Rosie in the official bits of France which are not actually in the country we all know and love as France. This 2min clip sequence shows some of the highlights from our trip around the far flung French world, which we documented in six TV shows entitled Croissant in the Jungle. Get ready for a giant tarantula,  a very dead iguana, lots of French people being French and some lovely Gallic musical noodling while dolphins play. There is also a very embarrassing shot of me doing some Polynesian dancing.

Quite simply,  the PENSION HENRY on the paradisal Polynesian coral atoll of Rangiroa is one of the grimmest hostelries on the planet. Watch this and wonder how we didn’t all perish of sunstroke, heat rash or a broken limb caused by falling off the balcony. Where do I start? No glass in all bar one window. No air con. Zillions of flies. Hopeless kitchen with no cutlery. Balcony with no balustrade right onto rocky beach. Bathroom impossible to walk on thanks to razor-sharp corals festooning the floor. Redeeming view of ocean obscured by pine tree forest.

Transporting children in Halifax Airport. This is why we only took hand luggage. Because the children were barely able to carry themselves let alone anyone else. This film was made at the beginning of our trip, too, so we were all still keen! I’m JOKING!

Packing. This is what we took to go around the world for four months…5 pairs of knickers each,   Two long sleeved shirts, a pair of trousers and an anorak. In this clip I am telling my daunted son Gabriel (who naturally, being 9 years old, has no idea WHERE he is going), that he can’t take his Chelsea kit with him.

What’s it like to travel through Egypt on train, camel, bus and felucca? With not only your own four children but several other families too? Rosie Millard and her family show how the ancient glories of Egypt can be part of a proper family adventure holiday.

It’s isolated. It’s in the North Atlantic. It’s 10,000 kilometres from the Champs Elysees. But its as French as petanque and foi gras. Rosie Millard gets intrepid in the far flung island of Miquelon, a lonely stretch of la belle France, where the Tricolor whips in a freezing cold wind and where French is spoken as properly as it is in Paris.