninsula. Anti-bacterial gel was placed at the entrance and each market-stall holder was masked-up – as were about 75 per cent of the customers.

At the large supermarket next door, a member of staff was at the entrance, squirting antibacterial spray on everyone’s hands. Once customers left, many slid their masks under their chin or looped them over one ear. Masks have become a summer accessory, with many people clutching them in their hands and sliding them on when they need to.

At the little boulangerie nearby, a sign informed me that masks are obligatory, and no more than five people are allowed in at a time. This will soon be the norm, with President Emmanuel Macron recently introducing a law to make masks mandatory in shops and enclosed public spaces.

Before I reached France, I’d assumed the British wouldn’t be particularly welcome at the moment, given our coronavirus death rate. When I’d arrived, it was hard to gauge if my assumption was correct – my Slavic surname and unaccented French make it hard for locals to immediately work out where I’m from.

Yet when a woman at a bike hire shop saw my mobile number, she twigged. “That’s a UK number,” she said, delightedly, from behind her mask. “I love London. I used to live there. Such a great city.”

There’s a surreal sense of business as usual, here. The bike lanes are as busy as ever. Cycling is the most practical way of getting around the Cap Ferret peninsula due to the horrendous traffic. This summer, my rented bike came with biodegradable plastic bags covering the saddle and handlebars.

I headed for a restaurant. All staff were wearing masks, although social distancing among tables was a bit hit and miss. It was very easy, while sitting on a terrace eating oysters and looking across the Bay of Arcachon towards the enormous Dune du Pilat, to forget we’re in the middle of a pandemic. That was until I had to reattach my mask to pay the bill.

There’s been a certain poignancy during my visit, as I happened to be in France during Bastille Day. I’ve spent many Bastille Days here over years – dancing until the wee hours in little village bals publiques, shopping in night markets, watching fireworks light up the sky in seaside towns and Mediterranean cities.

The festivities are usually spread over July 13-14, so everyone gets a chance to party. But not this year. On the 13th, my campsite hosted a little soirée in its cavernous outdoor restaurant, where a few dozen people sat at socially-distanced tables.

The French love a cheesy disco, so the dancefloor quickly fills up when the DJ plays “YMCA”. Nightclubs have yet to reopen, so this is the closest they can get in the meantime.

On the 14th all the local activities were cancelled, with the exception of those at the village of Cap Ferret itself, at the southern end of the peninsula. There was a small, low-key gathering there, but as I walked around my village of Claouey, it could have been any other night. From my cabin’s terrace I could see a few fireworks going off in the distance, but that’s about it.

Still, there are oysters, rosé, the heady scent of hot pine, Arcachon beaches and the long wild Atlantic coast. Back in March, I despaired of being unable to come to France for many months – or if at all this year. In case a second wave comes and borders close again, I’m treasuring every moment.