My Day at the Doctor's

I’ve been having some problems with an old injury that was stirred up by a recent fall. This meant that I was going to have to see our doctor, a thought that filled me with dread. This is not because Dr. Sattern isn’t a nice chap. On the contrary, he is very pleasant. The difficulties lie elsewhere.

We live in a rural part of France and either our doctor is very popular, or there aren’t very many of them about. I’m not sure which is correct, but it takes an awfully long time to get to see him. The appointment process itself is extremely quick and, if necessary, almost immediate, but the subsequent time spent in the surgery waiting room can often cause one to lose the will to live. An emotion that is quite ironic in the circumstances.

For some unknown reason it’s not uncommon to hang around for two hours or more after the original appointment time. This has, on more than one occasion, caused my husband Jack to comment that there’s really no point in having a schedule at all. He may be quite right there.

Jack has a characteristic aversion to doctors. I remember the time when we were living in Britain and our surgery closed down. We had to transfer to a new doctor and, in order to register, every patient was required to go in for a quick medical check. The paperwork could then be completed. For Jack this was anathema. His time was at a premium anyway, but that wasn’t all. As a healthy person he couldn’t see the point of sitting in a roomful of people, many of whom were likely to be carriers of various diseases. He’s never particularly enjoyed human company anyway, and this presented a perfect logic to absent himself from a procedure that he considered to be flawed.  

After many letters and phone calls from the surgery Jack eventually spoke with our new doctor. To his credit he agreed with everything Jack said, and arranged to see him out of hours. Jack duly went along at 8pm one evening when the surgery was empty. Apparently he had a thoroughly pleasant chat with the doctor about golf, and the trials of having to team up with one’s wife. He may even have had his pulse taken – that I couldn’t be sure about, but at least he was now registered.

Therefore, as far as my husband is concerned, he has to be half-dead before he’s prepared to contemplate a move in our French doctor’s direction. I, on the other hand, needed to go. I made the call to his receptionist and asked for an appointment. My natural optimism fleetingly got the better of me when I foolishly asked for a period which was the calmest. “Hah!” came the harsh cry from the fatigued assistant. She told me that there were never any calm periods, but I could take my pick from a number of slots that had not been taken. Unfortunately I couldn’t make any of these, so asked what his diary was like for the next morning. “But madame there are no scheduled appointments tomorrow morning. The surgery opens at 8.30am and you must arrive and wait your turn.”

“Parfait,” I replied. This was the obvious way to deal with the problems of hanging around for hours. I would simply arrive very early and get to see him first. Perhaps I should have taken more notice of her “bon chance” after I shared my strategy with the lady but, in my enthusiasm, I failed to register its subtle significance.

The next morning I got up bright and early and began my journey to our surgery. And it’s just as well I did because I very quickly caught up with a farmer driving his car between 25 and 30kph (yes, that’s kilometres). Sadly, this is not unusual. We haven’t quite worked out why some of them drive so slowly. It could be because their battered old cars are past the sell-by date and simply have a top speed of around 30kph. It may be because they’re conserving fuel. Then there are those who indulge in the peculiarly European tradition of driving a ‘Voiture sans Permis’.

Literally translated as ‘Car without Licence’ these vehicles are legally defined as a four-wheel vehicle with an unladen weight not exceeding 350kg, a maximum speed not more than 45kph, and maximum power less than or equal to 4kW (5.6hp ). They are treated as mopeds and can be driven with or without a licence. Even if exercised to the full, their theoretical top speed is exactly half the normal single carriageway speed limit. But driving at full speed seems to be a rare event.

I couldn’t be sure why we were travelling so slowly but, in the absence of a passing lane, there was no possibility of overtaking the sedate old gentleman in front of me. This turned my 15 minute drive into 30, but it shouldn’t have mattered. Fortunately time was on my side and I was still very early.

It was market day in the town and quite busy already, it was also very hot. I squashed my car into one of the few remaining spaces, breezed confidently into the surgery, and stopped in my tracks. The place was already seething with people and it wasn’t even 8.15am – I couldn’t believe it. What a dirty trick! It must have been the cleaner who’d let them all in. I looked at the assembled company and said my obligatory “bonjour messieurs dames” which was greeted by a series of croaks and one extremely loud sneeze. I then looked towards the receptionist’s desk and saw the pile of health-service cards which were already stacked high. These would determine the order of play. I had half a mind to slot mine gently in the lower part of the tower, but one look from the rheumy-eyed patient on card-duty put me off straight away. Instead I dutifully popped it on top and sat down on the remaining horizontal surface, the children’s toy box. Incidentally this is another of Jack’s pet hates. He views the lids of these boxes with great suspicion, convinced that they are dangerously contagious objects having been fiddled with by small ill children.

8.30am came and went and every time the door opened, as a group, we all looked up expectantly, hoping that it would be our doctor. Sadly not. I remonstrated with myself for my naivety at forgetting that he is never on time, ever. Dr. Sattern is something of a local celebrity around our parts owing to his willingness to volunteer for just about everything. Fire brigade, neighbourhood police, relief hospital medic, you name it, he’s stuck his hand up. I think his public-spirited behaviour is quite laudable, but Jack thinks he’s just a public-spirited egomaniac. Whatever the truth, his numerous extra-mural activities often cause him to be very late.

Happily Madame Colcutt, the receptionist did arrive on time, barked a “bonjour” at us all and glowered at the mass of cards. She then reconnected the phone from night answer machine mode which caused the receiver to explode with noise, and become alive with flashing lights. This lasted most of the morning for the over-worked lady.

