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It began, like all good things, with a boozy Sunday lunch with friends. “Why don't we all get a villa in the south of France this year?” someone suggested. The idea spread through us like a tot of cognac slips down on a chill morning. Yes! A château on a hill, with a pool and a long garden, and almond croissants for breakfast. What about June half-term? The men frowned. They thought of the cost, the need to get francs, the crowded autoroutes. How will I get everything into the boot? And the south of France? Wasn't it just full of wine snobs in cravats, and Peter Mayle-types buying up fields of lavender? The women, of course, were much more positive. They could already see the kids running on the lawn in sailor suits, and dreamed of long afternoons reading Sebastian Faulks under a walnut tree. There would be lots of crumpled white linen, straw hats and denim dungarees, bare shoulders in the Mediterranean sun... Being the host, it fell to me to progress this fantasy. "I'll look into it" I said boldly.

Three thousand tons of brochures later, I felt stressed. Where to go? When? How much to spend? "Now we know" sighed my wife, Alice, "why some families just go to Club Med year after year."

Our once-enthusiastic friends were dithering. Johnny might be away in June, Suzy was setting up a business and a bit short of cash. "Sod it, let's just book somewhere!" I said. "Someone will come." But who? And what if the house was awful? What would everyone think of us? And say it rains... "It'll still be France" Alice rallied. "We'll just get lots of wine and get pissed."

We chose Gascony because it is hardcore rural France, and virtually free of tourists. It's also a doddle to get there flying into Toulouse, and we crossed our fingers that it would be warm and sunny by early June. We then plumped for Domaine du Luc, a huge six-bedroomed manor house near Auch, purely because it had a lovely creeper-clad façade and a big front lawn.

"We've rented this fab mansion in France" I would casually let slip down the pub, "if you fancy it." At the same time Alice would be in a wine bar, enthusing about this idyllic French villa we've just found - you really should come. Later, back at home, we would stomp about in our dressing gowns yelling at each other. Why on earth did you invite Patsy? Don't you realise Max's kids are a pair of psychopaths? And what will happen if everyone we've invited says yes? They'll be hanging from the terracotta tiles. It's all going to be une grande nightmare...

Well it wasn't, though you must be prepared for chopping and changing, even last minute cancellations. In the end there were thirteen of us - four couples plus five children aged three to ten - and most of us had never met before. Inviting friends of friends might seem a risky business, but I'd recommend it because you meet new people and have plenty to talk about. Our party included two Danes, who drove at breakneck speed from Copenhagen and brought a laptop that had been specially programmed to identify the stars that would twinkle above our little bit of France that week. We also had a constantly happy Australian. In future we will always pack an Australian male when we go on holiday - they always demand to be put in charge of the barbecue, which is fine by us, and they will spend hours playing sporty games with your kids.

It was only when we arrived at Domaine du Luc that I realised what a hit-and-miss game renting villas is. This wasn't just because the instructions to find it were useless - that's par for the course on a holiday like this - but because of the location. Dutifully clad in its creepers, the house was much grander than its photo suggested, and it lay tucked away at the end of a winding country lane. Beyond its sloping lawns, dappled with lemon, plum and cherry trees, were fields flecked with poppies and a horizon crowned by the steeple of Jegun village church, which was floodlit at night.

The sense of natural isolation was overwhelming. The kids could run around and play in complete safety, the house was big enough for everyone to find a private corner, and there were no Brits over the next hedge braying about the last time they tried to park at Tesco Metro.

There are two types of villa you can rent - those that are permanently let out, where the decor is sometimes sterile and/or knackered - and the privately-owned holiday home. We had the latter, which means you get the owners' taste, style and family photos on the mantelpiece. At Domaine du Luc the only drawbacks were the beds were damp and uncomfortable, and the bathrooms had the family's bits and bobs hanging around. On the plus side, we did get to play with their toy cars, raid the garage to borrow their inflatable hippo, and the kitchen came ready-stocked with things like coffee filter papers, herbs and tins of tomatoes that we could replace later. Well, we meant to replace them, honest. "Its so much better when you gang together" one of us exclaimed on the first day. "You can get a much grander property, the kids have friends to play with, and you don't have to spend all your time cooking or cleaning up."

