ARE you even an Irish mammy if at some point on your holidays you roar ‘That’s it! I’ve had enough. We’re never again going away!’

Don’t leave me hanging now… admit it, we’ve all been there.

On a recent break away my ‘never again’ moment came in the beauty store Sephora and the tipping point was a spectacularly over-hyped lip gloss which my side kick was taken with.

My outburst was partially due to the price, but also the heat and the fact that I’d caught sight of myself in a mirror and I looked more demented than usual.

We were in Nice where the city/beach vibe was a barely-there crochet dress worn over a string bikini.

I hadn’t got the memo and had forgotten both at home!

Instead I was in my Birks and I can confirm that as well as not getting fat, French women don’t wear Birks either – ah sure they don’t know what they’re missing out on. 

Anyway I’m hoping there’s no CCTV evidence of Sephora-Gate because just a few minutes later we were all hugging each other and living our best lives, and that’s the thing about family holidays I find, one minute you think you’ll burst with love for each other and the next, well not so much.

So with the box ticked on our summer break, here’s some random observations I brought home (along with the obligatory mini Toblerones from the duty free) …. 

Firstly, the rail service on the French Riviera is absolutely incredible.

Trains appear almost by magic as soon as you arrive on a platform.

They’re spotlessly clean and there’s even an upper deck to admire the spectacular views (Oh la la and all the rest).

All in all, they have it sussed and it occurred to me, that someone here should just go and ask them straight up what to do and we can just fill in the gaps.

Which reminds me, there were no sinister warnings either to ‘mind the gap’ … although there may have been as my French isn’t what it used to be (more of that below).

French people can be as rude as the stereotypes suggest. And ruder. For ages I’ve been talking up my French to my family.

I actually do have a degree in French from back in the dark ages but I can safely say that if you don’t use it you lose it as I found out when ordering a simple little ice cream.

I thought I was doing quite well but the shop assistant walked off in disdain as I was mid-sentence.

Her colleague came to my help but asked me to speak English. ‘It’s easier,’ he said. Ouch.

‘Three Twisters s’il vous plait,’ I muttered before sloping back to my sunbed – and of course the family have been dining out on this since.

I probably shouldn’t have said I was fluent.

On another occasion we had climbed a great height in great heat to see a waterfall.

Foolishly we hadn’t brought any water not realising exactly how high we were going. When we eventually got to the top, before even admiring the view we went to get a drink (it was either that or the defibrillator) but the shop was cash only.

The youngest member of the family was in dire need and I appealed for even a sip.

No boy. Nothing but shoulder shrugs.

I feared it was the hill we’d die on! But we met some really nice people too.

And staying with stereotypes, the Irish reputation for being friendly folk is as strong as ever. Except for the guy in the shop on top of the hill. Not him. 

Staying on the theme of shops, there’s a fabulous diversity in all the little towns and villages.

It’s really impressive – literally a butcher, baker, candle stick maker in all of them.

Randomly though restaurants don’t do butter.

They serve baskets of bread at every turn but look at you like you’re bonkers when you ask for a bit of butter.

I was getting used to ‘the look’ at that stage and sure of course I asked for the butter.

But bizarrely loads of restaurants said they didn’t have any! Ah lads. Didn’t someone bring the horse to France? 

Public service announcement: beware of wandering on to a nudist beach … if that’s not your intention.

We had just arrived on a random beach one day when I spotted what looked like a bare bum in the vicinity, and having put on the glasses, I confirmed it was indeed a bare bum. And there were many other bare bums and a few other bits and bobs to be seen too. Jesus, Mary and Joseph!

We weren’t long gathering up our own bits and bobs and retreating I can tell you.

Besides I had spent far too long searching for the perfect swimwear to discard them just like that!

Importantly, don’t forget to give way to the left on the roundabouts.

I’m only saying it because once my husband forgot.

My heart rate has just about returned to normal but I did spend a lot of the time after that muttering ‘look left’ while gripping the side of the seat and saying Hail Marys.

So yes, look left, and stay left. Or maybe just get the train if you want a more relaxing experience. 

Speaking of relaxing I was a bit antsy until I located the sweeping brush and dustpan in the cabin where we were staying. It’s in my DNA.

I can’t relax until the floor is brushed … even on holiday.

My husband was a bit antsy until he had been to the supermarket and got a bag of spuds and salt. And butter.

What are we like? Darn tasty they were too I might add! 

We were staying in a camp site near St Tropez and it was too close not to pop in to see how the other half live.

It was like Kinsale on steroids. Everything was that bit extra  – the people (deep tans, great teeth and expensive handbags), yachts, cars, even the dogs. Fascinating.

Go for the people watching. I’d like to be really rich though all the same. How would I sort that out? 

Anyway, as lovely as it is to go away, it’s even nicer to come home again.

To your own bed … and your own brush. In the meantime I’ve downloaded Duolingo and am brushing up on my French too.