IT is not so long since we were a nation bent on world domination and on colouring every continent red on our map of the Empire. We then descended to become a nation obsessed with the decline of Empire and the state of the weather.

Since then the world has moved on. The Empire effectively stops at the Channel Islands, and the weather has started to run a distant second to the cult of property ownership (that is to say the value and the condition of one's property). This national pastime is fuelled by a media that feeds us with tales of property ladders, buy-to-lets, and a cloying diet of home improvement programmes that rather echo the feeding habits of a foie gras farmer.

The effect that this has had on the British public becomes all too obvious when the property-hungry Brit finds himself washed up on foreign shores - and shocked by crimes against modern housing taste.

It is probably fair to say that the French housing market is somewhat less sophisticated than its English cousin. The French rather stubbornly cling to quaint notions of housing being a means of shelter and providing comfort rather than an economic decision. There are still ancient laws in existence which forbid a landlord from evicting a poor-paying tenant from his property after the onset of autumn and before the beginning of spring. How can a buy-to-let landlord possibly maintain his returns percentage on capital outlay in such conditions?

This attitude is reflected when you step inside typically French homes. They will often be heavy on wood, with large fireplaces, lots of brass and plenty of wallpaper (even on the doors).

The reasons behind the décor are more than just basic comfort. They are cultural, economic, climatic and historic. Not coming from a cold, windswept island, the French are not preoccupied with looking outwards to distant lands to conquer, and trying to soak any benefit from the few sickly rays of UV that can traverse the cloud barrier. On the contrary, they are usually trying to hide from the sun, so the fewer windows the better, providing a nice cool shadiness in summer. Windows are an expensive luxury, which helps make sure that gloomy is chic.

A huge-windowed home is a great thing when looking out and planning your next campaign, but probably not so appealing when your home is on the route taken by a bunch of drunken longbow-equipped Brits descending for yet another 100 years' war. At this point the thick stone walls, shutters and small windows not advertising your wealth and daughters must have seemed like an eminently good idea.

The greatest decor taste battle between the Brits and the French lies in the smallest room in the house. Every French customer requires his WC to be enclosed in a small room all of its own, but since the 1960s Brits have been pulling down these partitions to let light and space fall upon the thrones of England. No amount of arguing about claustrophobic boxes and the beauty of porcelain will persuade a Frenchman to risk being exposed at his moment of weakness in front of his nearest and dearest.

One thing is for sure in this battle, and that is, that long after the invading army with its open-planned bathrooms has passed through town, these dark houses will be providing the same level of shelter and comfort for the next 100 years that they have for the last several hundred.