Hasparren, local festival.
Hasparren, Pyrénées Atlantique.
Marseille, entrance to the port.
TALES
FROM FRANCE
On our first summer visit to the house in France, having got
hardly any furniture in the house at this stage, we had planned to buy
a large sofa. Knowing what the experience was like in England - finally
finding a sofa you like only to be told, "Delivery will be in four to
six weeks time"- we were not holding out much hope of being able to
arrange it in France in the time available to us.
In fact, we had discussed it on the ferry going over and had come to
the conclusion that, having the perception that France was a somewhat
bureaucratic country, if it took six weeks in England then it would
probably take six months in France. Anyway, we sallied forth one
glorious summer's day to the nearest large trading estate where we
eventually found a suitable sofa, one of those jobs that latches
together and goes round the corner to fit against two walls. When I
asked the lady serving us how long we would have to wait for delivery
she appeared surprised. "You will deliver it yourself so you can do it
now." I explained that there was no way I could fit the sofa in my car.
"Of course monsieur, we will give you a van," she replied.
About twenty minutes later, having paid for the sofa and produced my
driving license at a depot just round the corner from the store, I was
bowling across Normandy in a french white van to deliver the sofa.
So as well as having a beautiful country with gormet food, oceans of
space, unique films instead of second hand films imported from
Hollywood, and a rural life that has long ago vanished in Britain, the
French can even outdo the Brits with simple practical solutions to
everyday business problems. Baah!
Yet another preconception bites the dust.
MORE
TALES
FROM FRANCE
One summer's evening, on entering one of the local bars for an
early evening drink we found it unusually crowded, probably because the
market had been on that day. There was one table available were the
bench seat went round a corner so we both slid ourselves behind the
table and sat sipping our drinks and contemplating the other occupants
of the bar.
Sitting on the bench seat that formed the short arm of the L
immediately adjacent to us was a pasty faced thin couple so nondescript
in their individual appearance that they remain in my memory as a unit
rather than two distinct people. Facing them, and seeming to be doing
most of the talking, was an overalled man with ruddy cheeks and one of
those large curly moustaches that would have made him instantly
recognised as a Frenchman, or at least as a caricature of a Frenchman
about thirty or forty years ago. By this time I had formed the
impression, from his animated gestures and the one way nature of his
conversation with the almost silent couple, that he had probably been
in the bar for most of the day and was a little worse for wear. From
the jolly nature of his expression and the twinkle in his eye however,
it was apparent that he was thoroughly happy with this situation.
His position sitting opposite this couple meant that, because of the L
shape, he was also sitting directly opposite me albeit sideways on, and
I was making a conscious effort to avoid eye contact as he occasionally
glanced round. This, as it turned out, was to no avail. Perhaps
becoming bored with the lack of response he was getting from the thin
couple, he suddenly swivelled his chair round and looked directly at
us. "Vous êtes Alamaigne?, Anglais?" Having started the conversation
off
he then offered his hand to shake. I shook hands with him but to my
consternation he then kept hold of my hand as the conversation
progressed. Despite my embarrassment at sitting holding hands over the
table with a Frenchman I was, as ever, pleased at the opportunity to
practice my French, and still mildly amused enough to wait and see what
progressed rather than downing my beer and leaving. After a bit of
chat, as sometimes happens with people in Normandy, he got onto the
subject of the war.
"No, I was too young to have fought in the war, I am a cabinet maker,"
I told him.
"I was a soldier in the French Foreign Legion," he proudly proclaimed
and then stood up and stripped to the waste to show off his Legion
tattoos. By this time I could sense my wife shifting uneasily in her
seat besides me and was conscious of the attention we were attracting
from the other customers as he sat down again and demanded,” Can you
sing me an English song from the war?" Whilst this may have fazed many
people, I felt no embarrassment at singing in public having spent many
years as a student singing and playing guitar at my local pub, so I
gave him a rendition of, 'Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag.'
In return he launched into a stirring and patriotic sounding anthem
which he sang with huge gusto. At this point, a local who had been
standing at the bar and observing the proceedings, took pity on us and
came and sat at the table. He made a gesture as if drinking from a
glass several times to indicate that our uninvited friend was one over
the eight, and then added, "Mais il est trés gentil."
By now we had finished our drinks and got up to take our leave, but
didn't manage to escape without monsieur, as a parting gesture,
planting an exaggerated kiss on both of my wife's cheeks.
We have since discovered that in France anyone the worse for wear
through drink almost invariably has a friend with them who says, "He
has had too much to drink, but he is very kind."
