The 13 regions of France – ranked from worst to best

Which area of our cross-Channel neighbour is the finest? Our expert has explored them all and delivered his verdict

A lot of people visit France – some 100 million in 2023, according to recent international tourism stats. The figures, of course, have the slipperiness of all international stats (that “record-breaking” 100 million includes folk overnighting en route elsewhere; plus if you go to France twice, you count as two tourists). But, with those caveats, let’s allow that France is pretty popular. One reason is its extraordinary variety – the whole of Western Europe in one country, with diverse landscapes to match. Another is that you can profitably show up at any time of the year. I’ve just spent late autumn days both in the Loire Valley and on the Provençal coast and had a ball: ate well, drank well, visited much and had my fill of beauty and interest.
Naturally, some things, notably in holiday hotspots, may be closed off-season, and it might rain. But we’re British and stoic and well-equipped to appreciate what there is to appreciate and then appreciate it more when the sun comes back out. The crucial question is, though, where should we go in this widely miscellaneous land?
In order to nourish decision-making, here’s a thumb-nail review of France’s 13 regions. The order is entirely subjective – our ordering based on nothing but personal preference. Were we being objective, we’d follow a recent French opinion poll which had Brittany as the most popular region, followed by Provence-Alps-Côte-d’Azur and Occitanie. But we’re not doing that. This is our view, and we’ll be delighted to hear from you if you disagree and, more especially, if you agree. Wherever you choose, I warrant you’ll be welcome. The French are too sharp for anti-tourism movements.
Like a six-year-old child, Corsica engages, delights and exasperates in about equal measure. In the matter of landscapes, whether by the coast or inland, grandeur is endemic. France boasts few more stirring sights than, say, the Calanches de Piana on the island’s west coast or the great gorges of Spelunca and Restonica (to pluck three natural wonders from an abundance). Beaches – white sand, transparent water – are among the finest in Europe. Villages way up are so remote, they’ve not yet heard that Napoleon’s dead.
Towns obviously bear the stamp of their history: Ajaccio majors on local lad Bonaparte, Bastia has the great citadel from when Genoa ran the island for 500 years, before flogging it to France in 1768. Calvi remembers both Nelson, who lost sight in his eye following a 1794 siege, and Keira Knightley, who honeymooned there.
And, through inland Corte – capital of an independent 18th-century Corsican republic – seams of nationalism, myth-making and mistrust still run strong. It’s a superb spot – steep, tight-packed and standing proud against surrounding magnificence – but wears an air of perpetual conspiracy. Their island is so superb that, to even things out, Corsicans spend much time feuding and racketeering. And that’s Corsica – brilliance and with light casting enough shadows for skullduggery.
Unmissable sight: Near Porto Vecchio, the beach of Palombaggia is reckoned, with reason, to be one of the loveliest of the island.
My favourite hotel: The Porto Vecchio district (more precisely, Santa Giulia) also boasts the Hotel Carré Noir, a contemporary four-star retreat with roof-top pool and bar, exceptional staff and arresting views (doubles from £100).
Emblematic dish: Wild boar – Corsica’s full of them – eaten to rewarding effect on the £25 menu at the wonderfully-sited Auberge U-Lusticone at Patrimonio, northern Corsica. The menu starts with Corsican charcuterie, which also should not be ignored.
Let’s assume we all know about Paris itself, and deal just with the Île-de-France region surrounding it. At one side, the Palace of Versailles; at the other, Disneyland – twin extravagant poles of French culture. Disney opened in 1992 to howls of protest: the death of French, well, everything! The trivialisation of French seriousness! A cartoon mouse, for heaven’s sake, in the land of Molière, Racine, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, Proust and Albert Camus.
At the time, I said, “Bah humbug! French culture is easily strong enough to survive a mouse.” And so it has proved. In 2023, if Disney had 12 million visitors, Versailles and the Louvre, together, had more: 18 million. All Disney has done is to expand the choice.
So that’s that cleared up. Now we might roll round to Auvers-sur-Oise, where Van Gogh lived and died at the Auberge Ravoux in 1890. The auberge survives. As do a couple of “guinguettes” on the River Marne – places where working-class Parisians meet up at weekends for wine, food, dancing and frolics. Try Chez Gégène at Joinville-le-Pont. They drink and dance there still.
Unmissable sight: As the family home for French monarchs from the middle ages to the 19th century, the Château de Fontainebleau garners way more royal power points than Versailles. It’s riveting throughout.
My favourite hotel: You want to visit Versailles in the manner of Louis XVI? Check into the Trianon Palace. It’s just next door and as fabulous as any hotel in the region. Gordon Ramsay runs the one Michelin star kitchen (doubles from £384).
