A day trip through France

 AS far as my husband Jack is concerned, planning a trip that’s going to last more than one day constitutes both a major project and also a mental trauma. He rants and raves about the irresponsibility of leaving the animals in someone else’s care, and is convinced that they’ll all be dead as doornails by the time we get back. I, on the other hand, just think it’s his way of saying that he’d prefer to stay at home in perfect solitude, to do what he wants, when he wants.

I consider the animal situation quite differently. I do believe that most people are capable of supplying our chickens and game birds with their seed and water, and we take precautions to make sure that the forest animals are provided with ample supplies of maize. Being wild, I'm also confident that they can slum it for a few days by dragging themselves to the nearest stream for water, and substitute their usual luxury diet by nibbling on a couple of acorns or blade of grass or two while we’re away. Poor things. However, Hunter is a different matter altogether.

Hunter is a very old dog whom we found abandoned on the road last year. He has more illnesses than I can list here, including an extremely dicky heart. Nobody knows how old he is, but our vet sagely advised us that he was probably très vieux (very old), and also usée (worn out). Not being a great optimist, he also said that if Hunter travelled with us, he would probably die during our journey which would be inconvenient to deal with when we got to the passport office in Calais. Jack jumped on this and announced it clearly meant we wouldn’t be able to go. But sadly, that was out of the question. We had important appointments in England so, whatever the animal situation, or weather, we had to make tracks. Fortunately my dog-walking pals came to our rescue and immediately offered to take Hunter. For some unknown reason they adore him. Perhaps it’s his lugubrious expression that enchants them. It certainly can’t be his unfortunate penchant for eating turds or his disregard for the proper place to have a wee, i.e. outside. These unsavoury habits may have developed as a result of being kept in a kennel of hunting hounds. I couldn’t say but, judging by the state we found him in, there had clearly been little in the way of food. His traits would be a new revelation for our friends, and might well cause them to modify their opinion of him.

Brutus, our adorable, affectionate, and very sedentary cat, is a different matter altogether. We hate being away from him, but there’s no question that Brutus is not a good traveller. The annual car journey to the vet for his booster injection is about as much as he can cope with. It causes him to emit a constant low mournful yowl the moment he is put in the car, and he trembles all the way there and back. It’s just awful for the poor lad. This means that careful planning and superlative trapping skills are required whenever the dreadful vet date arrives. I’m now convinced that, instead of inserting a microchip with his ID number on it, the vet opened the wrong packet and implanted a Gregorian calendar. Brutus seems to know exactly when we’re about to take him to the vet, and becomes surprisingly elusive in those days running up to his appointment. We eventually do manage to get him into his cat box, but only after a minor scuffle and several indignant meows.

With this knowledge, we couldn’t possibly subject our fat feline to the agonies of travelling in a car for 14 hours, so alternative arrangements had to be made. I called on another friend and organised for him to be fed and watered. However, apart from Jack and me, Brutus hates all humans, even those who are regular visitors. He tolerates the dogs, but only his own terms, and he still energetically hisses at Hunter – a futile exercise since Hunter is deaf and almost blind. Such is my sensitivity about Brutus that I found myself writing out a menu with the precise times when his food should be served. I included the varieties of food he likes, really likes, and LOVES. Not forgetting the special feed dishes he prefers (which must always be clean), failing which he might be put out, and refuse to eat his meal. In spite of his ample girth, I would worry intensely if such a situation arose. Our poor friend charged with the responsibility of dealing with this series of challenges looked quite mystified by the time I’d finished issuing all my instructions. Possibly this level of attention to cat-care is not common in our part of France.

With most of the menagerie sorted out, this just left our other dogs, Aby and Max. Our two young Australian Shepherd dogs are fully chipped and passported, and they would come with us.

Jack made his usual pre-voyage engineer-type preparations by stripping out the car and making it battle-ready. The rear seats were removed, bungees placed strategically on newly discovered hooks and his tool box was placed in the footwell. This immensely large, oily lump is a constant travel companion of ours. I’d prefer to be without it, but it has come in useful on previous occasions, so I decided not to complain about my reduced space allowance. I, in turn, took the dogs to the vet to have their pre-travel check and make sure that their passports passed muster. We’ve had problems with the Eurotunnel Pet Passport officials in the past, and I can tell you that after 12 hours of hard slog at the wheel, it’s no joke being told that we are not allowed to continue because of a mistake in the documentation. With this in mind I, and two vets, scrutinised both passports to make sure that every detail was perfectly correct. As luck would have it, Dr. Puiffe, with a triumphant whoop stabbed an offending open space on a page. He had found a carefully concealed omission. With some level of gravity he announced that we had failed to fill in the box which should have Aby’s name on it. What a lifesaver! This was certainly good practice for our interview with the officials in Calais. I carefully scribed her three-letter name, and left with our dogs covered in anti-bug chemicals and belching gently with the after-effects of their special worming tablet.

We got up nice and early on the day of our departure. We’d packed the night before so all that was needed was to pop in a couple of fresh snacks, load the dogs, and off we’d go. I gave Brutus a last squeeze, a dewy-eyed glance, and left him snuggled up and purring in his usual spot on the bed.

The first unanticipated challenge came from the dogs. They normally associate being in the car with a trip to their doggy pals, so from the moment the engine was switched on, they howled like banshees. Jack tolerated this for about, ooh, 30 seconds before snapping, “For crying out loud sort your bloody dogs out would you? If they carry on like this much longer we’re going back home!”

Strange how at times like this the miscreant animal in question instantly becomes my sole property, but on this occasion I chose not to remind him of the rules concerning joint ownership. Happily all it took was a couple of curt words, and Max settled down to a snooze. Aby, on the other hand was completely confused. The poor girl sat erect, trembling slightly, and looked pensively out of the window for her canine mates.

