Corsica is my new favourite holiday destination for all the reasons you might expect: cartoon mountains, lovely sausages made from pigs with horns, a simply staggering array of breasts on the beach, no Americans and, better still, no Russians.

But, oh dear, the locals. Imagine mating a Parisian waiter with a British Rail tea lady from 1977 and you get some idea of how unbelievably rude these stunted little Hobbits are. At best, all you can hope to get in exchange for your strong and lovely sterlings is a shrug.

In the local shop the woman behind the counter served all the local people first, irrespective of their place in the queue. Then, when she’d done that, she’d make a few baguettes. And then she’d do her Vat returns and then, with a lot of harrumphing, she’d sell you a bit of goose pâté — the special “tourist” brand with extra goz.

Restaurants were always full no matter how many tables happened to be occupied. It was almost impossible to buy a postcard. And do you sell newspapers? “Oui, dick tête. Corse Matin.”

The man who came to check our swimming pool had plenty of evidence that all was not well. The children, for instance, had bright green hair and livid armpits. But having sniffed a handful of water, he declared it “bon”. It wasn’t, though. It turned out to be two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen and five million parts sulphuric acid.

It says in the guide books that over the years Corsica has been ruled by the Genoese, the Carthaginians, the Romans, the Moors, the English and the Greeks. Maybe that’s why the people who live there hate pretty well everyone.

Obviously they hate the French most of all. Despite a subsidy cheque from Paris that is large enough to give every single Corsican a job as a fireman so that he can do nothing when another French-owned villa suddenly “catches” fire, every road sign written in French is riddled with bullet holes.

But this is far from an all-consuming hatred. There’s plenty left over for the English as well. And the Germans, and the Dutch and anyone in a motorhome, a caravan, a tent, a hotel, shorts, or a souvenir shop. Napoleon was Corsican and that rather says it all. A stunted little egomaniac with Tolkienesque feet and a burning desire in his heart to kill everyone.

There is an upside to this, though. Normally when you try to rent a car you give the girl on the desk your name and your booking reference. And then she writes War and Peace on her computer. I’ve never quite understood this: she has the car you want. You have a driving licence and a credit card, so why does it always take so long? Not in Corsica it doesn’t. Because she hates you so very, very much she wants you away from her desk as quickly as possible. So you give her your name and she gives you the keys. The end.

It was the same story with airport security. I asked the lone policeman whether he’d like to see our passports and he looked at me as though I’d offered him a dose of herpes.

The upshot was that five minutes after landing we had our wheels, a Renault Espace, a car I’ve never liked. However . . .

Five years ago Renault was in a mess. Supermarket styling and game-show personality combined to create some of the most bland cars in the world. I actually left Old Top Gear because I’d been presented with the then new Clio and I simply couldn’t think of a single thing to say about it.

But then everything changed. We got the Avantime, that two-door people carrier GT coupé, and I had plenty to say about that. All of it good. Then there was the Laguna which, apart from the Mazda 6, is the only mid-range saloon with any personality at all. Think of it as the chap at the accountants’ convention with the ponytail.

As a car, the Vel Satis leaves much to be desired but as a piece of artwork it is sublime. Sometimes I lie awake at night thinking of reasons why I might need one. And let’s not forget the new Mégane with the JLo rear end or the glorious mid-engined Clio V6. It might handle like a sycamore leaf in a stiff breeze but on the Want One-o-Meter it’s up there with the Fairline Targa 48 or a night on the town as Kristin Scott Thomas’s pants.

Renault, and I don’t want to see this appearing in Private Eye, is the new Citroën.

Then there’s the question of safety. For the past hundred and twenty twelve years this has been the sole preserve of Volvo. Not any more. According to all the research, the safest cars you can buy now are Renaults, specifically the new Espace, the new Mégane and the Laguna.

And motor racing. Three years ago I was chatting to my source. I won’t give you his name in case he commits suicide. And he said that the Renault team would win the Formula One world championship in 2004.

Plainly this was as stupid as saying there were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, so I didn’t bother reporting it. I mean, how could he possibly know? But now, having seen Alonso tear off into the middle distance at the Hungarian Grand Prix, maybe they will take the crown next year. And since the cars are made in Chipping Norton I must say I hope so.

So the company’s on the crest of a wave, the cars are speedy, stylish and safe, and best of all they come with a huge dollop of perhaps the most important ingredient of them all — Frenchness.

I love France. I love the way it stands up to the cancer of Americanisation and how the French make the EU work by simply ignoring it. I love the fact they have no Health and Safety Executive so nobody has their father’s gravestone vandalised by bureaucrats. I love the arrogance, the rudeness, the loucheness, the cheese, the roads, the weather and the pornography. We have pop music. They have everything else. France is a version of Italy that works. France is heaven on earth.

So I was feeling well disposed toward the Espace as I bundled the family and the nanny on board on that cracklingly hot day at Figari airport.

The huge sunshine roof was open, the air-conditioning was on full blast, everyone had their own chair, and our suitcases were still in the car park. Six big bags are always going to be a problem for a car, I admit, but getting them in an Espace is out of the question because it has no boot at all. Not a single square inch.

It is an immensely good-looking car, not at all mumsy, and the ride is up there in a comfort zone way beyond even Mercedes and Bentley. But what, for God’s sake, is the point when you can’t even fit a ping-pong bat in the back?

Of course, you can take the seats out and lie on the luggage, but where do you leave the detached seats? In the car rental office? Not in Corsica you don’t. When I asked, the girl looked at me as though I’d offered to murder her mother.

Eventually, with the use of a flip chart and some diagrams, and in the spirit of Roy Castle, we did get the dodecahedron into the square hole. And then we hit the second problem. The combined weight of six people, six bags and my stomach meant that on the really steep hills the 2.2 litre diesel engine simply threw its arms up in the air and played the cheese-eating surrender monkey.

Small wonder it’s so safe. You’d never be able to build up enough speed to hit anything.

This car, then, is to the Renault range what Corsica is to France. Fine for a holiday, but you wouldn’t want to live with it.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model: Renault Espace 2.2 dCi
Engine type: Four cylinder diesel, 2188cc
Power: 150bhp @ 4000rpm
Torque: 236 lb ft @ 1750rpm
Transmission: Six-speed manual
Suspension: (front) MacPherson struts, anti-roll bar (rear) torsion beam, trailing arms, coil springs, anti-roll bar
Fuel: 36.7mpg (combined)
Top speed: 117mph
Acceleration: 0 to 62mph: 11.5sec
Price: 23,560
Verdict: Immensely good looking and comfortable but ask it to carry luggage and it just gives a gallic shrug
Rating:

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