Since A Year in Provence was published in 1989 there seems to have been a never ending stream of books from Brits living in France, including the latest blog-inspired offering Petite Anglaise.

Bored and irritated by this publishing phenomenon, Dominique Wormald has written her revenge called 16 Years in the Rain. It covers everything from her thoughts on British food to her homesickness for a crusty baguette, fireworks and dancing on the 14th of July and galette des rois (sprigs of lily of the valley) given on May Day.

She reveals what she most loves about Britain: "the beautiful countryside" and what she hates: "the bread and the climate." Woven into her laugh-out-loud first person account is her own life story. Dominique, 55, is the eldest of seven children and grew up in northern France. She was a divorced single mother with two young children when she met Andrew Wormald at a wedding in 1989. After a two-year long distance love affair, she left her family, friends and her job as a PA to move to Andrew's farm close to Cowling, near Keighley.

"When people ask what brought me here I say: 'for love and sex of course – I couldn't find a man in France'. And that gets them interested." She admits she had a few last minute reservations. "I do things on a whim rather than thinking too much, but after I had given my resignation and notice on my flat in Paris, I suddenly thought : 'My God, what if he turns out to be strange in the head?'"

Fortunately, Andrew, 49, is a perfectly sane, quiet and droll man, who keeps sheep and free-range hens. His life has been anything but dull since Dominique moved into his remote, windswept farmhouse. She is impetuous and adventurous with a lively Latin temperament and has spent the last 16 years adapting to a life that couldn't be more different from her sophisticated Parisian existence. Mastering the Yorkshire dialect has proved a particular challenge. She and Andrew have a daughter Heather, now 11, while her two grown-up children Samuel, 32, a finance director, and Emilie, 28, a trainee solicitor, opted to move back to France. After a host of jobs, she now teaches French and spends her spare time writing.

She prefers to write in French and her friend Jean Law has managed to translate her words and stay true to the sentiments. Dominique is about to start the search for a publisher, while preparing another chapter about her experiences with the NHS, none of them good.

"I hope the book might be published in France and here. That would be ideal because in some ways it would act as warning to the French people thinking of moving here," she says. "It's wonderful in many ways, but it's very, very different from France," she says, welling up at the thought of what she's missing.

Here are some extracts from Dominique's book:

Do you speak English?
I found myself in a country I didn't know, with a man I knew even less and with whom I couldn't even have a conversation. In my innocence I thought I understood English, but this new language spoken with a Yorkshire accent and a heavy sprinkling of slang was something else. Even worse, I would grasp a few words here and there and my fertile imagination would fill in the gaps, which led to quite a few bizarre situations, not to mention misunderstandings, upsets and arguments in the early days and a hasty return to France was on the cards on more than one occasion.

One day in a valiant attempt to short circuit this endless cycle of tears, sulking and reconciliation, Andrew, bravely for a Yorkshireman, decided that flowers might do the trick.

Thrilled with his idea, he presented me with a huge bouquet. My reaction wasn't what he anticipated. I burst out laughing.

The flowers were chrysanthemums and where I come from only the dead are presented with them.

The world of work
To understand and communicate was a major problem when I arrived and I needed to find work. I arrived for interviews dressed up to the nines, conscious of representing the image of French women renowned for their elegance. I was also accustomed to an environment where the supply of jobs was greater than demand, and in which I could take my time over work, I was horrified to find myself subjected to typing speed tests. It was then I discovered, to my horror that not only do the English drive on the left, the letters on their keyboards are also all in the wrong place.

Drawing myself up to my full 5 ft 2in I pronounced with great dignity: "One is not required to break the sound barrier when drafting one's correspondence."

Finally after four months of searching I found a job in export and everyone in my department spoke French.

But it was then I discovered, incredulous and appalled, the world of work in the north of England.

No company health insurance? Not to worry, here one gets free health care (I didn't know the NHS well enough then to worry). No works council? No point in worrying about it. But how was I going to survive in a country that granted its employees so few paid holidays? 20 miserable days, hardly any bank holidays and as for "ponts" and "viaducs" (this is where national holidays fall mid week – for instance on a Thursday). The employer will also give his workforce the day off or "pont" on the Friday.

But one can get used to anything – like eating a sandwich at a computer midday. At least I didn't have to waste time deciding between dishes in the work canteen. As for the gym or personal trainer, you're on your own in an English workplace. Instead of coffee at the bar on the corner, tea is the order of the day… all day.

But these problems are nothing compared with the nightmare of finding oneself unemployed, which happened to me several times. In France the employee is cosseted, but not here.

I remember temping for one company that had promised me a permanent position, but they engaged a French manager and had no use for me. My boss didn't have the nerve to tell me himself, so my Latin blood boiled. I went into his office and, let's not beat about the bush, threatened him with murder.

I had made useful progress with my English and my boss was about to feel the benefit: 'Derek we've got two rifles at home. I'll be back tomorrow to sort you out'. As a parting coup de grace I was tempted to pour coffee on his head but managed to control myself. Just as well as I later discovered he had recommended me to a company that had rung to check my CV.