Finally at 9.34am Dr. Sattern strolled in looking perfectly relaxed and not at all as though he had just left the emergency helicopter outside. Those of us who had watches stared at them, others glanced at the wall clock, which was clearly missing a battery. A groundswell of grumpy mutters was followed by a few hacking coughs. There was a moment of innate solidarity – none of us was happy that he was so late, but relieved that the proceedings could at last begin. A further period of tension ensued while we waited for our doctor to strap on his stethoscope and call the first patient. Furtive glances flickered around the room, each of us trying to guess who would be the first to go in.

“Madame Sarget,” boomed Dr. Sattern, his stethoscope swinging dangerously from side to side, threatening to whack an old chap on the beret. We all stared fixedly at this lady, willing her to get a move on, but this was unlikely to happen. Poor old Madame Sarget was desperately elderly and, by the look of things, on her last legs. In retrospect, it was probably just as well that she did go first. Anyway, we were up and running and the strain in the room visibly eased. People began to chat among themselves, read waiting room magazines which, as Jack would point out, had all previously been soiled by other patients, or play with their mobile phones. However, after about half an hour our collective spirits were dampening. Madame Sarget was still in there, and there were still over 20 of us left in the waiting room. It didn’t take a mathematician to work out that if we all took that long it would be tomorrow before the end of the list was reached. Things were not going at all well.

Finally, after about 35 minutes, she hobbled out. Well, at least she was still alive. The next three or four patients only took around 15 minutes each so it was safe to believe that we might now be on a roll. We relaxed and later on looked with a mixture of pity and smugness at a new group who arrived and had to line up against the wall (standing room only now). Dr. Sattern duly reappeared having dispensed with another ‘done’ patient, but to our utter dismay, called three of the newcomers in. This caused collective outrage. Two of the patients immediately strode up to the receptionist to complain. In part this was an unwise move because it enabled one of the standers to slide into a now-vacant seat.

The initial thrust of the complaints committee was somewhat thwarted because their attentions were waved aside by Madame Colcutt, who’s phone was still welded to her ear and threatening to catch fire with overuse. She finally barked a “ne quittez pas s'il vous plait” (hold please) at the receiver, stabbed a button and stared defiantly at the angry mob. I couldn’t hear what was said, but it seemed that our deputation wasn’t entirely successful. There was much head wagging, pointing of fingers and a slam of the desk diary by madame. Our contingent returned to wedge themselves onto the now full couch, and explained the situation. It seems that these people (who didn’t seem to speak French), had arrived very early, started off the card pile, and then gone off to have a relaxed mooch around the market. Genius! Their return timing was nothing short of impeccable. They were, in fact, blameless.

Time wore on and I was beginning to wish that I had brought a cushion. As each new patient was called in we started to eye one another with suspicion. Was there any possibility of queue-fixing? It was difficult to say. The other problem was the heat. The air conditioning unit was in a similar state to the wall clock. It didn’t work. With temperatures rising steadily it would have been around 32 degrees centigrade outside by now, and not much less inside. I’m afraid this took its toll on the assembled company, some of whom began to perspire and smell rather ripe. Those with coughs and colds became noisier. I was certain that the air was thick with a colourful mix of infections, which were now being wafted around by several ladies using rank looking dog-eared magazines for fans. Blood pressures were collectively rising. This was a thoroughly bad combination, but at least we were in the right place in the event of an impromptu health disaster. Then, as if matters could get any worse, in came a screaming child with its mother.

It wasn’t immediately clear which of the two was the patient. The mother looked absolutely exhausted and the child yelled in a most energetic fashion. Sadly they made a bee-line for me, but it wasn’t my company they sought, the child wanted to get at the toys. I got up stiffly and waited my turn for the musical chairs moment when one might become vacant. I must say that, at times like these when there’s the possibility of a seat to be won, it’s amazing how agile the otherwise infirm can be. Unfortunately it was breathing room only, so I stood next to the mother and the child, who was now busy shredding toys.

This part of my morning was probably the lowest. The unfortunate little boy, who was around four years old, had a streaming cold but hadn’t yet acquired the skills needed to manage the stuff that was running out of his various orifices. His mother avoided any attempt to help him with his general hygiene, and completely ignored the bawling snivels and rivulets of liquid running down his face into his mouth. Instead, she busied herself by sending text messages. I watched, grotesquely fascinated, as he carefully excavated each nostril and smeared the contents of his gunky nasal passages onto his shorts and the toy box lid. Evidently of the opinion that something was not quite right, he then took out a bag of tiny sweets and proceeded to stuff one or two up the empty passages. Oddly enough these got stuck and caused immediate irritation. He then let out a gusty sneeze, causing all sorts of unsavoury fluids to fly across the room, and one of the sweets to fire out of his nostril like a pellet. This sent it skimming across the floor. Where would it end up? I was gripped. It eventually skipped over a small clod of mud and came to rest on an old lady’s stocking. Luckily, and despite it being bright orange, she didn’t notice.

I was so transfixed, wondering what was going to happen next, that I didn’t notice the activity going on around me. Dr. Sattern, stethoscope swinging pendulously, had reappeared and was calling my name! Faces stared accusingly as I wasted precious time by scrambling about trying to re-pack the contents of my bag, which I’d managed to drop on the floor in all the excitement. I gathered them up as quickly as possible, minced around the knobbly knees, the walking sticks and the suspicious splats on the floor, and I was in.

At this stage all I wanted to do was get my minor problem sorted and out of the way, but it’s never really that easy with Dr. Sattern. Aside from the fact that he is quite a chatter, he also loves to test out his linguistic skills. He was still extremely relaxed, apparently oblivious to the worsening health conditions he was causing his patients in the next room. He spoke in pidgin English and started regaling me with amusing anecdotes which had occurred during an over-the-garden-fence conversation he’d with his English neighbour. During this I made the fatal mistake of correcting one of his mis-used words.