Emblematic dish: The most famous cheese of the Île-de-France is brie, and it’s best eaten in its home town of Meaux, at Le Fromagerie du Brie et d’ailleurs, near the market.
For a peaceable-looking landscape, the Pays de la Loire – the western end of this great river’s run – has had its moments. In the 11th century, Fulk III Nerra, Count of Anjou, burned his wife to death in the mighty château d’Angers (she’d apparently been unfaithful). He also, incidentally, burned down the surrounding town.
These days, the château holds the 340-feet long 14th-century Apocalypse Tapestry – war, disease, pollution, famine – which also clashes with the benign Angevin image. The war-mongering Plantagenets were locals. Born in Le Mans, Henry II would still recognise the old town, if not the noisy damned cars roaring round the track.
Elsewhere, the Vendée suffered slaughter for its 1790s revolt against the French Revolution; Solzhenitsyn opened the memorial at Les Lucs-sur-Boulogne in 1993. And Nantes had a key role in the slave trade. “Peaceable”, in short, has come at a price. But now we’ve one of the more playful French regions.
Nantes has the giant elephant and other mega-machines at Les Machines de l’île. The Vendée hosts the world’s greatest historical-theme park in the Puy du Fou; Noirmoutier is a pick among sunny summer islands – and Jacques Tati’s sublime Monsieur Hulot went on holiday at Saint Marc-sur-Mer, near La Baule. It’s all come right.
Unmissable sight: When the troops of the new French republic swept through the Vendée in 1794, avenging the locals’ armed opposition, villagers took refuge in the forests. One such refuge, the Grasla, has been recreated at Les Brouzils. It’s riveting, and enlivened by shows throughout summer.
My favourite hotel: Solesmes is home to the Benedictine monastery, HQ of the Gregorian chant, and the family-owned Grand Hotel de Solesmes is where you stay (doubles from £101).
Emblematic dish: Pike perch (“sandre”) in white butter sauce, to be eaten at La Guinguette at Trentemoult, a district of Nantes 10-minutes by ferry from the centre.
In medieval times, and beyond, Burgundy was a big-time player on the European stage. The Palais des Ducs in Dijon is redolent of a manifest destiny to rule. Then the Burgundians took early retirement to concentrate on wine, beef, snails, cheese and ensuring that, before leaving one table, there’s another one ready nearby. How locals aren’t all as portly as US theme-park visitors is a mystery. Or another French paradox. Perhaps it’s because there’s so much outside to get stuck into.
Eat your eggs “en meurette” and shin up a Jura mountain – maybe to Arbois, home of Louis Pasteur or Pontarlier, capital of (now re-legalised) absinthe. Or romp across the remote Morvan uplands. You could slow down but keep moving round Burgundy’s past glories: Sens cathedral, where Thomas Beckett holed up; the mighty Hôtel-Dieu of Beaune; Fontenay, the finest abbey in France, or the bar Arbézie, high up in La Cure. It’s bisected by the Franco-Swiss border. Sip your beer in France, eat your peanuts in Switzerland.
Unmissable sight: At Guédelon, south-east of Saint Fargeau, professionals and volunteers are building a 13th-century château using only 13th-century methods. It’s among the most riveting historical sites in the country.
My favourite hotel: Between Dijon and Beaune, the Abbaye de la Bussière is as classy as Burgundian hotels get, with 17 acres of park, two first-rate restaurants and sense of privilege throughout (doubles from £180).
Emblematic dish: Beef bourguignon, obviously. The youthful La Fine Heure in Dijon has a contemporary take on the sustaining old dish of beef in wine, lardons, onions and mushrooms.
All this slice of the French south-west used to belong to us in the great days before and during the Hundred Years’ War. Eleanor of Aquitaine brought it with her when she married our Henry II. These days, we’re trying to take it back – especially the Dordogne and Limousin – via gîtes and low-cost airlines. But we’re not really succeeding. Aquitaine, old and new, remains stubbornly French. Well, except for the Basques, who remain stubbornly Basque.
The Atlantic coast – big skies, big waves, beaches so long that you’d have to change donkey half-way – breeds a certain toughness. Meanwhile, inland Aquitaine has been much bypassed. The Creuse is the least visited département in France, though heaven knows why. It’s bucolic and smashing. And, if only everyone knew of the glorious villages and church frescoes of the Gartempe valley, there’d be no getting near the place. But they don’t. Quite a few turn up in Bordeaux, mind. We Anglo-Saxons used to be big in the wine trade there, too. Less so in the 2020s. Ah well.
