French exchange No one likes a show-off – especially the French

Any sign of flashness is seen as a character flaw in France, which means Debora Robertson needs to hide her swanky home

When we moved into this house last year, my first battle wasn’t with French bureaucracy or mastering the subjunctive. It was with a thicket of bamboo that stretched from the gate to the front door steps. Juggling shopping and dogs, I stumbled over its roots and was temporarily blinded by its leaves whipping my face. On top of that, it was a scruffy mess. I would have been more sympathetic if our predecessors had planted a tangle of brambles – at least I could have made jam.

I mentioned to a local gardening friend that I thought bamboo should only be sold under licence, with strict instructions (possibly including the mention of fines) that it must only be planted in pots to restrict its rampaging roots. “Why on earth would you plant such a hideous thing in a small garden?” I wailed, hands blistered from an afternoon of taking sharpened secateurs to this malign jungle.

“It’s to create a screen,” I was told. “Not just to give you privacy, but to hide what you have. The French hate showing off.”

So now I am stuck with the challenge of renovating a large house in the centre of the village without the benefit of bamboo camouflage. (Many weeks, a couple of thousand euros and the hiring of a small digger later, I think I’ve banished it – though my eyes are constantly on the soil for the first sign of any shoots. I’m considering adopting an emergency panda, just in case.)

I think about some of the unshowy houses we have rented in France over the years, many of which were unpromising on the outside, delightful on the inside. The best was a house in a winding side street. The double doors were dark green, the paint faded and peeling, set into austere, grey basalt walls. They opened into an enchanting 16th-century courtyard filled with palms, roses and geraniums, and a house filled with antiques (including a dresser containing 12 champagne flutes – a rare but welcome find in a rental). It gave none of its treasures away lightly.

In France, any sign of flashness is seen as a character flaw. Nicolas Sarkozy was known as President Bling-Bling and disparaged by critics who perceived his valuable watches, expensive suits and superyacht holidays as demonstrating a lack of self-discipline and discretion. Following the recent guilty verdicts in his trials for corruption, influence peddling and illegal campaign financing, he was sentenced to two one-year terms in prison, which were commuted to house arrest with an electronic ankle tag. Both sentences are under appeal, but an anklet would make a non-bling change from the £50,000 Patek Philippe watch that was a gift from his equally modest model-singer-heiress wife, Carla Bruni. Famously, while shaking hands with a campaign crowd in 2012, he whipped the watch from his wrist and concealed it in his suit pocket, either fearing it could be stolen or realising this bling was a bit too bling, even for him.

I am struck by how much people dress down here, or rather, simply fail to dress up. I realise this is not Paris – which is truly another country – but even for events such as weddings or smart birthday parties, there is a distinct lack of frou-frou. A pair of good jeans or linen trousers and a white shirt seem to be acceptable in all circumstances, even if you’re the bride. Of course, the shirt might well be a £450 number from that high priestess of white shirts Anne Fontaine, but even so.

For a perfect example of chic French dressing-down, see the Netflix reality series, The Parisian Agency. The episode where Martin, the handsome eldest son in the Kretz estate agency clan, marries his beloved is a classic of the genre. Him: perfect dark blue suit, white shirt, no tie, tousled hair. His bride, Éve: perfect slip dress, tousled hair. Iconic uber-granny Majo: silk slip dress, sneakers. Location: the beachy

Île de Ré, with trestle tables, small posies of flowers and fairy lights. To quote the inimitable Dolly Parton, it costs a lot of money to look this cheap. Never let your workings show.

Of course, it’s not always such a smart move. You sometimes see people at important events looking decidedly scruffy. I am reminded of the time when, as a young thing, I worked for a large magazine company and a grande dame editor was heard to say loudly in the crowded lift: “I get so tired of seeing people in this building in the sort of clothes you might wear to wash the car.” Reports of her withering remark travelled up and down the 30 floors before she’d even had a chance to store her broomstick under her desk. (That last bit’s a lie: her exhausted assistant no doubt had to do that for her.)

But what I love about here is that none of that matters really. What is more important is that you show up, you pay your respects if it is a sad event, or join in the celebrations with good heart if it is a happy one. You are part of a community, and a community that gets together, sticks together. Who cares if you’re not wearing a tie? (I haven’t seen anyone in a tie since I got here – do they still exist?)

And no one talks about money, ever. This used to be the case in Britain too, but over the past few years, in some circles, it has become acceptable to talk about house prices and salaries in a way it simply wasn’t a short time ago. Everyone’s a banker. I once watched an American visitor ask a French woman how much she had paid for her villa. That was the loudest silence I have ever heard. I now know what people mean when they say the air was sucked out of the room. He’s probably still there, a heap of ashes on the cold, hard tile, only a shattered champagne coupe to mark where he fell.

I hope for now my neighbours will forgive the bold and shameful nakedness of my house. I have painted it the colour of soft sand, a shade deemed suitably unshriek-y according to the chart of appropriate finishes provided by the town hall. Just as soon as my garden is liberated from its thick coating of generators, bags of render, and all manner of mysterious builders’ gubbins, I will plant a screen of some sort so you no longer have to gaze upon my works dear friends, and despair. Also, while I am here, I apologise for mentioning how much the digger cost. I promise to try much harder in future to look as though I am not trying at all.