It has long been established that people living in southern, sunny climes tend to reflect this fact in their characters, being generally of a more cheerful and relaxed disposition than those from the chilly north. This can be easily demonstrated by comparing the residents of the Lot and - well, let's not be controversial, let's say the people of Finland.

It obviously has something to do with the long, dark winters which induce a degree of misery in the soul. I happened to be in Finland last month, during their short summer, and people were already talking about how little time there was left before the onset of winter. There was an air almost of desperation to grasp the most from the sunlight and the long days.

After our largely gloomy summer in Britain, you could see why. Some people actually do need sunlight to function effectively. The novelist Antonia Byatt once showed me the light box she keeps in her London home so she can work as well there as she can at another house she has in the southern sun. It can be bitterly cold here in the Lot in the winter, too, but not for very long and it doesn't seem to affect people's personalities.

These thoughts were prompted at the village Mechoui this week. The petanque pitch in front of the Mairie was filled with long lines of trestle tables. Fairy lights were strung up in the trees. A pit was dug to roast the sheep and the whole village turned out to eat it. There was a six-course dinner with as much wine as you could drink for less than seven quid a head, (kids half-price). We took our own plates and glasses and knives and forks and 250 people had a cheap and very cheery evening, which ended with watching the shooting stars in the amazing night sky. It is, apparently, the shooting star season.

Could it happen in Britain? In our London cul-de-sac we once applied to the council to shut the road and had a street party just for the hell of it. Everyone asked what it was ''in aid of'' and that's the point, really: like the Mechoui, it wasn't in aid of anything except fun. But no-one in the Lot - where every village has its own annual celebration of this kind - would ask such a question. It has to be something to do with the weather, or perhaps the wine.

During one particularly miserable period in the history of the Lot, the area of Cahors was punished for revolting. In the first century, the Roman emperor Domitian chose the worst form of retribution he could against the area: he destroyed the

vineyards. According to one account this was followed by two centuries of teetotalism. Somehow, though - certainly if the Mechoui is anything to go by - there is something about this story that just doesn't ring true.

It was another few thousand

years before the English got wise about the wines of the Lot. Eleanor of Aquitaine brought Quercy to England as part of her dowry and the English cultivated a preference for the strong and highly alcoholic Cahors wine.

Interestingly, now there is a reverse shift - at least in the case of brandies - as a result of changing tastes. The demand for Armagnac, for example, which comes from further west over towards Bordeaux, has fallen so fast that more wine is now being produced instead of brandy.

The French also have to do something, of course, to protect themselves against the wines of the New World - apart, that is, from not selling them. There is no Australian or New Zealand wine on the shelves and, come to that, you can't even buy sherry which comes from rather closer by.

The only New World wine I've seen was in the cellar of an uncle who lives nearby. He imports a few bottles out of mischief, solely in order to serve it to French friends at dinner - having first taken the precaution of decanting it. This ploy works wonders for debunking wine snobs, he reports.

There can be no

doubt about the seriousness with which the French

view the prospect of a single currency. They are clearly

so convinced of its inevitability that some companies have

even started giving prices

in Euros.

One promotion for a particular pizza which features in huge roadside advertisements at the moment, promises all that you would wish for yourself for just 44 Euros.

I am afraid I am unable to report whether this is cheap at the price. I don't know the rate of exchange.

Francois Mitterrand was a local boy, although the only mark of this fact is a bar called Le President in a nearby town. It reminded me, however, of an occasion during his presidency when I rang an elderly family friend who lives here to advise of a visit by my parents and to ask if they could call by for lunch.

Unfortunately, I mispronounced ''mes parents'', using a long instead of a short ''a'': thus ''Maypearon''. Tante Francoise, who is vaguely aware that I write about politics

and therefore have some acquaintance with politicians, was quite horrified. ''Mitterrand!'' she exclaimed. ''Le President de la France! Ici!

Pour dejeuner!''