Unmissable sight: The Lascaux IV centre at Montignac in the Dordogne’s Vézère valley recreates almost the entirety of the world’s most absorbing painted cave system. The whole surges with colour, movement and power from around 16,000 years ago.
My favourite hotel: The Ibarboure family have made the Briketenia hotel and Michelin-starred restaurant in Guéthary into stars of the Basque coast (doubles from £135).
Emblematic dish: The Bazas is a breed of cattle local to the Bordeaux region. Pair the beef with a bordelaise wine sauce – at, say, La Tupina in Bordeaux – and you’re laughing.
OK, obviously, we’re talking sun and bling, caviar, champagne and high-rollers of all nations yachting and choppering in, with zillions of others – you, me, half of Japan and most of Russia – all wearing shades against the spin-off glitz. The Scottish satirist Tobias Smollett started the transhumance of elegance in the 18th century.
The most famous coast in the world remains a high-class courtesan of a place – beautiful, desirable and no more virtuous than she needs to be. But the twist of a hairpin swirls you to a tougher inland Provence. In the Esterel, Lure and Maures massifs, you’re a long way from a mojito.
The Luberon isn’t just a refuge for the Parisian chatterati; it’s mainly mountains. So are the Alps. These are tough territories of farming and feuds only recently opened up for play time. They’ve survived far worse than tourism. Then you go to Toulon or Marseille for the beat of a big port city. Cultures from all round the Med meet up here. Nearby, the Camargue has proper French cowboys, which is what I want to be when I grow up.
Unmissable sight: Nothing prepares you for the Verdon Gorge. They’re what Europe has instead of the Grand Canyon, nature on a supernatural scale. At points, it’s 2,500 feet straight down. And you thought Provence was merely soft and sunlit?
My favourite hotel: Perched on the end of the car-free Porquerolles island, the Mas du Langoustier embodies barefoot luxury (B&B from £340).
Emblematic dish: Aïoli is, effectively, garlic mayonnaise. The grand aioli flanks it with cod, shellfish, hard-boiled egg, and as much veg as you can imagine, and creates the perfect shady summer lunch. One bottle of rosé won’t be enough. Try it at the Chapeau de Paille in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence.
The region has lived the best of times and the worst of times. The best gives us the champagne vineyards, associated villages and a sparkling wine you may drink all day and still hit the right button in the hotel lift. It includes the green lands rolling to Three Frontiers, the Vosges summits, the route-des-vins at the hinge of mountains and Alsace Plain; and half-timbered villages at once lovely, substantial and vulnerable. Regional food also slots into the “best” category.
The worst? A good percentage of wars passed this way. Here’s Verdun and the Bitche Citadel, there’s the Maginot Line and the Natzweiler-Struthof concentration camp. Alsace and Lorraine get smacked regularly, so the subplot is of suffering. But – “best” again – locals take refuge in culture and epic domesticity. France boasts no cities more civilised than Metz and Strasbourg. Festive, too. Bad times mean good times are intense.
Unmissable sight: The Alsace Wine Route, 105 miles from Marlenheim to Thann, furnishes not only fab wines but also villages which speak of decent people, hard work hard, tending the earth, eating amply, growing flowers and cutting loose at festival time. Arriving is a bit like coming home to a home you never knew you had.
My favourite hotel: The family-run (and family-built) Domaine de la Klauss at Montenach, near the Franco-German-Luxembourg frontiers, has everything you require of a luxury, even destination, hotel – spa, bar, great rooms, posh restaurant and associated auberge, pool, horses – all wrapped up with warmth (doubles from £173).
Emblematic dish: So many, so let‘s go for roïgabrageldi (spuds, onion, lardons, butter, cholesterol squared) in marcaire Vosges mountain inns like Glasborn-Linge at up at Soulzeren.
Bretons’ unyielding regional identity is fashioned by rocks and sea, savoury pancakes, cider and the swirl of Celtic culture. And they’re very much like us. Well, they really are us, with one vowel changed, more berets and onions, and less cricket. In the fifth and sixth centuries, our people – mainly Welsh and Cornish – hurtled across the sea fleeing Norse invaders.
We settled, changed the region’s name to “Brittany”, its language to something like Welsh and, later, its anthem to the tune of Land Of My Fathers. Bretons also have a tendency to recount legends (these can go on a bit), and burst into song. I approve. My version of Tri Martolod (“Three Sailors”) stands comparison with musician Alan Stivell’s.