Me: “I think you mean duG, rather than duGGED Dr. Sattern.”

Dr. S: “As yes, it is the dug, I see thank you.”

Me: “That’s a pleasure, your English is excellent.”

Dr. S: “Ah you flattering me too much.”

Me: “Certainly not, it’s the truth. And that’s a very good word to use.”

Dr. S: “Yes, an old French word.”

Me: “Ah, I think you’ll find that it is an English word.”

Mistake! Dr. Sattern sprang into action. He swept aside heaps of patient records and medical tomes and started ferreting around with the mountain of books on the floor. No luck there. He then went to his computer, pressed the delete button and hit Google.fr. After a moment or two of frantic keying he clicked on a website and let out a whoop of triumph.

Dr. S: “Here it is – the definition. It is for sure the word very French.”

With that he swung the screen towards me with such ferocity that it knocked the plastic spine and rib cage clean off the shelf, sending them clattering across the floor. There were vertebrae everywhere.

Me: “Ah yes, I do apologise, it’s seems that I might be wrong.”

Dr. S: “You are! All the best words, they are the ones French.”

Now that he’d sorted out yet another linguistic challenge to his personal satisfaction he abandoned the rest of his story, his bones, and stared fixedly at me.

Dr. S: “So, what is wrong?”

By this stage it was nearly 1pm and quite honestly I could barely remember why I’d gone in the first place. I blundered through an explanation of my minor medical problem which, to his credit, he took very seriously. After a thorough examination and prescription to sort it out, we said our goodbyes and he steered me back to the lions’ den.

I knew I had been in there for almost half an hour, but there hadn’t been much I could do about it. However, no excuse would have been acceptable to the remaining occupants of the waiting room who stared belligerently and sniffed intermittently as I scurried by. As I made for the door I passed the receptionist’s desk. She had escaped to lunch leaving her phone flashing like a manic 1970’s disco ball. Who could blame her?

My journey back was very short, leaving me just enough time to fret about my appointment and those poor patients still waiting to be seen. Today had been a new record, one that had beaten the socks of our usual two hours. I had started off at 8am and didn’t reach home until 1.30pm.

As I walked into the house my ever-loving Jack greeted me with, “Poor darling! You must be fed up.” I reached forward to give him a kiss, but he raised his hand in warning. “BUT,” he continued, “please don’t touch me or give us any food until you’ve washed your hands. You’ve been in that virus incubation chamber for a complete morning. In fact, better still, you go shower and I’ll make lunch. Safer all round really.”

So, there we have it – a morning that was nothing short of ridiculous. But, here in our little corner of France, where life often moves very slowly, it’s something that is generally accepted. In my case, not always with good grace, in Jack’s case – never. But the truth is I’d never want to trade it, any of it.

And at least I got out of the cooking!

A visit from America

I am part of a Facebook group called We Love Memoirs (WLM). It comprises more than 2,000 authors and readers who share a common love of memoirs. One of the US members recently planned a trip to Europe to meet several other WLM friends, her last port of call being our corner of France. One of the reasons for this was because of Brutus, our ex-feral and moderately portly cat. She had followed his feline activities on my timeline, and specifically wanted 'bonding' time with him. Given his timidity I was doubtful that he would allow this to happen, but went along with it anyway.

We live in the middle of nowhere so she also assured me that she saw this as a period for "unwinding". However, for various reasons, it didn't quite turn out that way. Nancy McBride, artist and memoir-lover was with us for nearly a week, and it’s not one that any of us are likely to forget for a long while.

It all began at Toulouse airport. Max, one of our Australian Shepherd dogs, and I met Nancy and rushed home to see if I could persuade our shy moggy to say hello. Not a bit of it I'm afraid, but his sharp exit was amply compensated for by Aby (the other Aussie) who was so ecstatically happy at seeing such a lovely lady that she promptly had a wee on her toes. Not everyone's idea of a welcome, but Nancy took it in wonderfully good spirits, describing our mutts as being "wound up like lovely furry springs".  

The first full day involved a walk along the banks of the Garonne River with our French friends. It wasn’t quite as tranquil as it might have been because most of my time was spent bellowing at the dogs to “leave those swans alone,” and Nancy filled the rest of the available sound waves loudly learning several new French words. In spite of the apparent language barrier she managed brilliantly well, and where the French word could not be found, she compensated with dramatic hand movements and use of available props. This mostly worked. However, judging by the quizzical expressions on our friends' faces, I’m still not convinced they fully understood that the energetic grabbing and flapping of Max’s ear was meant to be a sail. Come to think of it, I’m not sure that Max appreciated the significance of it either – but they nodded enthusiastically anyway.

By the end of our two hour circuit Nancy declared that she was now practically fluent in the language, and starving hungry. The latter at least I could agree with. We decided to have lunch at our favourite restaurant, which turned out to be super quality as usual. Each dish was decorated with flowers, and served with a smile. Our new American friend was in heaven and so were we. All very pleasant and tame at this stage, but that would very soon change.

With lunch over it was time to give Hunter a bath. He is an ancient dog we found a year ago lying abandoned in the middle of the road. He may have more maladies than are contained in the average veterinary manual, but he still potters around happily enough. His current illnesses include a disease called Cushings. This is the overproduction of the hormone cortisol by the adrenal glands that are located in the belly, near the kidneys. Some of the common signs include fur loss and excessive drinking. He displays classic symptoms of both. The poor lad drinks more than the French national rugby team, and has large bare patches on his body where his hair has dropped out. The vet has given us several eye-wateringly expensive products to combat this awful illness, some of which need to be applied during his bi-weekly bath. Nancy kindly humoured me when I explained that he needed to have his treatment. She watched on, cooing happily at the old boy as I cleaned out his ears with antiseptic lotion and then bathed him with a special shampoo for damaged skin. He usually ends up smelling a little like a chemist’s store, but it’s an effective way of keeping his problems at bay. After that we prepared for our next planned event, the tour of our domaine. However, what happened next was decidedly unplanned.

