A short break in the Moselle, hein? The average Frenchman will look at you as might the average Englishman if you were to suggest carefree moments in Preston. He will frown.

For him, the Moselle — hard by the border with Luxembourg and the German Saar — is all coal, iron and grim memories of war. It does not suggest unbridled joie de vivre. Which just shows how much the average Frenchman knows.

Granted, swathes of the region had their share of mining. And, as a Euro-junction, it’s taken regular pummellings. Like neighbouring Alsace, it was German for almost a quarter of the last century (which hasn’t improved its image with our average Frenchman).

You may now sense a “but” coming. There are, in fact, three. First, the hazards of history have left the region with a forceful identity — a sense of strength across the military installations and mining communities. I like that. I come from Lancashire and know things don’t have to be pretty to be interesting.

Second, the Mosellans have turned their past absolutely to their advantage. Lacking the celebrity of Provence or the Dordogne, they have invested coffers of cash and imagination in museums, castles and sundry visitor sites, which, taken together, set a 21st-century standard unmatched in France.

And, third, the Moselle is, in fact, mainly rather pretty — far more countryside than industry. Once out of town, the Moselle River itself comes on like the Rhine, cutting idly through tree-clad valleys. Rolling farms and forest eventually rise to the Vosges mountains. Factor in superb food and a glass or two of mirabelle liqueur and you really have no option. We start in Metz in the early afternoon.

DAY ONE

It was too tempting. “Here’s another fine Metz I’ve got myself into,” I grinned at the lady in the tourist office. She smiled uneasily, as you do at the mildly deranged. Then she handed me a town map and off I went. What a great place — small enough to be navigable, big enough to have a sense of monumental style, plus a gold-stone gothic cathedral.

Within, frail stonework frames an acre and a half of stained glass, from dark, dense 13th-century work to swathes of lighter, Chagallian colour. Indisputably, such beauty puts all the beans on God’s side.

Gold stone is the theme in Metz — holding up arcades and the venerable buildings required of a provincial capital. Well, gold stone and horticulture. Boy, are the Mosellans good at gardening. Metz has parks where other cities have city, and where they can’t fit a park, they put flowerbeds, hanging baskets and anything else that might support plant life.

Now wander the shopping streets to Place St-Louis and on to the station, built when the Germans ran the place from 1870 to 1918. The whacking slabs of masonry could only be imperial German. They demand a march-past, not rapidly scurrying passengers and stationary drinkers.

Nip back to the theatre square by the river and, from November 10, pop into the great Protestant church for the Huguenot exhibition. Mosellans are brilliant at this sort of thing, too. They really do try harder.

Now leave Metz for Thionville and check into the Hôtel L’Horizon (50 Route du Crève- Coeur; 00 33-3 82 88 53 65, www.lhorizon.fr; doubles from £67). Here’s a lovely, welcoming spot, with an ace restaurant and menus from £24. Owner Jean-Pascal Speck knows local military history inside out. Ask in advance and he’ll organise outings.

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