But what do you do on a villa holiday? Well, you eat and drink, talk and sunbathe, perfect your underwater handstands, go for a short country walk that turns into a SAS marathon because you get completely lost... The culture vultures among us took off to see the 12th century Cistercian abbey at Flaran, and the grimy cathedral in Auch, which is famous for its carved oak choir stalls full of devilish figures. Gascony is also dotted with castles and fortified towers that loom over the fields like visiting spacecraft, and it has its fair share of those little museums the French do so well. One not to miss is the delightful Bleu de Lectoure, a former tannery in Lectoure which tells the story of pastel, a plant that was used to make a pale blue dye that was world-famous in the 17th century.

This being la France profonde, food and wine was a prime concern. In a large party, you have the fun of industrial scale catering - scrambled oeufs for 20, yes I'd like to buy that strawberry gateau as big as a mini-roundabout. We were in the Gers, the undulating heartland of Gascony, where every housewife knows 1001 things to do with a goose. Salade gersoise, made with gizzards, is a local speciality, and the region is famous for its foie gras, garlic and melons. This is also armagnac country, and the home of floc, made from armagnac and grape juice. Mix this with the sparkling wine Blanquette de Limoux, which costs less than £2 a bottle, and you have the perfect aperitif for when a child messenger arrives from the poolside with the news that "the Mummys want a little something to go with the sunset".

Each night a different couple would elect to be dinner monitor, which proved a brilliant system. One night you had to give a dinner party for 13, then for the next three nights you were a guest at a dinner party for 13. This always took place outside on the terrace, under the vines and stars, just like in the Sunday supplements. Each day the cooking got a little more elaborate - an extra course of asparagus here, some quality champagne there - and the dining table soon resembled a scene from those French films where everyone just sits around eating and talking about love till the final credits roll.

One afternoon we took off in our finery for The Big Lunch, which was held in Lectoure on the terrace of the Hôtel de Bastard (cue giggles in the back of the car). It's not very far from the small town of Condom (cue more giggles), which we would often slip into for some safe shopping. And yes, everything there really is sold in packets of three. The food at de Bastard was outstanding, and continuing proof that you can still dine like a roi in France's unsung corners. The children sat at their own table, chattering through a menu enfant for under a fiver that was gracefully served on blue and white Limoges porcelain. Meanwhile the men ploughed through exquisite plates of foie gras, lamb and duck, helped along with the rich local wine, Madiran. The women saved themselves for the formidable desserts - blini de chocolat, a featherlight soufflé made with prunes and armagnac...

And the kids? What kids? In a big villa you hardly see them, though you know someone has an eye on them. Being in a group also means you can dump them on fellow guests if you want to pop off to a market or go for a walk à deux. Now and again I would come across my seven year-old son and say "have you written your postcard to granny yet?", to which the usual reply was a splash followed by two disappearing flippers. With a huge garden, a pool and Sky TV, they were all in junior heaven. We had meant to get the TV hidden away before arriving but forgot - one child, fearing withdrawal symptoms, had watched six episodes of The Simpsons in a row before agreeing to come to the airport with us.

At the end of the week I suddenly became concerned that we hadn't paid much attention to our ten year-old daughter, Lilia. Look Dads, why are we opening another bottle of wine when we should be giving piggybacks in the pool? Aren't holidays supposed to be about family bonding and all that? Alice did some research. "Daddy's worried we haven't spoken to you all week." "Yes, I know" Lilia replied, "it's been brilliant."

That probably explains why, when I suggested a trip to the Pyrenees on our last day, there were only three contenders - one of which was a forcibly enlisted three year- old. Well, the sun was shining, and everyone had got into a lazy groove. The Pyrenees will be there another day. Within 90 minutes' drive we were in another world, climbing up the Valle d'Aure to bracing air and snow-patched mountains. We bought a picnic of bread and Pyrennean cheeses, and followed the hairpins to Col du Tourmalet on roads daubed with supportive messages left over from the Tour de France. Up at nearly 7,000 feet, we found a Bondish world of bright sunshine, empty ski resorts and pockets of grass where fawn-coloured cows tinkled their bells amid the wildflowers.

"Snow everywhere" three year-old Poppy declared like some trainee Michael Fish.

The next day it was all over, though clearing up is pretty quick when there are lots of you. A heavily laden vehicle was dispatched to the bottle bank, and as soon as our convoy of cars headed for the airport it started to rain heavily. Phew, I thought. You need a bit of luck to have a great villa holiday, but we'll be doing it again this year. Maybe a big farmhouse in Italy, with around 20 of us - let me know if you fancy it...

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