The recent spate of thunderstorms had taken their toll on our forest tracks so Jack drove us all, taking things very easy. We trundled up tracks and down trails stopping every now and again to take photos of storm damaged bridges, fallen trees, and to admire the greenest of meadows. It was a fun afternoon. Finally we turned for home and Jack took us along a stony track that leads back to our house. As we were pottering along, without any warning at all, the track suddenly subsided under the weight of the vehicle and collapsed into the field three feet below. Now I know that Nancy is game for an adventure, but being front seat passenger of a rolling vehicle probably doesn't quite fit her definition. When the car finally came to rest there was dead silence. Not a word or whine uttered from any of us.

I was in the back, the dogs in the boot, and Jack and Nancy were in the front. Realising that I was pretty much fine, I turned my head to find the dogs' faces about ten centimetres from my nose, peering at me owlishly. They too were unscathed. Then, thank heavens, Jack and Nancy spoke. With no obvious injuries to report, everyone except for Nancy was able to exit the vehicle. Her legs were stuck fast behind the steering wheel causing her to be curled up in a foetal position. It took both Jack and I to remove the offending item, but we finally managed it and Nancy was able to clamber out of the vehicle. That definitely deserved a hug!

We were just working out how we were going to get home when our attentions were drawn to the sound of a tractor. A couple of farmers had seen the accident from the road and had come to rescue us. After a bit of a struggle, the men collectively righted the car, and it was towed back. I was bunged in the back of a hunter’s van with the dogs, and Nancy was ceremoniously led to the front seat, whereupon she began to practise her new-found vocabulary on her latest French friend. What a trooper!

In spite of their obvious shyness, we persuaded our rescuers to have a 'merci beaucoup' drink with us and we later sat around the garden table sipping an impromptu aperitif. Thank goodness for the reviving properties of beer, Pimm's and medication. With our eventful day drawing to a close, as a team we decided that this was enough of the unplanned stuff – which, looking back on it now, we nearly achieved. Oh, and did Brutus come out to check on us and say 'Hi' to Nancy? Hah! Of course not!  

The next day was another scorcher which would have been perfect for the drinks party I had organised in honour of Nancy’s visit. However, after the previous day's misadventure, I wasn't at all sure that she'd want to go ahead. How wrong I was. She was determined to meet as many of our friends as she could, so we spent the morning creaking stiffly around a supermarket buying provisions which we later used to build our canapés.

With our soirée in mind, as a damage-limitation exercise, I decided to take our over-zealous dogs for a pre-party afternoon swim to tire them out. Re-fuelled with ibuprofen, once again Nancy rose to the challenge, and we staggered off to the lake. I'm relieved to report that on this occasion she chose not to indulge her professed love of aquaerobics. A dip in the water might not have been a sure winner for her on that day. Instead she took photos of our hyperactive dogs providing their own canine versions.

Our soirée went very well and it gave Nancy the perfect opportunity to teach our French neighbours how to speak American. This was achieved with great flair and enthusiasm, and generated yet more invitations for her to return to France soon. But there was notable absence to the proceedings. Where on earth was Brutus?

We may have been out of the woods, but the potential for danger wasn't over yet. The weekend brought the 'Feux de St. Jean' celebration which was held in our local village. This is the feast of St. John the Baptist. It was traditionally accompanied by bonfires, and broadly coincides with the summer solstice – originally celebrated with pagan festivals. Therefore, as you might imagine, my husband was a little reticent about going just in case we inadvertently exposed Nancy to a known danger such as being scorched by a flying ember, or accidentally set alight by an over-excited reveller. However the potential danger came from another quarter altogether.

Most attendees are given a job to do and ours was to collect meadow flowers for the trestle tables. I knew the exact spot to find some specimens and was driving us down some windy country lanes when a very important-looking motorcycle came around the corner with lights flashing and driver waving angrily at us. We were forced to stop. The gentleman told me that we were on the racetrack for a cycle race and that within MOMENTS the riders would be whizzing around the corner at 60kph using all of the road. He told us that we should have been stopped way back down the road. We weren't, but we had remarked at the young man we’d passed earlier who was holding a small red 'stop' hand-signal the size of a lollipop. He had been chatting to a pretty young girl – his mind clearly on other things. We were now facing a blind corner.

Nancy and I pondered our predicament and waited for a little while. Sure enough about six cyclists whirred past us, then nothing. Taking our hearts into our hands we crept forward and could see our destination ahead. Phew! We were safe. We gathered our foliage to the sound of bicycle tyres and French swear words and we followed the peloton, at a safe distance, back to the village hall. Our mission complete, and mercifully unharmed by flailing cyclists we rushed home to shower and change, and join the party. 

The whole evening went superbly well and Nancy, becoming more Americo-French by the minute, made even more friends. After enjoying a sumptuous feast the bonfires were lit and us bon vivants held hands to begin a pagan dance around the sorcerer which was ablaze on the main beacon. This was a period of great tension for Jack and I, but fortunately we managed to keep Nancy a sensible distance from the flames.

Eventually our flamboyant evening came to an end, and as we were leaving Nancy spotted an elderly couple, ancient of days, painfully making their ways back home to their cottage. She was so inspired by the romance of these people that she produced a beautiful piece of artwork the next day – and here it is along with several other photos that she took during her stay in France.

