It was one of those evenings and settings that people picture when dreaming about living in the south of France.

The house, a large honey stoned cottage sits on the edge of a country lane that leads only to another farmhouse.

At the back a terrace is halved by a huge, shady, Roman tiled 'abri' or pergola with a long dining table and chairs.

Terracotta tubs of every size and shape are placed in eye-pleasing curves and staggered tiers.

French doors lead out from the indoor dining room, which in winter is warmed by the huge wood burner, now redundant for the next good few months.

At the edge of the terrace, steps lead down through tumbling plants and on to a lawn with a jewel of a swimming pool flashing in the last hours of sunshine.

There's a burble and lazy splash now and then from the pump and the cleaner that snakes around the edges, skimming the insects that are fatally attracted to its gleam.

In front, fields showing the first stirrings of the sunflowers range on and on until they surround another farmhouse way in the distance.

Its privacy is guarded by a clutch of oak trees; branches protectively grouped around its form.

The land rises before dropping down again to a 14th century church that we know is there but can't see.

Further on, the broad Garonne, high and dark after a wet winter, laps against one of the old bridges used to reach the town of Valence d'Agen.

But here this evening the only sound we hear is bird song and the whirr of the crickets and cicadas. Swallows swoop to dip their beaks into the pool as they pass and a lark flies high overhead singing its little heart out.

Nightingales are often heard but not tonight.

To the side of the house in yet another little dining spot, a table sits encircled by a wealth of roses and honeysuckle pulsing out a deep, soporific perfume.

Fruit trees lie just beyond, and the volume of tiny fruit beginnings already weighing down the branches, indicate the richness to come.

The first cherries have already been plucked and will appear on the table later.

There are five of us sipping wine and enjoying sweet, thin stemmed, local asparagus as two little dogs meander in and out under the table.

Three of us live here permanently. Two used to but left almost six years ago and this is only their second time back.

Age and a need to be closer to family were part of the reasons. Plus, being former military, they were used to seeing their lives in 'tours' and their 'tour' was over.

They left behind an exquisite village house with grounds protected by a stately mulberry tree to return to an English village in Wiltshire.

"Regrets?" I ask the man as he sighs in contentment, taking in his surroundings.

If he hesitates a few seconds before answering, his reply is firm. "No, no," he answers. "But then the secret is to never look back, only forward."

I press him further as his wife, who never wanted to leave, listens with a wry smile on her face.

"Alright," he answers. "Obviously I miss the sun. That is the number one thing.

"And, I suppose, I miss the French way of life. Rural life. The peace, the pace, the silence. The attitude to living - to how to live well.

"I miss the ambience. I miss the rhythm."

Ah, I know all about the rhythm here and have often written of it. The very earth moves with it; and you know it will continue to do so with each generation who briefly live on it and follow its dictates. And forget us all.

"In England, I can get up in the morning," he continues, "and I can stroll to the newsagent's, pop into the village shop and maybe buy a loaf or a pint of milk and then stroll back for breakfast.

"So in many ways I'm still doing what people see themselves doing as something special in France.

"But, it's not the same."

Their return was made easier by having several old friends around them, and if life is no longer a constant apero fest, it is still sociable.

They were fortunate that retired and solvent they had none of the problems younger ex-pat returnees seeking work face.

With no UK record because of their time abroad, they have zero credit rating or tax history and struggle to rent houses, open bank accounts, even have telephones installed and services reconnected.

Too often their time abroad has been one of hardship and disappointment. Returning 'home' is sometimes just a continuation.

As the sun slowly sets and cherry juice stains our mouths, the General, for it is he, admits to looking online at houses in Normandy and Brittany.

"Only an hour and half to get to," he says casually, as his wife, still smiling, shakes her head.

"But it would be the same weather as we have in England. So no."

No. Even the finest of views and gardens pall in a mist of rain. It's all about the sun.