We commenced our journey and mercifully hadn’t gone far when the most awful thought occurred to me. I realised that I’d forgotten my kindle. There are some situations in life where one must throw all caution to the wind and do the right thing. My dreadful discovery presented one of them.

“Darling we have to go back home.”

“Ah good, you’ve finally seen sense.”

“No! Not to abandon the trip! I’ve forgotten my kindle.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“I know, me neither. I think it was because I was so worried about leaving Brutus and…”

“That wasn’t what I meant. You seriously don’t mean that we have to go all the way back just because you haven’t brought your kindle?”

“Well yes, of course.”

“For crying out loud woman, can’t you read a magazine or something?”

“Oh darling I can’t possibly be without my kindle for five nights. No, sorry, we’ll just have to go back and get it.”

So with many grumps and moans from the driver, about the agonies of being married to a forgetful woman, we drove back to the house. I sprinted in to collect my cherished possession, and took care to give Brutus another squeeze on my way back out.

We were heading towards Calais and the Eurotunnel. Normally we would take the central route which entails using part of the périphérique (beltway) in Paris, but we decided against it this time. This was because the French have introduced a new and intriguing challenge to reduce usage on this busy road system. Although Jack was totally clued-up as usual, I didn’t know what was going on, so read up on it. Normally in situations like this the French bureaucrats are the cause of the complications, but not this time. It seems that noxious smog was to blame. Still confused, I read an article published by the Guardian newspaper. It reported:

“Emergency measures introduced in Paris to halve the number of vehicles on the roads after noxious smog descended on the French capital have been hailed as a success…”

Police said these measures had reduced traffic jams in and around Paris by up to 40% and already 2,800 drivers had been stopped and given on-the-spot fines of €22 (£16) for flouting the regulations. What a brilliant coup for the French exchequer, I thought, but why so many offenders? Were the rules complicated, or were they just being French? I read on to discover it might be a bit of both. It seems that only “clean” cars, or those with the correct number plates (even on even days, odd on others), or vehicles carrying more than three people have been permitted to enter Paris and its 22 surrounding areas. Vehicles were also ordered to travel at a maximum 20kph in the city. To manage all this, the article reported:

“An estimated 750 police officers were dispatched from 5.30am onwards to about 100 busy roads and junctions to hand out fines to those who ignored the measures.”

I was intrigued by this information. To begin with I wasn’t too sure what a ‘clean’ car was. But I feared that with our lake-loving dogs, ours might never qualify. The fact of having an ‘uneven number plate’ also gave cause for concern. I then briefly considered whether two humans and two dogs might count as three occupants. I couldn’t be at all sure about that one. But with the smog problem being so severe that, according to the Guardian:

“It nearly obscured the Eiffel Tower, and caused Paris to be labelled as the most polluted city in the world, even worse than Shanghai.”

Obviously something had to be done. And apparently it worked. With a combined effort from the police fines, and motorists who understood the number plate challenge, the clouds apparently disappeared. The article ended with a happy comment from someone living in the city:

“ ‘Goodness, it’s calm this morning. What a difference.’ said Rosa, a concierge sweeping the front of a building near Boulevard Saint-Martin. ‘I can breathe,’ she added.”  

Always handy to be able to breathe.

The upshot of this was that, even though we would not normally go into the centre, Jack had already declared Paris to be ‘off-limits’ and our route would follow the west side of the country via Bordeaux.

Our first few hours of driving were uneventful. As usual Jack entertained himself by using his mechanical engineering skills and prodding all buttons in reach, checking plastic casings, and slewing the car from side to side on the road to make sure the vehicle tracking was in order. The weather was miserable with dull grey clouds covering the skies, and a mist of fine rain which dampened the lush spring meadows. There was barely a soul about, though, and fewer still on the autoroute. This cheered Jack up immensely, although he took care to remind me on several occasions, that we should savour this period of peaceful motoring, because it would assuredly all go downhill the moment we set tyre on English soil. And it did.

Jack then set the cruise control system to fix our speed and, with no possibility of further conversation in the offing, I decided to try and grab a nap. I reclined my seat (only a little way because the metal cask full of spanners directly behind prevented much movement), and nestled into my beanbag pillow. The next few days in England were going to be action packed, so now was the time to relax and make mental lists of the things that needed to be done. My nap didn’t last long.

It seemed like only seconds had passed when I was jarred awake by much shouting and swearing from Jack.

“Bloody hell! It’s just like being in England.”

“Whatever is the matter?” I asked glancing nervously back at the dogs to make sure they hadn’t been too frightened by the commotion. Aby was still looking out of the window for her friends and Max had now woken up and was looking for someone to lick.

“Can you believe it?” continued Jack. “I’ve been flashed by a blasted speed camera!” he fumed staring accusingly at me, then added “I mean, what’s their point? There isn’t a bloody soul on the road, but now we’re going to contribute even more to the French fiscal deficit with a speeding fine. It all started with the Dutch. That’s where the Gatsometer first appeared. Then, of course, it was us in the UK that seized the opportunity to turn it into a million pound revenue opportunity. But, who would believe that the French would follow suit, and submit themselves to this level of civil indignity. Do you remember the good old days when we’d be driving down the autoroute at 150kph, and get overtaken by one of those little corrugated iron Citroen vans?”

“They haven’t followed suit darling. There are nowhere near as many cameras here.”

“That’s true I suppose. Later today we’ll be on the M25 with all sorts of electronics telling us what the new speed limit is, despite the fact there’s not a hope in hell of achieving anything resembling that speed.”

“And also darling, they normally have massive signs here about 300 metres before the camera.”

