THANKS to the power of advertising, that eternal favourite of growing children in England, Marmite, has become the benchmark for describing things that people love or loathe. And in that way, it would probably be a fair way to describe our local town.

The town to which our commune belongs is the thriving metropolis of Laguépie (population 733 including all outlying areas) and whenever we tell anybody where we live, we are always guaranteed a reaction. They either wax lyrical about what a wonderful rural location it is with a fantastic river, beautiful hills etc, or they curl their top lip and make comments about the best view of Laguépie being from your rear-view mirror.

It is not too hard to understand why this is: the town lies in a valley where two rivers meet, the Viaur and the Aveyron, and it was built on the meaty bit inside the fork. In fact, the tourist information website even goes so far as to describe the town as a presqu'île (an almost island) - perhaps a romantic analogy too far.

It is its very existence in the river valley that gives it such different aspects to different people. One couple I know first passed through the town on a beautiful summers' day when the steep hills were luxuriant with foliage, the clay roof tiles shimmering in the heat, and of much more interest to their adolescent sons, topless girls sunbathing and swimming in the river. To them it was a town of magic and somewhere to return to. For others, their first glimpse has been in the dead of winter with nothing but bare hillsides to greet you before you descend into the fog that settles into the dank greyness of a town that barely sees the light of the sun, and their opinion of the place is somewhat lower.

For those of us that number ourselves among the fortunate 733, the town is a reflection of more prosperous times: the railway first came here in the 1850s bringing lime to make the marginal farmland workable, and then to take the produce to far-flung markets. There was even an overnight sleeper service to Paris until recently. You can see the evidence of past commerce in the overly large windows on the fronts of many houses in the town, and traces of café and restaurant signs, that have never been painted over, when the last businesspeople gave up and the new residents recycled the buildings into homes.

That is not to say that the town has died. Despite the lack of farming prosperity, the town has survived, and has managed to keep hold of an old-fashioned quincaillerie (ironmongers) that can sell you one screw or a chainsaw; a garage that can service your car or fill it with petrol; a bank; a florist; two convenience stores, in fact you could feasibly buy all that you need without ever leaving the confines of the town. Not to mention the ruined château that overlooks the town, built by the French, ruined by the English at least once, and now two of the houses built from the rubble are owned by more invading Brits. More importantly you can buy a takeaway pizza from a restaurant in the town.

It makes you wonder, if you could have Marmite every day, why would you ever want anything else? Just so long as the sun shines, that is.