The next day was another gorgeous one and it was time to show Nancy another traditional activity in our area. Keen as mustard, we got up bright and early and did battle with the other panier-users at the Sunday market. Abandoning the car on a kerbside, we mooched amongst the stalls which were heaving with fruit and veg, meats and fish, textiles and yet more paniers. We returned home, laden with goodies, to enjoy lunch and a peaceful afternoon. At this stage the less said about our disgracefully rude absent cat, the better. But I hadn't quite given up hope...

Nancy’s final day had come. And although it was her last, she decided to join me in taking Hunter to the vet. She wanted to experience routine life as we lead it here, and regular visits to the vet are certainly an integral part. 

We know that our poor old dog is reaching the end of his life now, so we are doing everything we can to make sure that his twilight months are as happy as possible. This means lots of vet visits and tests, and changes of medicines. As any animal lover understands, it's a difficult time. The tests would take all morning, so I took Nancy on a short local sight-seeing tour. Jack knew about my plan and, for obvious reasons, gave me a stern lecture about keeping her well away from the cliff edge, and nowhere near the edge of the canal. Fortunately there were no mishaps.

 We returned to collect Hunter and while we waited for the test results I was happy to observe that Nancy had found a new friend. It was at this point that I feared her encounter might end up as being the closest she would get to cuddling a cat in France. As it turns out, I was right.

In spite of the heat Nancy was keen to make the most of her last afternoon. We spent it strolling around a favourite local mini-towns of ours, one that is noted for its ‘belle’ plants and architecture. Dating back to Roman times, it is a joy to explore and very beautiful. We returned via a country route which, centuries ago, had been used by King Henry IV of France. The tree that shaded him and his entourage while they enjoyed a royal picnic on 10 July, 1579 still exits, and it clearly appealed to Nancy’s imagination. I always suspected she might be a bit of a tree-hugger and it somehow formed a fitting finale to her visit!

Nancy’s stay was over. I took her back to Toulouse airport and bade farewell to a new and fast friend. She is a person with common interests, a passion for memoirs and a brilliant zest for life. She embraced everything our little corner of France had to offer, and I think became just a little intoxicated by the uneventful, yet eventual way of life here. Thank you WLM for enabling this to happen.

Postscript

Brutus, of course, had materialised and was waiting for me when I returned home from the airport. That’s cats for you!

The Apéritif

Some time ago we were invited to have drinks at a local farmer’s house. As with most initiatives in our corner of France, the invitation had taken time to mature. It started with a tiny hint about getting together - nothing more serious than that. But then some weeks went by, which gave my irascible husband, Jack, a chink of hope that an evening of small-talk might have been forgotten. But he was thwarted once again.

Right out of the blue, an actual date and time was offered, some three months after the original idea had been mooted. Strangely though, it came via a third party - one of their sons. He explained that our hosts were concerned we wouldn’t understand their strong regional accents, and since we had only met them once before, they wanted to make things easy for us. Jack couldn’t resist commenting on this, remarking that it might make the evening mercifully short if we were going to end up sitting around a table staring at each other, speechless. (I’m afraid my husband has always had a bad attitude when it comes to socialising.) The son had also been charged with finding out what we liked to drink and eat, which was an extremely thoughtful consideration. Unlike Jack, I was very much looking forward to it.

Monsieur Calchan is a prominent land owner in the area. He farms over 300 hectares (740 acres) of fruit trees, and started working on the land when he was 14 years old. He is locally revered for his reputation as being the fount of all knowledge where it comes to troublesome apples, which is probably not overly surprising since he looks about 80. I was very keen to chat with him and his wife, and learn more about his life’s work.

By the time our date finally arrived, we had been cross-examined several times about our culinary and beverage passions. This had caused Jack to become decidedly frustrated.

“Look, I’m getting bored now. We drink beer. We drink all colours of wine, and I like gin. Shall I write it down in French for them?”

“No. Stop being mean darling; I think it’s lovely of them. They’re just behaving as excellent hosts and wanting to get things absolutely right. Try and be grateful.”

“Humph! I suppose so.”

In view of the obvious importance of the occasion I took care over our choice of clothes. I ended up with a tidy beige linen trouser suit and the obligatory floaty scarf, bottomed-off with my favourite dress shoes. Jack looked handsomely European in his chino trousers, loafers and check shirt. Disappointingly though, he steadfastly refused to complete the French look by wearing his sweater over his shoulders. We drove the three kilometres to the home of our hosts which I was intrigued to see.

Monsieur and Madame Calchan were outside ready to greet us. Both born and brought up in the village, their statures are typical of the area – short and sturdily built. Monsieur’s face was partially concealed by the brim of his rather large fruit-grower’s hat, but it was still possible to see his broad grin and one or two remaining teeth. He was neatly dressed in an ancient looking denim-blue shirt, and trousers that displayed the tell-tale signs of a career where kneeling was a primary requirement. Madame was hatless, and despite having extraordinarily jet-black hair, was probably a similar age to her husband. She was wearing a very pretty floral frock, which was sensibly protected by a housecoat. As we walked towards them I was enchanted by her cherubic features, and the warmest of smiles.

We shook hands and were about to enter when Monsieur stopped, stared at me, and said (in French),

“You must come around the back and look at my kumquats!”

Jack gave him a decidedly old fashioned look. Then turning to me he murmured,

“His what?”

“Kumquats darling. They’re a citrus oblongy pulpy fruit, and they’re…”

“Yes, I know what kumquats are, but I’ve never known them to be a tourist attraction. Well, we can’t leave Madame Calchan by herself so I’ll stay here and have a chat with her while you go and coo at an orange.”