“Yes they do. But this time they’ve been sneaky. When the sign says automatique, it means a permanent camera. When it says frequent, it means hand-held cameras in police cars. The sign back then said frequent, so I was looking for a policeman.”

This was in danger of turning into a political rant. We still had a very long way to go – it definitely needed to be nipped in the bud.

“Hang on a minute darling, I thought you’d set the autopilot system. Presumably you set it at a sensible level. Are you sure it was our car that was flashed by the speed camera?” The desired effect was instant.

“Ah, well, yes I did. But there weren’t any other cars on the road, so I thought we’d make up a bit of time by getting a move on. I hadn’t bargained on there being a sneaky and misleading sign to trap me. Anyway, you’ve snored your way past Bordeaux, and we’re well on the way to Poitiers, so how about handing me something to eat.”

The thing about having a big old car with a diesel fuel tank the size of an elephant is that it never seems to need filling up. This is good for economic motoring, but bad for human bladders, well mine anyway. Before long I knew a pit stop was necessary, so I used the dogs as an excuse to stop somewhere convenient. Max was asleep with one eye open, and poor Aby was still sitting bolt upright staring out of the window, trembling every now and again. This supported my theory admirably. Jack moaned at the proposition, but saw the sense in avoiding a water-logged car, and pulled into the next available aire. Unlike the busy service stations, these are more of a rural stopover, particularly favoured by the motorhome community, sleepy truck drivers, and dog owners. Amenities are usually limited, but toilets are always provided. Unfortunately our stop coincided with a deterioration in the weather. It was pouring.

With the dogs’ needs at the forefront of my mind I jumped out, donned my jacket and hat, and splashed to the rear of the car. Luckily they already had their collars on and all I needed to do was to attach the extendable leads. Now, I should have been prepared for what came next, but it simply hadn’t occurred to me. The dogs had apparently decided that the moment had finally arrived – they were going for a country walk! Such was their state of excitement that it took ages to secure the clips. Unfortunately, in the melee, I hadn’t engaged the brake system on the extendable leads so when I opened the door they exploded out of the back and shot off towards the bank. Terrified of letting go, I clung on for dear life as the leads maxed-out to their full length. This caused me to look like an eccentric water-skier as I was towed up the hill by our extremely excited dogs, who were now hell-bent on out-racing one another. This could only end in tears.

I accept that my handling of the situation may not have constituted a perfect demonstration in dog obedience. Equally, I felt Jack’s comments about controlling the ‘bloody animals before you get impaled on a twig’ from the comfort of the car park, were uncalled for. Fortunately though, there was a soft, dense hedge that subdued our exuberant animals, and provided a nice cushioned bumper for me. They then spent one or two moments scuffling around while I collected myself. Regrettably, Aby then saw a car pull in. Being of an extremely sociable variety, both dogs abruptly stopped what they were doing, and before I could issue a command, whizzed off back down the bank to perform a canine ‘meet and greet’. I’d barely caught my breath let alone connected the blasted brakes on the extendable leads before I was propelled back down after them, ploughing a furrow with my heels as I fought to regain control of the unruly mutts. I finally reeled them in, apologised to the car owners for the possibly unwanted licks, and poured the dogs back into the car. With calm restored, I then scurried off to the dames to use the facilities, and repair my wounded pride. As we set off I had to endure Jack’s usual musings about the ineptitude of my dog-control tactics, and I decided, on this occasion, it would be fruitless to respond with any form of brilliant defence. Largely because there wasn’t one.

With Jack still at the wheel we continued past Poitiers and through Tours, which stands on the lower reaches of the river Loire. This is known as the ‘Garden of France’ (Le Jardin de la France) because of the many parks located within the city. Well worth a visit, that’s for sure, but not for us, and possibly for anyone on that day. The wind was blowing a gale, and rain was now lashing down as we passed over the magnificent river which made this, usually beautiful, view very difficult to see at all.

The fuel indicator eventually hiccupped and dropped a fraction, enough for Jack to decide we needed to fill-up. He fought the buffeting car into a service station and we performed a speedy re-fuel and refreshment stop. It was my turn to take the wheel. We headed towards Le Mans, today most famed for the sports motorcar endurance race, 24 Hours of Le Mans. This area between Tours and Rouen is liberally peppered with wind turbines. Looking like toy windmills for giants. They line the autoroute in garish metallic clumps, providing a visual clue about the prevailing weather conditions. I’m not sure whether I like them or not but I certainly couldn’t spend time deliberating that small point. The weather was getting much worse now. The windscreen wipers swept our screen in vain, and the car was rocked from side to side by vicious gusts. In fact the conditions were so poor that they caused Jack to comment, “Honestly it’s impossible to get even a wink of sleep with you at the wheel, can you try and keep the car on the road please?”  But I think he knew that it was seriously tough going so, instead of dozing, he fiddled with the Satnav controls, pretending to adjust our onward route towards Calais.

For some mysterious reason, much of the autoroute here was reduced to one lane. Plastic cones, mostly in place, others having been blown to non-sensible places, identified the permitted zones for motorists. But there was no other evidence of activity or works. Luckily there were very few other motorists on the road, so our progress wasn’t hampered beyond a reduced speed limit, which I adhered to with great smugness. I was concentrating so hard on missing the chicane of misplaced cones, that I hadn’t realised that Satnav lady was taking us off our normal route through Rouen. Suddenly I was directed onto what can only be described as an elderly ‘B’ road. This took us along the banks of what I suppose must be the river Seine. On my left I could just spot a sad looking river cruise boat valiantly fighting its way through the waves, with windows tightly shut but no sign of passengers. To our left we were both surprised by what we saw. It looked like we had driven into a village in Switzerland. The houses, rather like our road, were tiny and looked just like chalets with sloping roofs and wood cladding. Interesting as this all was, we were on a mission and I was getting concerned that we might be heading in the wrong direction.  Jack occupied himself by stabbing more buttons on the Satnav system, and accidentally shutting it down altogether on one or two occasions. But he decided that actually all was well. We eventually emerged from our mystery tour, and re-connected with our customary route through the outskirts of Rouen. We’ve never visited this city, but the glimpses one gets of the magnificent cathedral from the bypass, cause me to put it on our list of ‘must-visit’ locations.

