SOME of us were advised from an early age that human behaviour began to change and become questionable if you chose to venture east of Lowestoft and west of the Scilly Islands. I know of others who were brought up in households in which we learnt to accept that British is best and Johnny Foreigner is so named because he is, well, different.

It was a way of thinking which had been imbued in most of the inhabitants of Great Britain because we ruled the waves, had painted red a substantial part of the world atlas, the sun never set on the British Empire and of course, there would always be an England.

By the time I became a teenager, some of the cornerstones of that thinking had fallen away but because money was tight, it took me some years before I ventured beyond Lowestoft and found out for myself that foreign is different and I delighted in it.

I had no thoughts with regard to living in Johnny Foreigner-land, but here I am, soon to complete my tenth year in France, and I recall the moment when it clicked for me and I knew I would stay. As is the way with the world, my wife Ellie had already decided that, but I embraced France and all its quirky differences one August evening by a riverbank.

We had been told there was a firework show, on a Saturday night in a remote village in Limousin, which in winter is often cut off by snow. We travelled up there, through mountain forests and the occasional hamlet, parked up and headed for the village centre with the grandchildren.

There was a small fair, which they sampled before a band struck up and began to march down through the fair and down the hill. Everyone exited the fair as if drawn by this collection of pied pipers, and we walked down a long hill, following the band. It must have been near to a mile we walked but as we drew nearer the river, we came across hundreds of people already standing at various vantage points.

Eventually we found ourselves among the crowds each side of the riverbank and I noted a small roped area was deemed out of bounds. There then commenced, on the outskirts of the village, little bigger than the likes of Flaunden, a spectacular fireworks show, enhanced by the reflections in the river.

The rockets were launched from the small, roped-off area and exploded over our heads. We could see the dying embers drop, mostly in the river but occasionally on the crowd below. People moved to avoid them with great joviality. Some had to brush the hot sticks off their shoulders or their hats. It was a good laugh and when I spoke to one of the organisers later, he had great trouble: not just understanding my French, but the concept of what I was saying.

“Why should people complain?” he asked, clearly baffled and of the opinion that once you travelled west of Brest, you encountered people with strange thoughts, commencing with Le Rosbifs, as les Anglais are known. Elf and safety had not penetrated rural Limousin. If you watched a firework display in the air, it was clear some of the burnt-out debris will fall on those watching below. Our Monsieur Newton discovered the principle and the French accept the concept.

Our youngest lives in Sant Cugat, a town the size of Watford, over the mountain range from Barcelona in Spain. It possesses a large town square, which is about the size of The Pond Parade area in Watford, reached by a series of pedestrianized roads.

Cafes and tables are scattered round the perimeter and every evening it is a busy area, where families meet and children play before heading for bed. The Spanish are very inclusive when it comes to their children.

The other week, it was particularly crowded. I had arrived there a little weary after the trauma of the burst front tyre and a little lighter in the bank balance, after buying two new tyres. But we had made it and Ellie’s sister and brother-in-law, Caroline and Stuart, had arrived along with our daughter and her family.

We sat at the tables, ordered our drinks and took in the flavour of a late October evening in a Spanish town. Fortunately our visit happened to coincide with one of their innumerable fete weekend and the following day one of the main streets was filled with market-style outlets, offering foods, delicacies, local produce and goods.

We are well versed in the habits of Johnny Foreigner, so when a group of people in Balaclavas, came winding through the crowded square, prickling with giant 3-foot-long sparklers and dancing to the music, we looked up. People cheered and laughed at the antics of the sparkler-bearers. It was all in good fun and spirits and it made the night.

Stuart whipped out his camera and could not believe that such a procession could take place, without stewards marshalling a five yard safety zone each side of the procession and a policeman walking in front and another behind, with first-aid operators hovering in attendance, as they marched, on what in the UK would be a pre-determined route, taped off.

The rules for such parades were probably established in the Europe HQ and sent to the member states and Britain followed it to the letter. Indeed, it is sad to note some villages in south west Herts the kill joys have stopped the annual bonfire after perhaps centuries of such fires, interrupted only in the cause of the black out.

It is often said France takes part in the rule-making for Europe and then ignores them, but it seems from this snapshot of Spain, they are not alone in doing so.

We have been conditioned during our ten years, that we are used to such sights but when seeing the winding crocodile take in all parts of the square with children running to the side of them, we had the opportunity to see the event through Caroline and Stuart’s eyes.

The children of course, had been playing in the square, beyond the sight of their parents. The sparklers continued their jog through the crowds, and firecrackers went off in other areas. That is how it is in foreign parts.

“Look at all those kids without a parent in sight, running in and out while the sparklers burn. There is no way that would be allowed and people would have that fun back home,” said Stuart."It's how it used to be."

Yes, Johnny Foreigner is different and we are glad to be part of that difference.