Although this sounded extraordinarily unlike Jack, I decided it was preferable to having him hissing in my ear whilst I tried to appreciate what I was being shown. Nodding enthusiastically at our host, I left Jack with madame, and walked to what I presumed would be the patio. How wrong I was.

The house backed directly onto a lush meadow, at the bottom end of which I could just make out some yellow dots. Monsieur pointed at these with a gnarled paw,

“Kumquats!” He cried.

“Oh excellent!” I replied, unsure as to what I was supposed to do next. Monsieur eyed my nice, neat, high-heeled shoes, and asked if I was alright to walk over the grass to take a closer look. Not wishing to be a party-pooper I cried, “Oui monsieur. Pas de problème – allez!”

It had rained during the previous night, but fortunately the day had been dry. This was likely to have made some positive difference to the ground conditions, but it was subtle. I tottered across the field after monsieur who was chatting away merrily to himself, scarifying the turf with my pointed heels, and getting soggier with every pace.

We eventually reached a cemented area which was crammed with pots of assorted shapes and sizes. Some housed kumquat shrubs, others lemons and there were even a few grapefruits which, by the way, are called pamplemousse in French – a lovely word! Their glossy leaves shone in the evening sun, fairly radiating health and vigour. Imbued with glorious citrusy scents, I focused hard on monsieur’s difficult-to-understand accent, as he lovingly described each shrub. He was fascinating to listen to, and seemed to have a great depth of knowledge. As if proof of this were demanded, every now and again he would tweak a branch and present me with a fresh fruit, with the promise that it would have the best flavour I had ever tasted. I later learnt that he was right.

Time was obviously of no consequence to monsieur, who seemed to have forgotten that he was hosting apéritifs. About 15 minutes had passed when I did think we ought to get back to the others, fearing that by now Jack’s nerves might be in social tatters. I managed to mention this as monsieur was drawing breath after a particularly long (and useful) lecture on lemon varieties. Luckily he took the hint, nodded vigorously and set off back to the house. I trudged after him, now heavily laden with fruit.

As we reached the house I realised that we were not the only ones to have been invited. Our Brazilian friends Silvio and Ana had joined madame and Jack, and were chatting away animatedly. Well this was nice. Understandably I was pretty hot after our citrus expedition so as we commenced the traditional French multi-kiss welcome process, I’m afraid that my recipients were left looking a little moist. On reflection I think air-kisses might be have been advisable, but it was too late now. Jack stared me.

“What on earth have you been doing? You’re caked in mud!”

I looked down and sure enough the bottom half of my beige trousers were now a dingy brown, and had several stems of grass stuck to them. My ex-lovely shoes were even worse. They were liberally spattered in mud. Horrified, I quickly plucked a tissue out of my handbag and began removing clods of earth from the heels. As I was doing so Jack continued,

“And why have you taken so long? We’re absolutely dying of thirst here, particularly Silvio who hasn’t had a drink since he left his house five minutes ago.”

This was a reference to the fact that, in our part of France, the partaking of the first sip at a social gathering is a very important moment, and can only be executed when the full company is assembled. One raises one’s glass to chink the glass of the person closest while staring fixedly at them and saying ‘à votre santé’ (to your health), or ‘à votre’ if you’re feeling tired, or even just ‘santé’. The process is then repeated until the last chinkee has been chinked. Then the business of enjoying one’s beverage can begin. The chinking can take a while though.

“Well I’m sorry to interfere with your social timetable darling, but it was very absorbing. Monsieur certainly knows his onions when it comes to kumquats!”  

Jack merely scowled at my attempted pun, so I handed him the fruit instead, adding,

“I know, it wasn’t my best joke. Anyway pop this lot in the car please, so we can go in.”

Once done, we were led to the house. Somewhat strangely, rather than entering via the front door as one might expect, we were taken through a set of French windows that were adjacent to it. We trooped into a long, narrow room that was as cold as a mausoleum, and extremely dark. Fortunately the white paint on the walls went some way to help visibility, as did the curious arrangement of fairy lights that decorated a dried flower arrangement in one corner. The glow also reflected off the tinsel that was strapped to four more arrangements. However, unless the wall lights were switched on, I feared that we might be in for trouble later on. The room was economically furnished with a rectangular dining table, twelve chairs, and a tall skinny wall cabinet.

Monsieur promptly disappeared through a door in the corner, leaving Madame to bustle around with the seating arrangements. Conversing with Silvio and Ana is always fun. This is because their native language is Portuguese, ours is English and the common language used here is French. None of us are entirely fluent French speakers, so a great deal of arm waving and raising of voices are employed to aid comprehension. Unfortunately, in this case, it wasn’t at all helpful to shout because there was a discernible echo in the room which made our voices sound like a muffled roar. Madame, obviously familiar with the acoustics, balanced things nicely by whispering. This had a dramatic effect on the rest of us. Everyone stopped in their tracks, and looked at her. Audience now attentive, she had the floor. We collectively craned our necks, ostrich-like and peered at her, intent on understanding what she had to say. She began to tell us about the history of her home and the generations of her husband’s family who had lived there. It was absorbing stuff. She was halfway through the story when the door was flung open and in came monsieur pushing an ancient trolley buckling under the weight of bottles, cans and the biggest plastic tub of peanuts I have ever seen.

Monsieur had now removed his headgear and we could finally see the fullness of his face. It was nut brown save for the pale skin tramline where the brim of the hat had protected his forehead. He had brilliant sparkly brown eyes which were surrounded by wrinkles that scrunched up in a delightful knot as he beamed at us all.

“My son told me what you like to drink, and here it is with our pleasure.” He said with great pride.