We’d been on the road for nearly ten hours now, and the signs for the Eurotunnel came as a welcome sight. We drove into the precincts of the pet passport office. Weather conditions had been upgraded to ‘appalling’ and tensions were rising, as they always do, when we arrive here. Jack did nothing to calm my administrative nerves. “Right, let’s hope you and your vet pals haven’t messed up the documents this time. I’ll bring in the dogs while you start conning the officials into letting us on that train – which, by the way, is about to leave.” I fumbled around for the dogs’ passports and assorted papers, and forged through the driving wind and rain that lashed the carpark, hanging on to everything for grim death in case an indispensable sheet of information was whipped from my hand and lost forever.

Luckily we were the only customers in the pet passport office and our documents were taken by a nice efficient-looking officer. As she was thumbing conscientiously through each page the door was thrown open and in burst a dripping wet Jack looking as thunderous as the weather, with our two bouncing beauties. The girl then handed over the microchip scanner, which happily bleeped at the right times on the dogs’ necks, which was a great relief to everyone concerned. Now it could officially be confirmed that we had in fact driven through France with the correct dogs. She replaced her wand in its nice box on the counter. I genuinely thought we were home and dry when she cried, “Aha, a problem with your papers I am afraid madame.” I couldn’t even look at Jack. I was terrified. It really couldn’t be possible, could it? The thought of, once again, being prevented from boarding the train because of a paperwork mistake, was just too much to contemplate. There was an audible groan behind me followed by a bang. Jack had left the building.

“Um what’s the problem?” I quailed.

“I am afraid that you have not written in the date when the microchip was implanted madame. This is against the rules. Do you have the original certificate? This will give you the date. If you do not have it, then I am sorry, but I cannot let you through.”  Thank goodness for my satchel! Fortunately where travel with our pets is concerned I carry around a satchel-full of their documents. I stuffed my hand in and produced a wad of likely looking certificates. “Bravo madame, here it is, now there is no problem” said the angelic officer with a smile, “but the box in the passport must be filled.” I could have fainted with relief.

“Oh lovely, that’s super. Could you fill it in for me please, I don’t have a pen with me.”

“Oh non madame, this is forbidden, you must complete the form yourself. Here, you may use my pen.”  

“It’s just the date, right?”

“Yes, just the date madame.”

Choosing not to question the special nature of my date filling-in capabilities compared to hers, I thanked my lucky stars that this was the only problem. The deed was done and we were waved off by those lovely, lovely, officials and onto the train.

That was it. We had made it unscathed through France. We just had the final leg in England to go, which we reckoned would take a further three hours, or five depending on the traffic, which was an absolute certainty acc

ording to my pessimistic driver.

The dogs were fascinated by the train, but otherwise fine. Even Aby had stopped trembling. Jack settled back in the seat, grabbed a beanbag cushion and announced that he was going to have a well-earned nap. “And remind me” he added, “never to allow you to drive in breezy conditions again. You’re a complete death trap!” With that he was soon snoring.  I sat back, thrilled to have passed the pet passport challenge and was just about to join Jack in a nap when I had a sudden moment of tension. Poor Brutus! What if his food dish hadn’t been washed?

A Day at the Salon

With an imminent trip to the UK that would involve mixing with humans, rather than just our usual animals, I decided to take a proper look at myself in the mirror, to make sure that everything was in order. But it wasn’t. It was all rather desperate and quite a shock. The first point to notice was that I’d applied mascara to one set of eyelashes but not the other. There was little improvement elsewhere.

Doubtless the reason for this avant-garde look was because I’d been interrupted by an emergency mouse situation in our bedroom that morning. Brutus, our portly cat, had arrived triumphant with his latest trophy and dropped it at my feet. Unfortunately this dubious breakfast gift was still extremely alive, and scampered off towards the skirting boards. On hearing the pitter-patter of tiny rodent feet and Brutus lumbering after it, Aby and Max, our two Australian Shepherds thundered upstairs to join in the pursuit. The resulting affray involved Max knocking over three chairs and squashing Brutus, and Aby bashing her nose on a hot radiator. The mouse, on the other hand, had a successful morning and got clean away. So, rather than reducing the home’s rodent population Brutus, once again, had increased it. Not an unusual occurrence, but it did explain my lack of attention to cosmetic detail.

Then I looked at my hair. What a horror! I can usually fix the facial anomalies, but not the hair, so something would have to be done. Normally Jack, my husband, is quite helpful in these situations saying something supportive like, “Darling, I notice you’ve dyed your roots grey again. That must involve a lot of skill.” It’s just his subtle way of saying, “Good Lord your hair looks terrible, go and get it sorted out.” I’ve learnt to cope with his whimsical approach, and those words are my prompt to call Réne, my hairdresser. However, this time Jack had let me down. He hadn’t spotted the gradual decline of my hairstyle and colour. In any event, it was clear that something had to be done; the skill of Réne was required.

Réne used to be a rather famous hairdresser in Nice. Or so he tells me. He spent much of his time in Provence creating coiffure masterpieces for extremely rich Russian ladies who had a penchant for ‘big hair’, which included wigs and extensions. He plied his trade successfully for several years, building enormous bouffant styles, adding a splash of colour where required, and always enveloping the end result in clouds of concrete-hold spray. However, in spite of the high rates, and generous tips from grateful Slavic clients, the cost of living became too challenging, so he decided to move to a more affordable part of the country.