The contours of their lives mirror their tough, rocky coast. These are people who have an eye on the shipping forecast and an elbow on the bar. Lives may be softened by rampant Catholicism, but not much. Also, and more so, by ubiquitous hydrangeas.
Unmissable sight: At the far end of Brittany, the island of Ouessant (“Ushant” in English) – low, elemental, rocky – is all the best bits of Brittany in tightly concentrated form. Take the ferry from Le Conquet.
My favourite hotel: The Hostellerie Pointe Saint Mathieu not only stands proud on one of Finistère’s finest headlands but also feeds you Nolwenn Corre’s Michelin-starred food and then beds you down in more comfort than you need (doubles from £93).
Emblematic dish: Oysters, obviously. Make for the Pointe de Toulvern beyond Baden in the Morbihan, seek out Ivan Sélo amid his Rythme des Marées oyster sheds, and leave the rest to him: visiting the oyster park, tasting and eating later. There’s no better oyster visit in France.
The region is as French as “la douce France” gets. Both light and countryside are generally gentle. Nowhere in France do they speak purer, less accented French. And the region’s great châteaux exemplify the grandeur of France’s self image.
Away from Paris, real history thundered through Amboise, Blois, Azay-le-Rideau, ruling, poisoning, plotting, assassinating, committing adultery and getting to grips with world-class gardening. Also partying. Catherine de’ Medici may have looked like a storm in a cemetery, but she knew how to throw a fête.
The resplendence had, though, a flipside of fragility. It could all be kicked over in moments, and quite frequently has been. But what magnificence. There’s no other Renaissance line-up like this anywhere. And the mighty Loire provides the running commentary. But, please, visit no more than two châteaux per day, five châteaux in one trip, tops. Otherwise, château fatigue kicks in.
Unmissable sight: Arching over its river, Château de Chenonceau is the most elegant of them all, just a unicorn or two short of perfection.
My favourite hotel: In the Loir valley (no “e”), running parallel to, and north of, the grander Loire, the village of Trôo is punched into the chalk cliff face on several levels. Nearby, the Moulin de la Plaine is one of the loveliest chambres-d’hôtes around (B&B doubles £86).
Emblematic dish: Late on in the 19th century, the Tatin sisters, Caroline and Stéphanie, created their upside-down apple tart by accident in their restaurant in Lamotte-Beuvron. La Maison Tatin, their family home – now a hotel-restaurant – still serves it, to winning effect.
I come from industrial Lancashire, so the traditional image of this, the north of France – mines, manufacturing, beer, rain, chips, more sense than money – suits my mindset. In a bar in Béthune, you’ll have a conversation within moments. It will take a decade or two in Cannes. Couldn’t be better – but, actually, it is.
As with Lancashire, the image falls way short of the reality. Here we have a fantastic coast, from the Somme Bay up to Boulogne – Dickens’ bolt-hole – the great Caps and beyond. We have valleys and great towns and cities – Amiens with its wondrous cathedral, Compiègne, with the railway carriage where we took the German surrender in 1918 (and the Germans took the French one in 1940), St Omer, Arras and Montreuil… with a special mention for Lille where industrial decline has released energy for, well, everything else. If you’ve missed one festive occasion, there’ll be another one shortly. And it’s all close to hand.
Unmissable sight: The Great War sites pack an emotional charge you’ll experience nowhere else. Start at the Thiépval memorial.
My favourite hotel: In the transformed outbuildings of the château – stone, brick, beams, space – La Cour de Rémi at Bermicourt does the simple things splendidly. That includes the dining (doubles from £97).
Emblematic dish: Head for any “estaminet” – local auberges; the Carpe Diem in Arras will do nicely – and order the three or four-meat pot’je vleesch. It’s pork, chicken, veal and maybe rabbit in jelly, with shipping quantities of chips. You’ll be fettled for going down a mine. Or just having a little post-prandial walk.
Here is the tale of two mountain ranges. Lop a few thousand metres off both and we’ll say that the Auvergne’s Massif Central is the equivalent of the Pennines, the Alps in line with more vertical Highlands. I’m with Auvergne on this. Their slopes are rounded – “montagnes à vaches (cow mountains),” say condescending types from the Alps – and, though they scarcely cede to any easy life, neither do they want you dead.
They’d rather you ate potée auvergnate (a wintry casserole), romped up a dormant volcano and then went to the rugby in Clermont-Ferrand.
The Alps, by contrast, mesmerise with grandeur and the glamour of danger, with commensurate rewards for the intrepid (though the intrepid do tend to wear the grim miens of those about to undergo surgery rather than have fun). Between the two Massifs runs the Rhône, bringing water, wine and drama to the big city of Lyon and the smaller cities of Vienne and Valence. The eating is good enough in all three of them to put mountaineering on hold for forever.