The penny suddenly dropped. There had been a mix-up in translation (which I’m afraid is a regular event where we live).

“That’s impressive!” hissed Jack as monsieur began presenting us with every single choice of alcoholic beverage that had been listed during our exhaustive discussions on the subject with his son. He proudly lined up cans of beer (embarrassingly, three varieties for me), bottles of wine, a bottle of gin for Jack, and a huge bottle of whisky for Silvio. The tub of nuts were plonked in front of us and he, being the host, began to dispense each drink.  This took quite a while because there was such a choice, but he finally made it. Then, beaming from ear to ear, he began the ‘à votre santé’ routine. We all joined in and the evening got under way in earnest.

After about an hour of steady drinking we began to understand one another much more easily. And, as is often the case in a relaxed situation like this, we all quickly transformed into world experts in the fields our own pet subjects. Ana, in particular, was becoming extremely animated (as indeed Brazilians often are). This time her subject was the Rio Olympics. Last year it had been the FIFA World Cup. Jack, never missing any opportunity to offer a xenophobic slant on things, had already re-christened both events under the generic title of ‘Bribes Festas del Rio’. Poor Ana remained patriotically enthusiastic, gesturing expansively with her arms in her efforts to express herself clearly. This inevitably resulted in the delivery of an occasional glancing blow to Silvio who was sitting next to her, but fortunately he seemed to be quite used to this and didn’t bat an eyelid.

In response to Ana’s enthusiasm, I could see that Jack was building up to his alcohol-assisted lecture about countries that spend billions hosting the Olympics and such-like, yet can’t keep their population housed or healthy. This needed to be nipped in the bud. I turned to him and whispered,

“Not a good time for your ‘Hold the Olympics in the same place every four years and save the building costs’ speech darling, thank you.”

Meanwhile, madame was still whispering away happily to Silvio and monsieur. However, since monsieur was a double hearing aid user, in the melee of general chatter, he was unlikely to have heard much of what she had to say. In any event he was much more intent on being the perfect host, and the moment he spotted the third sip being imbibed by one of his guests, his little brown eyes scrunched up in delight. This was his cue to reach for the bottle lined up next to the individual concerned, and slosh another generous helping in the tumbler. In Silvio’s case, he had evidently only mentioned whisky as his favoured drink. As I looked on, try as I might, I couldn’t ignore the speed at which the level in the 1.5 litre bottle was falling. Silvio had taken on a decidedly rosy hue. To my cost I had seen this look before.

Jack and I had attended a fete last year which featured an evening dinner. Thinking that this would be a fairly tame occasion I'd agreed to be ‘designated driver’. We were dining with Silvio and Ana, and they kindly invited us to drinks at their house before walking into the village for our meal.

During dinner I had allowed myself one glass of wine, and then spent the rest of the evening humouring Jack, Silvio and Ana, who were becoming increasingly jolly and lively. Jack began telling his dreadful jokes which our friends thought were screamingly funny, and he wasn’t at all daunted when they roared with laughter in all the wrong places. I observed them with a forced smile that I dare say looked more like a grimace, and dodged the crumbs that were being fired at me like pellets by Ana who was sitting opposite. She’d recently had new crowns fitted, and unfortunately hadn’t yet harnessed the techniques required for eating with them.

It was around midnight by the time the fete dinner ended. The four of us, some tottering, set out into the chill night air, everyone filled with vim and vigour – except me. Jack was still telling awful jokes to no-one in particular, so I used this as a cue to chuckle away supportively, whilst gently steering him toward the car. I turned to bid our friends goodnight when Ana flailed her hands in the air to stop us. She’d had a seemingly brilliant idea.

“Silvio and I would like to sing a Brazilian song to you before you go.”

I was horrified at the very thought of it, but before I could say no, Jack piped up.

“Marvellous idea, oh yes please!”

Tsk, tsking my slightly whined suggestions about the lateness of the hour, they collectively ignored me, strode into the garden and sat around the picnic table. Silvio produced two bottles of red wine and a guitar, and the recital began.

Unfortunately Ana evidently favoured the Fado style of music. This is a type of popular Portuguese song, usually with a melancholy theme, and often terribly depressing to listen to.

I’m genuinely certain that she has a fine voice, on her day, but after consuming such an impressively large quantity of wine, I would have defied anyone being able to string two notes together accurately. Under normal circumstances the tuneless wailing that resulted is exactly the sort of thing that would grate horribly on Jack’s nerves, but not a bit of it. He was entranced. We collectively struggled through several songs. Collectively because Ana had to stop every now and again because she had forgotten the words. Even though he had absolutely no knowledge at all of the intended lyrics, undaunted, Jack would chip-in with useful suggestions. This would trigger a small debate after which Ana would grind into action once more.

Our cabaret was evidently thirsty work which eventually caused a merciful intermission. Empty bottles were replaced with fresh, but when offered, I refused all suggestions of giving up on my responsibility as driver for the night, and determinedly nursed my beaker of water. It was now absolutely freezing, as it would be in the middle of winter, however no-one else seemed to notice the creeping onset of frostbite other than me, so we soldiered on.  

The climax of the impromptu concert came unexpectedly. Ana was in the dying throes of a particularly discouraging song when she flung her head towards Silvio in an act of great drama. Unfortunately this caused her gorgeously long hair to flop onto Silvio’s guitar whereupon it instantly became entangled in the strings. Silvio was forced to stop mid-strum. I could see that no lasting harm had been done, so used the mishap as an opportunity to make a rapid exit. I shot up, gasping appropriately, and offered to help Ana unpick her hair. She waved me away saying that there was no need because Silvio would know what to do. This had obviously happened many times before. As they sat there removing each strand of hair, one at a time, I grabbed Jack. He was still gazing into the middle distance, glass in hand, and seemed not to have noticed that the music had stopped. We made our goodbyes, which presented some proximity issues in Ana’s case because she was still cemented to the guitar. So instead of launching into the kissing cheeks business, we patted her fondly on her available arm, and left.

