SOCIETY has always had a bit of trouble trying to work out what to do with unwanted and disparate elements within it.

It was decided, for instance, that disease-ridden and aesthetically not-very-pleasing lepers should live in colonies together where they could lose body parts in peace and tranquillity. British criminals were unceremonially packed on to ships and transported to Australia where they could cause no more damage than to raise a few sheep and invent Neighbours. Not, it turned out, a 100 per cent effective solution.

One element that has always been more bothersome for society is the bracket better known as artists and writers. These people are on the one hand welcomed by society. They provide us with books, paintings and inspiration to live a better and brighter life. That is the upside. The downside comes when you have to actually communicate with one of them. Everything they say is, in a nutshell, irritating, and as for the way they dress...

Luckily for society, the problem of what to do with these Bohemian types is largely self-resolving, as they congregate together any place where the light is right, the garrets are cheap, or the inspiration is plentiful, such as St Ives or fin-de-siècle Paris.

One such place where inspiration was found is our local tourist honeypot of Cordes-sur-Ciel. It was just plain old Cordes until the writer Jeanne Ramel-Cals and a bunch of his arty mates colonised the place after the last war and added the on the sky' part to its name to emphasise the way that the town appears to rise from the mist on a winter's morning. (I must calm down, I can feel myself getting all arty and carried away.) But seriously, despite the disproportionate number of arts and crafts shops, the ancient town is well worth a visit. The architecture and steep, narrow cobbled streets reflect its ancient heritage as a leather working and lace-making town, and as a defensive haven against marauding hordes.

Unfortunately, its very beauty and the stunning views from the top of the town mean that it attracts tourists literally by the busload - thousands of them in the middle of summer. Luckily the tourist is basically a herd animal and follows a trail, like the ant. So if you take off in a tangent away from the well-trodden route, after just a few yards you will find yourself in a quiet, pretty town with heaps of character, while the multitude swill coffee and tick the town off on their to visit' list. You can get a true feel for the real town that bumbles along in its own sweet way while the hordes pass it by.

Of course, if you can't resist the tourist urge, a trip to the top of town will reward you with some of the finest buildings in the region, built from the local honey-coloured stone and decorated with fantastic carvings. And as a hangover from the artists' colony, the gift shops are of a much better than average quality, with local crafts and paintings more common than plastic souvenirs.

I suppose the legacy the artists have left behind is not all bad. At least they saved us from "kiss me quick" hats.