Réne made the right decision by moving to our part of the Midi Pyrénées in terms of the economics, but I have my doubts that his creative artistry will ever be tested in the same way here. For example, the couture ‘beehive’ style, so favoured by the Russian beauties of Provence, would be somewhat incongruous to us country folk. Our version is likely to include real creatures where, fresh from a day’s travail in the orchards and meadows, it’s fair to say that that the odd critter can become accidentally entangled in one’s locks. With a bucolic lifestyle that involves the tending of farm animals and heady trips to the market, we have no need for sophistication. Rather, the demands for one’s hairdo in these situations are short (ideally), neat (if possible) styles that can be trapped by a scarf or cap. Poor Réne. It’s a bit like asking Rachmaninov to play “Chopsticks.”

However there is one area where, as far as I’m concerned, Réne can exercise all of his skills, and that’s on the application of colour.

I’m saddled with a head of unfortunate wispy hair that, at best, can be described as ‘mousey’ in colour. Neither a lustrous brown nor a radiant blonde, it is bleakly uninteresting. To make matters worse, as I have become older several strands of whitish-grey have started to appear, which has resulted in a down-grading of the shade to a somewhat dire ‘salt n’ pepper’. Over the years I have been to numerous hairdressers to have it coloured, but often with decidedly dodgy results. Favouring ‘streaks’ rather than ‘full head’ coverage, I’ve watched the ‘specialists’ at work, slogging away with rolls of bacofoil binding up locks of hair with dubious colours. The outcome has been much expenditure by me, with often highly questionable results.

I have regularly come away with colours that ranged from brassy blonde to purple-black, and once it had a distinctly pink tinge. Although, in that instance the hairdresser told me that it was really red, and that I was getting mixed up because I was colour-blind. But then I hadn't asked for red, or pink. 

So you can imagine my excitement when I came across Réne, who turned out to be an expert ‘colour technician’. For years now he has saved me from my natural shades, transforming them into an acceptable mix of dark-blondish which has given me a nice natural look. So, in need of a quick fix, I reached for the phone to make my appointment at the new salon he had recently moved to. Its name is ‘Paul Lacoste’.

With only a window of one day to get my hair revived and a ton of things still to do, I asked the receptionist for an early appointment to make sure I had Réne’s undivided attention. Her response was not what I wanted to hear.

Receptionist:  “Madame I am sorry but it is not possible to book an appointment. You must come and wait your turn.”

Me:  “Oh dear, but why? I have always been able to make an appointment before.”

Receptionist:  “Not here madame, our clients always have to come and wait their turn. This way we do not waste any time if ladies do not arrive for their appointments.”

The girl did have a point. It was, after all, the first time I’d been to this new salon, and I hadn’t been aware of their irritating system. I tried again.

Me:  “Right, well never mind. Could you please tell me when Réne starts work so I can come in early to see him? I need to have my hair cut and coloured.”

Receptionist:  “Réne madame? I am sorry we do not have a Réne working here.”

Me:  “Yes, actually you do, he started work with you last month.”

There was an abrupt silence on the other end of the phone which was interrupted by a furious ruffling of papers then:

Receptionist:  “Ah yes, but no madame you cannot.”

Me:  “But why not?”

Receptionist:  “Because he is on holiday for two weeks madame.”

Momentary floored by this bombshell, and with no time at all to make other arrangements, I took my heart into my hands.

Me:  “Okay, well can you tell me when Monsieur Lacoste starts work please? I will try to have an appointment with him instead.”

Receptionist:  “We do not have a Monsieur Lacoste working here madame.”

This was becoming tedious.

Me:  “But he is the owner of the salon isn’t he?”

Receptionist:  “Ah no madame, haha! There are many salons with this name. Perhaps you want Michael (which sounded like Mick-I-L). He can help you. He begins work at 9.00am.”

Me: “Right, very good, I’ll be there early.”

And so, with great trepidation, I arrived outside the salon bright and early for my non-appointment. It was with a total unknown, and I hoped against hope that I wouldn’t come out with a head of purple hair.

There was only one man with a pair of scissors in his hand so I concluded that it must be Mick-I-L. First impressions were somewhat disconcerting. It wasn’t the fact that he was dressed top-to-toe in black that worried me; it was his own hairstyle. He was completely shaven either side of his head, leaving a thick band of dark brown hair which ran from front to back. This section was rather long and pointy at the top, and obvious care had been taken to make sure that it lay exactly as intended. I felt it probably needed regular care and attention. As he turned his face towards me, his Mohican strip bouncing gently, my eye was then drawn to his moustache. In any other country I might have ventured to suggest that it was a little on the large side, primarily because it flared out either side of his nose like flippers. But, here in France, it would undoubtedly be considered a magnificent feat of facial hair growth. It was clear that Mick-I-L was extremely proud of it.

Luckily he was nearly ready for me and I watched nervously as he splashed a few more splodges of extra brown hair dye on a lady who had clearly asked for her ears to be coloured with the same tint. I made a mental note to for ask mine to be left out. Mick-I-L then set an egg timer, popped it onto his client’s lap and floated across the room towards me, gesturing at a vacant chair.

I always find the conversation with one’s hairdresser about styles and colour an uncomfortable one. Firstly you have to stare at yourself in the mirror, a pastime that I generally prefer to avoid. Then you have to find new and inventive words to describe the impossible. My hair is never ever going to look as I would wish, so I always end up saying things like, “I know it’s not possible to….but…” or, “Could you try to make it look something like….” These tricky considerations are even harder to convey in French. I thought about pulling out a photograph of a beauty with a fabulous hairstyle that I thought would suit me, but I decided not to because of the incident that followed the last time I'd tried. The stylist had barely suppressed a guffaw and then proceeded to give me 16 or so reasons why this couldn’t ever be possible. So, instead, I bumbled away in French attempting to explain what needed to be done with the cut and colour.