We finally arrived home at around 3.30am. I was frozen to the core, but Jack looked perfectly cosy, still humming tunelessly with a beatific expression on his face. It was at that moment I resolved to be less eager about offering to be the designated driver in future.

Madame Calchan jolted me back to reality by getting up and whispering “viande”. This caught us all a little off balance. It’s true that the peanuts had taken a bit of a hammering by now, so perhaps she was going to produce a plate of meat. After all the French in our area are famously generous with their offerings of wonderful platefuls of food, so it did make sense. As she went out monsieur resumed his job as sommelier, and took up the time by replenishing any glasses that looked as though they had dropped below the three-sip level.

Madame returned quickly with a mountain of meat which she reverently placed in front of us. It was quite dark in the room now so identification was difficult. As we all dutifully peered at it with great interest I suddenly realised what we were looking at. It was a great pile of spam.

In spite of being a die-hard carnivore, if there’s a foodstuff that Jack really doesn’t care for, I’m afraid it is spam. He complains that it is full of unidentifiable substances and should have been phased out when ration books were dispensed with. Fortunately though, my husband is short in the observation skills department. I glanced nervously at him, hoping that he hadn’t realised what he was looking at, also hoping that the gin and various glasses of wines might have mellowed his attitude towards this reconstituted luncheon meat.

Madame glowed with pride as she looked down on her pink pile. Monsieur explained that she had hunted high and low for the one dish that she’d been told was a special favourite amongst ALL English people. Here was another incredibly kind and thoughtful gesture, we simply couldn’t let her down. Madame ceremoniously passed the plate around the table and refusing to partake themselves, they both watched us, expectant. They were obviously thrilled at the thought that they had managed to source such a treat for their guests.

Jack, who was fortunately seated farthest away from our hosts, had finally realised what he was looking at. He stuffed down one slice and hissed at me.

“I hate this bloody stuff, I can’t eat any more.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous, just get on with it!”

Fortunately the roar created by Silvio and Ana’s animated discussion about the meat meant that our minor exchange had gone unheard. Evidently they couldn’t find appropriate words in French to describe their views, and had resorted to Portuguese which I’m afraid, made things even louder. Meanwhile, Jack heroically stuffed down one more slice, and then patted his stomach blaming an excessive intake of peanuts on his refusal to eat any more. Terrified of upsetting our hosts, I waded through about six more slices until I too had to stop.

Time was getting on now and monsieur announced that he had one final treat in store for us – and it was something he had made himself. This always fills me with fear because the country folk around here are extremely resourceful when it comes to making use of all available body parts. Many of which end up as wonderful recipes, but the odd one is extremely questionable. But I was on completely the wrong track. Monsieur disappeared and returned with a large bottle of colourless liquid. With a huge scrunchy grin spreading across his jovial face he said,

“Here is my very special Eau de Vie de Pomme. It is twenty years old and because this is a special occasion, I want to drink it with you.”

For anyone who has been lucky enough to avoid being acquainted with this French/European speciality, I should explain. It is basically a colourless fruit (often apple or pear, but never grape) brandy that is produced by means of fermentation and double distillation. Owing to its extremely high alcohol content, it is usually served in small quantities as a digestif after a meal. Ironically translated as ‘water of life’, I am fairly convinced that excessive consumption of it would quite easily bring most people close to death. It is however, loved and revered by many, but to me it smells like lighter fuel, and probably tastes the same. Even two sips of the stuff can cause me, for some strange reason, to develop a severe earache.

Luckily monsieur chose to exchange our tumblers with thimbles, and he served up this vital fluid with evident excitement. Usually, in situations like this where I can’t cope with the contents, Jack comes in very handy. He’ll drink anything. I’ll wait for the moment when his glass is empty, and then make a discrete swap. This time I wasn’t so lucky. Monsieur announced that because the liquor was so special we must all drink it together. We went through a team ‘à votre santé’, and I took the tiniest sip, slightly burning my lips in the process. Suddenly there was an explosion from the other side of the table. Poor Ana, had got things horribly lost in translation. Thinking that we had been served with a fruit cordial she slugged the whole lot back in one go and began to choke as the liquid took hold in her oesophagus. As tears cascaded down her cheeks in her efforts to regain control, Silvio made things considerably worse by thumping her on the back. There was now a real possibility that this would cause a reappearance of the spam, which would definitely put a kibosh on the evening.

Fortunately we managed to stop Silvio from causing bodily harm, and Ana slowly regained her equilibrium. I passed her mountains of tissues which she used to good effect to deal with her mascara which had now begun to drip off her chin. Her crowns had remained in place throughout too, which was an added bonus. Monsieur looked on with great interest clearly trying to work out whether his precious liquor had hit the desired spot. He patiently waited for Ana to stop being noisy and, raising the bottle once again said, 

“Would you like me to refill your glass?”

That was our cue to go.

We had spent a lovely evening with a couple who had lived for the last 80 or so years in the same village. They were related to most of the people in that village, and knew the land like the backs of their hands. As with all the country folk we have so far met here in our little corner of France, they were simple-minded, practical folk who live by the traditional values in life. They were extraordinarily kind and generous. And, in spite of their misguided choice of meaty delicacy, I find it incredibly humbling that they should go to such lengths to ensure that we enjoyed our evening with them. And yes, despite leaving with soggy trousers and ruined shoes, we thoroughly enjoyed it.