THOSE who followed my column It’s Just a Word may recall that I stated one of the hardest things to get used to in rural France is not the language but the fact they stare.

The French don’t just stare for France, they are international quality ‘starers’: they stare for Europe.

Remember how your mother used to say: “It’s rude to stare”? Remember the every-day incidences of someone saying” “Don’t look now but the lady on the next table looks like…” Camilla/Victoria Beckham or whoever. Or dependent on your sexual proclivities: “When you get a moment, get a look at the cleavage on display to your right.”

You drop your wallet or spoon and, as you bend down to pick it up, you casually rake your eyes over whatever you have been encouraged to look at.

You might return to your colleague and be advised that your perusal of the target was “not very subtle” but at least you tried.

As a young lad I recall passing girls who would stun me by asking: “Did you get your eye full mister?” and spent the next 100 yards trying to remember if I gave them more than a cursory glance.

It is ingrained in the British psyche – you just don’t stare.

The rural French have no such inhibitions. You can drive up to a crossroads where a couple of women will break off talking and visually frisk you and the car. You can look back at them and it does not faze them for a moment. The French stare so what is new?

You move out into the road and head off out of the village and a glance in the rear-view mirror will confirm: they are still watching you.

I still find it disconcerting and wonder if I have a bogey on my nose or my zip is undone.

A few weeks ago, I was down the local bistro and a French couple was at a nearby table. As is the custom, we said “bonjour” and “bon appetite” and they respectively replied “bonjour” and “merci”.

I noticed the man staring at me between mouthfuls. When we took our seats and were served, he still stared at me. I was tempted to smile but then, I thought, why doesn’t he smile? Why should I be the first to smile? Staring so blatantly is really a foreign country.

Whenever I raised my eyes, there he was, watching me. It got under my skin but, although I glanced impassively back, I resisted the impulse to inquire as to the exact nature of his problem.

Eventually the couple paid up and left. They nodded farewells to all, including us, and left.

“It’s good that the new mayor comes in and eats here,” observed our friend, the bistro owner’s wife, Liz.

“That’s the new mayor?” we said in cowed tones.

There is one basic law in rural France. The mayor is the big cheese. He can even decide what colour you paint your windows. He can make life very unpleasant if he has a mind. He can also decide if he will let you build a house here or there.

Glad he got his eyeful of me, without complaint.