The weather
Before I took the final decision to move to England, Andrew issued a meteorological word of warning. "You know the weather isn't exactly mild up there. Do you think you'll get used to it?" I'm a hardy daughter of the north of France. Yorkshire? No problem.

"I will sing in the rain darling," I told him. Isn't love wonderful?

I am often asked when is the best time of year to visit Yorkshire. In fact, spring and summer are as similar to winter as two drops of water. The wind is accompanied by grey skies and obliges you to wear a coat even in August. And even tights. In Paris I didn't need to bother until November. The weather is a major topic of conversation among the English: "Can you believe this weather?" they say as if it is new or surprising. I am even more surprised when a Yorkshire native declares, puffing and blowing: "Good grief it's hot. I'm passing out with this heat." When to me it's no more than a fine day.

The cold and rain never deter an Englishman from driving his open topped car, organising a barbecue or wandering round half naked. In the small town where I live the men need little excuse to parade their tattooed chests.

The food
"Have you had your tea?" asks Alison. "I've just had a coffee," I reply.

Now it's well known in France that the English dine early – 5.30pm in my part of the world. What is not understood is that tea is the name given to one's dinner. Fortunately Andrew's stomach adapts nicely to the French timetable, which fits in well with his work as a farmer. He has gladly given up his own cooking – beans on toast, marmite toast, microwave meals, Bisto gravy (gravy made from granules that have all the gastronomic appeal of dog food) and his speciality – corned beef plunged into boiling water to do battle with a few vegetables. From, now on he would have a French chef.

But the French cuisine had a few surprises. His midday sandwich was replaced with a meal, which he found too heavy. The beef he liked virtually cremated retained a lively appearance (a good vet could bring it back to life he would tell me). And my cakes were served without custard – causing a domestic drama of Shakespearean intensity. "Custard? What's that?" I asked, completely baffled. I learnt it was a rather thick crème anglaise made for the most part with powder seemingly for the express purpose of drowning one's cakes.

Talking of which, the rosbifs make delicious ones: fudge cake, sticky toffee pudding, not to mention the apple and rhubarb pies.

Everyone criticises English cuisine, but I'm certain most French people would enjoy a well-cooked plate of fish and chips and what could be better than a steak and kidney pie?

When I first arrived though, shopping for food was disappointing to say the least. Broccoli, cabbage and carrots were as exotic as it got and I remember one shop assistant not knowing what an aubergine was. One thing still astonishes me is that England is an island, wherever you live is not far from the sea and yet your choice of fish is limited and seafood almost non-existent.

But the thing I miss most is bread. Baguettes are sold everywhere but the only thing they have in common with a French baguette is the name. Nor do I buy camembert cheese since you can only find the pasteurised variety with the consistency of cement.

As for coffee, I don't drink it away from home for fear of having to spit it out.

But by contrast the tea is wonderful. Not an hour goes by without me making myself a "cuppa".

Teaching holiday French
French isn't simple. For a start there is the pronunciation. Many of my pupils – they range from builders to businessmen and housewives – have the devil's own job making a difference between "ou" and "u". I advise them to say, very carefully, 'merci beaucoup' and not 'merci beau cu'. While it's always nice to thank someone, praising them on the beauty of their rear end might not gain the desired response.

They have a hard time with past participles and have a hard time with the subjunctive and its exception, all of which give the language of Moliere its charms.

The French I teach is not very academic or sophisticated. In fact, I can't resist teaching my pupils those day-to-day expressions that are the backbone of the spoken language and which, with an English accent, are even more delightful.

They include: 'tu petes plus haut que ton cul' – which means you have ideas above your station literally translated as "You fart higher than your backside".

I may enjoy slang, but I also adore poetry and have a passion for French songs. Just like the actors in Renoir's film On Connait la Chanson I burst into song at the least excuse. As I can't sing in tune, Andrew has banned me from indulging in his presence. Therefore I make the most of it during lessons.

Come to me to learn French and one thing is for certain – a good time is had by all. Some admit: "we don't come to you to learn but drink a glass and amuse ourselves." As we say in France: the shape of the bottle does not matter as long as the wine is good.

Farming
To tell the truth it's the cows who are more frightened of me now. On returning to the farm one day I closed the gate without realising that it was covered with cow poo. My forefinger was covered and with nothing to wipe it on and with my concentration on damage limitation I got in the car and set off. At that moment the car swerved dramatically and there was an unholy bang. The sight of the cow draped over the bonnet was sufficient to distract me from my finger. The cow slithered back down to ground and raced off. I was worried about the state of my car, not to mention the state of the cow that was worth a lot more.

I'd already had a "misunderstanding" with a sheep previously while reversing and once again I was going to be the laughing stock of the county and reinforce local opinion of me as a lame excuse for a farmer's wife.

WATCH: meet Dominique down on the farm at www.yorkshirepost.co.uk/video