Scene - stealer

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Staff writer CAROL DU CHATEAU has just returned from a three-month fellowship to Cambridge University. But it wasn't all hard work - she and her husband Brian spent three weeks wheeling through France in a Renault Scenic.


I'd always assumed that our problems with driving in Italy came down to three basic facts: Italian drivers are eccentric, if not nutty; Italian road signs are eccentric if not nonexistent; and (how I hate to admit it) this woman can't read maps.

Now, three years later, as we headed towards France for a leisurely meander through Burgundy, Provence and the Haut Languedoc and on to Aquitaine and the Atlantic coast, I was filled with funk.

Friends had warned us, "The French are just like the Italians on the road, but nasty with it." We were anticipating three weeks of white knuckles, RSI of the brake foot - and sheer terror.

Not so. From the moment we collected the car from Renault Eurodrive on the French side of Geneva Airport, everything went smooth as creme brulee.

Just a quick step round the barrier that served as the airport frontier between Switzerland and France, an inquiry at the Budget Rental counter where we handed over our Eurodrive documents from New Zealand, a couple of forms to sign, and we were led out to a shiny green ski-boot of a car parked on the tarmac.

It was a poignant meeting. Love at first sight. The Renault Megane Scenic, winner of the European Car of the Year Multi-activity award, is very cute indeed. It has features I'd never seen before in a car, such as airline-style foldout trays and drink holders for backseat passengers, and fully adjustable front seats that you can tip right forward so you can store, say, wine bottles underneath.

Then there are safety factors like twin airbags; comfort factors such as the air conditioning that we hadn't expected but which saved our lives through sizzling Provence. Commonsense factors featured the massive boot which took suitcases, cabin bags, and - as the trip progressed - luscious reds from Pommard, Nuits St George, Cotes du Rhone and St Emilion, seven sunflower-emblazoned Provencale tablecloths, bags of herbs, bottles of cold-pressed olive oil, and a kilo of salty wrinkled olives from trees which we were assured were 1000 years old.

Most important of all was the Scenic's superb seating which puts driver, navigator and passengers up high - making driving, signpost-spotting and sightseeing much easier.

You can see tail-gaters that appear out of the mid-distance in nano-seconds - and then get over to the right that much faster. Add this to the fact that the French go in for clear and consistent road signs - and, surprisingly, seem less aggressive on the road than the Italians - and we grew happier by the kilometre.

In France, we soon discovered, they treat you like grown-ups. Probably because technically we were buying a brand new car and had already paid some of it in New Zealand, formalities were to-the-point.

Because we were exporting the vehicle, after I signed the promissory note it was ours until we handed it back at Bordeaux and signed the release which returned ownership to Renault.

As new "owners" we had full insurance cover with no excess, full Renault warranty and unlimited kilometres. And our run-over of the controls by the Eurodrive agent was typically no-nonsense: "Turn this key on until the light goes out before you start the engine. Don't forget to use diesel. Bon voyage." And he walked away leaving us to bunnyhop out of the airport fumbling for the tiny gateway between third and fifth gear, bumble to the first gas pump we could find - taking care to fill it before the horrendous prices on the autoroute -- and head for Macon.

As we found that first morning, petrol pumps are variable in France. The big whizzy ones which are easy to find charge more than the small pumps often found by supermarkets.

Diesel is much cheaper than petrol and comes out of a yellow nozzle labelled Gazoil. And on that very first day when we were acclimatising ourselves, the signs on the pumps (relating to a free Tintin book) seemed calculated to hide, rather than advertise, what was inside.

This is definitely self-service country. On our entire 3850km journey with its usual crop of dead gnats, bees, dust, grime and mud, no one ever offered to wash our windscreen. Which, after the infuriating traffic-light washers of home, was something of a mixed blessing.

As we soon discovered, the Scenic has many moods. Because it offers such a great viewing position it was perfect for the small scenic roads. When we were in a hurry to get from one major point to another and used the autoroute, it could overtake anything - Jaguars, Mercedes, BMWs.

Its marvellous turning circle meant that when we did take the wrong turning we could whip around in a U-turn almost before Brian could say "merde." When our friends flew in from Paris and we were loaded to the roof with two more adults, two more suitcases, cabin bags, tablecloths, wine and tins of fois gras, she kept right on cruising at 130km/h (the speed limit) and still had plenty of power for overtaking.

But it was during our exploration of the olive-oil country between Buis de Baronnies and Nyons at dusk, with frenzied French drivers in search of an aperitif on our tail and their mates coming fast in the other direction, that the Scenic came into her own.

She snaked up the steep hill roads that twisted like ancient olive trees, staying solid on the brief unsealed patches. As Brian said, no matter how hard he pushed it, he never felt she came near to the end of her horsepower.

The Scenic was cheap to run, too. Autoroute costs were not as horrendous as we'd expected and they were all free round the big cities. The most we paid was $35 for a huge run between Geneva and Orange. Most of the rest of the time we took the free green-signposted highways, which are as good if not better than our major roads at home, or the specially designated scenic routes.

Lined in green on the map, scenic routes take in spectacular scenery and small villages that look deserted until you get your eye in and realise there are boucheries, boulangeries and cafes signalled with tiny discreet signs tucked away among the yellow stone houses.

Then, all too soon, it was drop-off time at Bordeaux airport. Just a handover of insurance and ownership documents and that was it.

No mention of the smears around the petrol cap, the grime of dusty French roads, the croissant flakes on the floor. Just, "Allo M'sieu, have you got the green bit of paper and the grey bit of paper?" And the louche young Renault agent hopped inside our car and drove away.

As we waited for our flight to London, we decided it was a parting too brusque after a three-week, 3850km love affair.