t’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.
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