France used to be my family’s annual holiday destination, but in the years that have passed since this annual event has ceased to be, I have scarcely set foot on French soil. The few impressions I have retained from my childhood regarding this country together form a picture of a rural, wine-filled country, full of old men with scraggy dogs and very good food, where everything moves at a tremendously slow pace. I am not sure where these images originate or whether they bear any resemblance to the true state of things, but they filled my head with a certain excitement and expectation on the drive to Annecy, as if I were about to enter a land more at home in romantic fairytales.

Annecy is in fact a fairly fairytale type of place. Situated near a beautiful lake surrounded by mountains, it is an aged town of small narrow streets, cobbled squares and miniature streams cutting through the stone of the densely packed buildings.

On the day we visited though, many others had too. The tiny alleys seemed ready to burst at the seams as the tourists squeezed through, admiring the architecture, the water and the local market, that itself was responsible for Annecy’s fervent smell that day, strong cheese with scent of foot.

Fighting our way through the other visitors, we stumbled upon the cathedral. It was not the most beautiful cathedral I have ever visited but the delicate background music (of the CD, rather than the live choir or organ, variety) gave the building a certain ambience that seemed fitting and made me wonder why other churches don’t employ similar mood-setting tactics.

We lunched at one of the many restaurants on the streets surrounding Annecy’s centrepiece – the old prison. The food wasn’t up to much and prompted feelings of great disappointment due to the exaggerated nature of my culinary expectations. The wine was better but still nothing to write home about.

On our after lunch walk we passed an old man singing on a bridge and if I had envisioned a typical Frenchman, then this figure would have been very close. He was even wearing a navy and white striped top. He had no microphone and his location of choice was one of the main thoroughfares of the small town, meaning his vocal talent was in competition with the general hustle and bustle of the tourists. Still, he kept singing and was even audacious enough to have a pile of CDs for sale on the floor in front of him. I took his photo, but besides that, he didn’t seem to command much interest from the passers by. A little saddening but I was happy to see at least one of my preconceptions of France being reaffirmed. He didn’t seem to have a dog though.