Unmissable sight: Annecy, the mountain town you can get to without going up any mountains. An atmospheric squeeze of waterways, arcades and beflowered bridges, it has greensward and the lake out front, the tomb of Saint François de Sales in the basilica up top. He’s the patron saint of journalists. Also, interestingly, of the deaf and dumb.
My favourite hotel: The Hotel Haut-Allier is lost in the Allier gorges at Le Pont-d’Alleyras, south-west of Le Puy. It has one of the best restaurants in the region, and doubles from £68.
Emblematic dish: Tartiflette is the super-sustaining Savoyard dish: potatoes, bacon and onions covered in Reblochon cheese. It comes on all traditional but was, in truth, invented in the 1980s as a way to flog more Reblochon cheese. No matter. It’s great, notably at the Hotel Avancher in Val-d’Isère.
You put on weight just by arriving in the deep green, double cream Normandy landscape. Rich vittles – cream, butter, cheese, beef, cider, teurgoule (a sort of rice pudding), calvados – come at you along all the country lanes. OK, Normandy oysters are low-calorie and unbelievably healthy, but no-one gets by on oysters alone.
Of course, landing in Normandy wasn’t always fattening. When the good guys came ashore in June 1944, they didn’t break often for rich lunches. That said, they were, among very much else, honouring millennial links with England. William the Bastard set out from here to become “the Conqueror”.
East Lancashire Regiment squaddies, stationed near the cliff-rich Alabaster Coast during the Great War, developed a taste for Bénédictine liquer produced in Fécamp. Burnley remains its number one market. David Hockney now lives, paints and smokes in the Postman Pat countryside of the Pays d’Auge, inland from Deauville. Granted, we burned Joan of Arc at the stake in Rouen in 1431, but that was a hiccup. Black pudding links between Bury (UK black pudding capital) and Mortagne-au-Perche (French black pudding HQ) are more relevant these days.
Unmissable sight: The Mont Saint Michel is the most mesmerising monument in France. From the bay, it rises as if borne from a more sublime dimension. Imagine Westminster abbey wrapped around a rock.
My favourite hotel: In the forest just outside the small spa town of Bagnoles-de-l’Orne, the Manoir du Lys is a family-run country-house hotel, with an ace restaurant (doubles from £131).
Emblematic dish: Pigeon à la rouennaise. Traditionally, the dish – devised by Louis Convert, cook to our Edward VII – stars duck, in a sauce of blood and bone marrow. At Gill in Rouen, chef Gilles Tournadre adapts this to pigeon, with foie gras stuffing and herb ravioli. There is no better fate for a pigeon.
There’s no real reason ever to leave Occitanie. I do so less and less. Based in the region, I’ve been roaming all over France for 36 years. Now, with age, I realise I’ve got almost all I need right here: wife, kids, and farming memories avec parents-in-law, 3,500-feet up in the Lozère mountains. To hand, we’ve Med beaches, rolling uplands in Haut-Languedoc, the Lot and Aveyron and, just beyond the Corbières hills, proper Pyrenean mountains. Obviously, God approves. Why else would He have sent the Virgin Mary to appear at Lourdes?
Meanwhile, there’s more wine here than in any equivalent region in the world. Plus fruit, sun and veg, fish – and rugby, in the two great Occitan cities. Toulouse won the regional capital title, and generally wins at rugby; Montpellier awaits and plots revenge. And right through the region runs a streak of resistance rooted in the 12th and 13th-century Cathar heresy. These days it’s bullfighting and bull-running which hold out against Paris and other interferers. Locals switch from exuberance to fury and back, in the time it takes you to duck. It’s been like that since the Romans. It’s not changing now.
Unmissable sight: The rock-topping castles – Peyrepertuse, Montségur, Quéribus and the rest – where the Cathars held out against Royal catholic, and papal, forces. Mainly in the Aude département, they indicate what a serious business resistance was (and is) round here. Also that heretics hadn’t discovered vertigo.
My favourite hotel: The Château Capitoul just outside Narbonne has a swish of elegance through the rooms in the château and the flanking villas. Two fine restaurants, too (doubles from £184).
Emblematic dish: Cassoulet, obviously. It’s all feisty Occitan life in simmered stew form. Eat it, in slightly different forms, in Toulouse, Carcassonne and, especially, Castelnaudary, where Cassoulet Chez Marty is holder of the 2024 Best Cassoulet In The World title.
This article was first published in August 2024 and has been revised and updated.