The first problem was that while Mick-I-L made a play at being interested in what I was saying, he was actually staring adoringly at himself in the mirror. Part of me was impressed by this because he was able to waft his comb in my general direction without poking me in the eye, as he described the wonderful things he was about to do. He even managed to lift a lock or two of my hair as he talked about colour, but I think we both knew that he was simply killing time before the next moment of his own personal grooming was due.

Luckily for me, Réne had a file for each of his clients, so after several fruitless goes at telling Mick-I-L my name I grabbed a pen and paper and wrote it down for him. Furnished with this information he flounced off to his cabinet and produced a sheet of paper containing a list that looked to me like a chemistry experiment. Apparently colours come in codes these days, and mine was on it. After the swiftest of glances at my hair Mick-I-L sucked his teeth and decided that I must have a ‘full head’ and shot off to a back room to prepare his equipment. This gave me the opportunity to have a quick look around the salon. I was alarmed to see that the lady who was having colour applied when I arrived now had nut-brown ears, and the place was filling up rapidly. With no other stylist in evidence, and a zero tolerance attitude towards the making of appointments, I feared that we may end up with customer chaos.

Mick-I-L eventually trundled back, pushing a trolley laden with paint pots, and a suspiciously stiff-looking Mohican strip. Then, with commendable dexterity, he managed to continue to stare fixedly at himself, whilst simultaneously applying two different chemicals to my hair, one lock at a time.

There were three reasons why this took an inordinately long time to complete. First, every time a new client came in Mick-I-L downed tools and said ‘Bonjour’, as we all did. This is customary in our part of France and one of the things we love about living here, although on this particular occasion it was a nicety I could have done without. The next challenge was that by the time he was halfway through painting my hair, he had racked up three more clients. This meant he had to flip between each of us attempting to attend to each customer’s needs without getting us mixed up. At this stage I still hadn’t seen lady number one at the basins and felt sure her hair must be dreadfully dark by now. But then, I mused, perhaps she liked the roast-chestnut-cum-teak look.

The final problem involved the cotton wool. Mick-I-L’s favoured method of hair colouring was to use rolls of cling film to trap each painted tress, separated by a sausage of cotton wool. Unfortunately his cotton wool sausage-making capacity was rather limited which meant he had to make frequent trips back to the paint room for further supplies. Each time he re-appeared his hair looked extra perky leading me to suspect that it was all an excuse to re-peak his pride and joy.

Nearly two hours later Mick-I-L announced to himself in the mirror that the job was done and would I like to read a magazine. By this stage I was mentally exhausted and would have preferred a nap, but I grabbed a copy of Belle Santé (Good Health) wishing that I felt the same.

Mid-morning came and went and I was still cooking. The salon had now transformed into a mine-field with timers detonating on clients’ laps. This caused Mick-I-L’s Mohican to wobble as he exploded in a flurry of movement, flying between each person, punching the ‘off’ button on their laps. Wary of this manoeuvre, I’d taken the precaution of putting mine on the ledge in front of me, hoping that he wouldn’t head-butt the mirror in his enthusiasm to extinguish the ping. After nearly two hours of this, and several re-timings, I was strongly considering taking the colour off myself when Mick-I-L spun across the room with somebody else’s hairdryer in his hand and announced that I was done. Melanie (the hair washing girl) was instructed to wash my hair and I rose stiffly to join her at the basins.

As one might expect, with so many cotton wool sausages in my hair and enough cling film to cover a double bed, it took a while to remove it all. Melanie then proceeded to shampoo my hair, not once but three times. Nothing if not thorough I thought. Then I heard Mick-I-L shout from across the room. Melanie loomed over my nostrils and said, “Massage madame.” This came out more as an instruction than a question so I nodded with grace, hoping my neck could stand the backward bent position that is favoured in most hair salons, and the Tower of London. I needn’t have worried. For the next ten minutes Melanie proceeded to treat me to the most wonderful massage I have ever had. The clamouring sounds of pings and dings coming from the various timers just faded into the background, and my frustration melted away as I luxuriated in this soporific experience. She finally finished, and I sat there dreamily, ready to accept anything that came my way. I peered lazily across to Mick-I-L who was zipping between even more clients, perhaps a little less dapper now, nevertheless still filled with enthusiasm. Then I saw lady number one at the till and to my happy surprise realised that her hair looked very nice indeed. Even her ears had been restored to their normal colour. But the dings continued to sound relentlessly and I feared that Mick-I-L was beginning to show signs of strain. With scissors still flashing around with commendable speed it seemed, however, that there hadn’t been any recent requests for colour. Mick-I-L’s Mohican was beginning to sag.

I was just recovering from my dopey state when he looked towards me and shrieked, “Massage!” I felt he couldn’t mean me but wasn’t easily able to move my now U-shaped neck to see if I had company at the basins. Mick-I-L bounded up behind me grabbed my head, slapped more slippery stuff on my hair and began another massage. I made a feeble attempt at reminding him that I’d already had one, but ended up mumbling unintelligibly as the relaxing movement of this de-stressing manipulation overcame me.

A further ten minutes later and Mick-I-L announced that it was now time to cut and dry my hair. By this time I was so floppy I could barely move. Incapable of speech, and with all previous thoughts of time wasting completely forgotten, I slithered off the chair and staggered back to my seat.

