VIRTUALLY everywhere you go in France, you're reminded this is World Cup territory. Tournament paraphernalia dominates the skyline.

But on the Mediterranean, life goes on as normal. Just down the road from Montpellier is the seaside resort of La Grande Motte - a colourful mix of luxury yachts, burnt-to-a-crisp locals, garish 1970s architecture, kitsch apartment blocks, loud shirts, louder shorts and G-strings.

The Mediterranean is warm, and, even towards the end of the holiday season, some thrillseekers dare to put their head under the surface of the murky water. Most just get up in the morning, spend the next eight hours in their deckchairs, cooking themselves to a ripe red, then head to the nearest brasserie for entrecote grille to keep their protein levels high enough for another gruelling day on the hot plate.

Along the seaside are dilapidated merry-go-rounds and old-fashioned change-sheds, from which you expect Jacques Tati to appear. The constant sound is a Coltrane saxophone riff, interspersed by the clang, clang clanging of youngsters playing table soccer.

Friday night was supposed to be a big night. The pace picked up a bit. This was when it would be discovered whether France would survive or bomb out of the rugby tournament they are running. Even the sun-worshippers realised something was going on and packed up early, taking the big step of putting on a shirt, rather than a singlet, for their night out.

In every cafe, bar and brasserie along the Med, there was a flickering television in one corner, tuned to the France-Ireland match. If this was Australia, New Zealand or anywhere else, everyone would have been crammed around the screen, carrying on as if this was the only event of consequence in the world. The decisions of what to eat for the perfect three-course meal would have been forgotten.

Not here. In the bistros, the diners made sure they had some sort of view of the screen, but the priority was still to secure the right position to get the best service from the waiters. Some of the best vantage spots were taken by the diners' canine friends - a selection of mongrels who are treated with more reverence than their owners in this part of the world. The sound of mutts yapping away at each other is the heartbeat of many French establishments.

We headed to a brasserie within metres of the water. The moules were soon served and the best rouge decanted while the debate over whether the escargots were fresh enough to impress an Australian blow-in continued. We passed on the good old garden snail.

In the background, an apparently crucial World Cup match was being played out. Eventually the diners showed some interest. They began laughing when they saw Irish supporters bawling their eyes out as the national anthem was played. They threw their hands up in exasperation when French coach Bernard Laporte's bald head bobbed up. Everyone here thinks he's bonkers. They even downed forks to whistle La Marseillaise - one or two turning to salute the sea. And every time France scored, there was polite applause. No dim-witted chants like Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, just a gentle clap before turning back to the salade.

Occasionally, the chef would sneak out of the kitchen for a look. At one point, the waiter was chastised by a patron for peeking at the game when he should have been filling up a glass. But soon the diner and waiter were embracing.

When the final whistle signalled a French victory, there was a murmur, followed by more polite applause. Then everyone merrily headed off to find a nice quiet bar for a nightcap.

Thus ended another sparkling evening on the Med - where you are constantly reminded that in France, they have life's priorities just right.