As I wander beside the Loire I wonder if the legendary liberator had bathed in the waters that descend in

As I wander beside the Loire, I wonder if the legendary liberator had bathed in the waters that descend in a delicious arc from the Massif Central to the Atlantic. And then I ponder what to do with my worldly goods while I take a dip.Abdel and Katya solve that problem. “Have you got €2 for a drink?” enquires Katya, as soon as I laid out my towel next to them. Bien s?I reply, so long as you keep an eye on the laptop, camera, tickets, passport, cash and irreplaceable memories in my bag (actually, I am not quite that specific).

While I change, Abdel tells me how difficult life in France has become as he basks beneath a benevolent sun that seems to refute every word.Could I swim from the Left Bank to the Right of the Loire? No. While I am not a weak swimmer, the rules here – enforced by a lifeguard perched beneath a yellow parasol – insist that you remain within closely defined boundaries. To stray beyond the line of buoys provokes a whistle, so instead I splashed around with a group of Algerian boys as we argued about Zidane’s sending-off in the World Cup final.Refreshed, I drift along the road to an even more tempting river, the Loiret. In the village of Olivet, just south of Orl?s, it flows past a quintessential French riverside scene: villas with gardens running down to the water, and restaurants that demand you to sit down, sip an aperitif and inhale the delicious drowsiness of high summer in France.The journey south from Orl?s comprises idealised French campagne. Crew-cut wheatfields unravel across the hills, the view interspersed with oddities: between the railway and the highway, which entwine for hundreds of kilometres as they race south, stands a random collection of hedgerows, sticking up like odd teeth in a dentally challenged jaw.The closer you get to the Mediterranean, the more intense the summer becomes. Dusty railway stations serve villages whose terracotta-to-honey colours have a sun-bleached look about them.

Only the robustly buttressed churches seem to standing up to the heat – until Ambazac station, where someone keeps the hedges clipped with military precision and ensures the flowers in the neatly kept beds display primary colours beneath the most mighty sun But by the time I reach Cahors, I am wilting The Lot looks inviting, but interdit. The Romans came here two millennia ago to bathe in the spring waters, and built a pool dedicated to Diana; only the crumbling fa?e still stands. So, instead, I get on a bike and head upriver.The road harmoniously follows the meanders of the Lot. Sunflowers grin at anyone who will notice, buttercups drink in the sun and butterflies flutter by on the lightest of breezes Crikey: the heat must be getting to me I must cool off. In the cheerfully named village of Bouzi? I spy a hotel swimming pool. How much, I demand of the receptionist at the H? Les Falaises, must I pay to take a dip? It turns out that non-residents can swim for the price of a drink at the poolside bar Despite the name of the village, I stay off the booze. A grande cr? costs the same €2.60 as the swimming pool in Paris, but it is served with a smile and earns a tip.

This elicits the information that the latest property spending spree for the British is to buy up the Lot. The no-baggy-swimming-shorts rule still applies, but bonnets are optional – and diving is permitted. * * Diving into the C?, which splits from the Lot just upriver, is tempting but reckless: this 40km-long wriggly swimming pool is a shallow and sometimes fast-moving river, and extremely popular with bathers and kayakers, as it carves through monumentally pretty countryside.Like baking bread, gently roasting terrain gives off a heavenly aroma. The same cannot be said for me when I stop off at the refuge at Espagnac, built for the pilgrims on the long and winding path to Santiago de Compostela. Through a fence, I see a pool so perfect and empty that it looks irresistible – but it is defiantly priv? Along the river in Figeac, the H? des Bains has a tempting name, yet the only baths are in the rooms. So, instead, I continue to Toulouse, and check into the Polar Bear Hotel to chill out and enjoy the sauna and Jacuzzi promised in my brand-new guidebook. Sadly, the facilities at the H? Ours Blanc were scrapped in renovations several years ago.I have been tempted to Toulouse by the prospect of the newest city beach – a trend that began in France a decade ago and is spreading rapidly.

This year, Toulouse has joined the beach club, but the results are far from inspiring. Imagine trying to create an urban beach amid the huge sprawl of the NEC in Birmingham. That is exactly what the city of Toulouse has done in the Parc des Expositions. Bringing in a few truckloads of sand and some plastic chairs and tables is not enough. Thank goodness France’s finest swimming pool is just across the car park.Toulouse is home to the world’s biggest airliner, the Airbus A380, and also what must be the planet’s largest piscine. The main municipal pool is the size of a football field, with a couple of add-ons for good measure.