Time really was getting on now, and even Mick-I-L had finally realised that he needed to crack on with things. With a mastery of multi-tasking genius he managed to say his ‘Bonjours’ and ‘Au revoirs’ to other clients whilst simultaneously cutting my hair, glancing worriedly at his Mohican and checking his moustache. He also found time to give me a lecture on the type of shampoo and conditioner I must use which was parfait for damaged, brittle hair. How kind.

I finally left the salon a little after 4.00pm. Remarkably, my new colour looked great, and I was very pleased with the style he had cut. How he had managed all this whilst mainly looking at his own hair, rather than mine, I’ll never know. But I was very grateful. And after all that time and effort did my husband notice? Not a chance!

Dogs on Tour

Due to unforseen canine circumstances, the next episodes of our exploits in France will have to wait until next week. And why? Because the dogs have decided to take us on holiday. Many apologies, but please rest assured that normal service will be resumed next week.

A minor incident at La Poste

On the whole the French postal system (La Poste) is one of the few public services in France that does have a good reputation. Or at least that’s what I thought. I did a little research on the subject and found that this might need to be qualified somewhat. Here’s what I learnt from scanning several websites:

‘Post offices emblazoned with dashing bright yellow La Poste signs are generally open 9:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. Monday to Friday, and 9:00 a.m. to noon on Saturday.’

 But then I read:

‘Don’t depend on these hours!’

In our experience this is a sensible caveat. It’s true that in smaller towns and villages the post offices may close earlier and, often unexpectedly, for lunch. This can leave customers milling around confused, undecided on whether to join the post office workers for an extra-long lunch, or give up and come back another day.

If one is lucky enough to chance upon an open post office, a further thorn in the side comes in the form of waiting times. I referred back to my research which states that:

‘In Paris the main post office is open 24 hours.’ (Bravo!) 

Equally, clients are advised to:

‘Avoid lunch hours and late afternoon, when office workers are dealing with business customers who create endless lines.’

In the countryside we don’t have quite so much inconvenience from business traffic, but we do have the local tittle-tattle to deal with. Particularly on Mondays, the priority is always focused on getting up to speed on births, deaths, the weather and any seasonal bugs that might be trying to incapacitate the population.  In a rural environment, where time pressures are not quite the same as the trading floor of the London Stock Exchange, the inevitable periods of unnecessary waiting are generally regarded as a feature of local life. The cheery internet advice is to try to view this minor inconvenience as an opportunity:

‘Waiting times are sometimes necessary (without a seat) on busy days. Nevertheless, the queues provide everyone with plenty of chances to gossip!’

The one (and only) time I sent my husband, Jack, to the post office with a parcel he returned looking as though he had lost the will to live.  Apparently this was due to “being there longer than it would take to do a full 15,000 mile car service,” and the added trauma of “being drawn into chatter that should have been reserved for a tabloid’s agony aunt.”

A further claim to fame is that France has one of the highest number of post boxes of any country in the world. This is marvellous, if one could only manage to put the intended mail item into them. There are two challenges that face the would-be sender. First, the post box is usually very small, so anything other than an ultra-slim standard-sized envelope or postcard simply won’t go in without a fight. The other problem is that rural post boxes are often already stuffed full, so one ends up spending an inordinate amount of time trying to thread the end of the envelope between a stack of others, or turning it into a sausage and spearing it down one side. These techniques can work, but at a cost to the envelope which, I dare say, looks fairly tattered by the time it reaches its destination.

In a typically French way La Poste offers clear guidelines on how to create a successfully addressed envelope, i.e. one that might end up being delivered. These rules forbid the use of commas in the address, and clearly define the proper use of upper and lower case characters. These well-known rules also explain why I occasionally see our post lady looking askance at some of the post we receive from England.

So, to give your French mail the best chances of reaching its destination, just follow these tips:

1. Try to use special envelopes with an address box for your handwritten letters.

2. Use six lines maximum to write the address, with a maximum of 38 characters per line.

3. Never put a comma, full stop, apostrophe, underline or dash anywhere in the address.

4. On the final line put the postcode before the name of the town or city and always use capitals, for the name. Write the five numbers of the postcode very distinctly. If you are not sure what the postcode is, then ask at your local post office. Failure to do this may result in your envelope getting delayed or lost.

5. Write your own address on the back flap of the envelope near the top. But, be sure to mark it expéditeur (sender), otherwise, it could end in tears.

This latter point I learnt to my cost when, on one occasion I dutifully entered my address in neat, tiny letters on the back of my envelope and carefully eased it into the box. Two days later my letter re-appeared in our post box. This was foxing. The destination address was correct, so I took it to the local post office to ask where I had gone wrong. After a moment of scrutiny, and with magnificent disdain, monsieur frisbee’ed my envelope back to me with the obvious explanation. I had failed to write expéditeur next to the return address, so how could La Poste possibly be expected to know which address to use?

La Poste also prides itself on processing and delivering parcels efficiently. And now, it seems, inventively. It is currently considering the use of drones to enhance the service normally undertaken by humans. I read up on this too:

‘Tests, conducted recently in collaboration with the company Atechsys at La Poste’s special test site in the Var, southern France, used a six-propeller drone able to carry loads of up to 16 inches by 12 inches by eight inches in size and weighing up to nine pounds in all weathers and terrains within a 12-mile radius. (Note the typical precision in the parcel dimension and weight.) The idea is to be able to fly the drones in remote areas or places difficult to reach by car – up very steep roads, down hillsides and areas with few roads and over water.’

According to a local newspaper, the subsidiary testing this service, Express Internationale GeoPost, seems to be happy with the results. Geopost reports, ‘We now know that we can reach isolated zones very rapidly.’ Furthermore, ‘It’s very interesting, notably for urgent medical needs or blood deliveries,’ it said.

Although this does seem to be an excellent idea, in theory, I would have severe concerns about the survival of such an object in our rural community. Hunting is a passion here. Most anything with fur or feathers (unless it has a sign ‘cat’, ‘dog’, ‘farm animal’, or ‘neighbour’ stuck on its back) is fair game. I certainly wouldn’t put it past one or two of the more mature, less keen-sighted, amongst our shooting fraternity to accidentally blast one out of the sky with his 12 bore.

Whilst the parcel service provided by La Poste may be good, and quite similar to the UK, the quality of contract delivery companies can be extremely varied. When we first moved to our house, which admittedly is in the depths of the country, the only person we could rely upon completely was our trusty post lady. She would, without fail and despite a worn-out hip, stride up to our door and present our packages with great aplomb, and some drama. Deliveries from the other service companies were different, and usually preceded by a telephone call saying, “How do I find your house?” What followed would be a lengthy, but generally unproductive, description of how to get from where they were, to where we are. And, in most cases, the end result was that they never actually arrived, or gave up and told us to meet them at the local Mairie (town hall) where we could collect the parcel ourselves. I think the technical term for this might be ‘couldn’t be bothered.’

Nowadays virtually all the delivery drivers know where we are, and we rarely have to visit the Mairie to collect our deliveries. However, and again much like the UK, it appears that anything marked ‘fragile’ means it must be thrown underarm and stored underneath heavier items for stability and safekeeping (crushed).

In the case of one particular firm, who mostly handle our dog food orders, I’m convinced that they throw our parcels out of the van’s window as they drive past. This leaves us, and the dogs, dealing with the aftermath. Happy dogs playing 'find the dried pigs' ears, dental chews and croquettes games', and unhappy customers trying to salvage what's left of the ensuing canine-related carnage.  On several occasions I have been sorely tempted to offer the delivery drivers a list of ‘do’s and don’ts’ regarding the careful handling of packages, but I’ve so far failed to zip out there quickly enough to intercept them. Jack’s position on the matter, probably due to spending too much time in the States, is to tip them.  That way they’ll always arrive at the door with a pristine parcel and an expression of eager anticipation.  All very well but, in the case of this particular firm, I still have to catch them to start the process.

But it is on the subject of sending parcels that I have encountered the most recent difficulties. I took three nicely wrapped packages to our local La Poste to be despatched to overseas destinations. I’m always a little anxious about doing this job because, apart from anything else, I have great trouble in actually getting in. The doors are securely locked, and entry is activated by the client pressing a nifty little button which alerts the post master, who then releases the lock. Seems simple? Well it isn’t.  I can spend quite a long time prodding and pressing to no avail, and then ending up waving pathetically at the post master in my efforts to attract his attention. It really doesn’t make any difference whether the post office is full or not.  The electronics never seem to work for me and contacting monsieur by semaphore is difficult. This regular routine of mine is made all the more tense because our post master is extremely fierce. When I finally gain entry he habitually glares at me over the top of his tiny reading glasses, nostrils flared and giant moustache fanning out either side of his grimly-set mouth. With a resigned expression, and looking rather fatigued, he will reluctantly spit out the words, “Bonjour madame.” Our encounters have never begun well.

So, on this occasion, after I had fought my way in I saw that there were no other customers present. Perfect! This meant I had neatly avoided the chit-chat brigade who, lovely though they may be, can spend hours talking about nothing in particular.

I walked up to the counter, made my usual apologies for general button-related ineptitude, and placed my parcels on the counter. It all went severely downhill from there.

Monsieur (sitting on a very low stool) took my parcels and dropped them theatrically on his side of the safety glass partition. Taking one look at the addresses the conversation went like this:

Monsieur:  “Ooh là là!”

Me:  “Is there something wrong monsieur?”

Monsieur:  (Grave wagging of head.) “Ooh là là! là LÀ. Where are you sending these?”

Me:  “Two to England, and one to New Zealand. Erm, what’s wrong monsieur?”

Re-focusing on the parcels he did a double take at the words ‘Nouvelle-Zélande’ and clutched the edges of the counter, staring goggle-eyed at the address labels. His expression a mask of horror. I genuinely thought that he was about to pass out.

Monsieur:  “But this is not possible!”

Me:  “Oh sorry, oh dear… But why not?”

Monsieur:  “But these, they are far too heavy and too thick. Look!”

With that he proceeded to squash one of the packages energetically. Suddenly he stopped, looked at me, and then rather more cautiously, started feeling the package all over – tracing an outline with his digit. I could guess what he was thinking, and for no reason at all other than nervous tension, I felt I needed to explain.

Me:  “Oh I think that’s a big dog bone you can feel. My friend Gill has a very big dog and it’s for him.”

He gave me a searching look, muttered “Bizarre” to himself and started to frisk the other parcels. Apparently, other than the weight and the fact that I was insisting on sending them somewhere other than la France, he could find nothing terminally wrong. Faintly vanquished, he gave me a huge lecture about the problems with the changed postal regulations in France, all the new documents and the increased postage costs; all of which were causing him a great deal of extra work. In the middle of this rant the buzzer sounded to alert him that a new customer was trying to get in. Clearly irritated, he tutted, then completely ignored it. Further, more staccato buzzes indicted that the customer really did want to come in. With a huge sigh and a loud “Merde!” (shit!) he pressed his button to allow the offender to enter.

Things then got a bit more complicated because, with the door now wide open, about ten new customers walked in, all chatting merrily, and carefully holding open the door for each other. This obviously irritated him because they hadn’t observed the proper security rules that required them to buzz individually. Eventually satisfied that the old ladies probably weren’t about to commit an armed robbery, but still thoroughly annoyed, he turned his attention back to me.  He thrust a wad of forms into my hand and told me to fill them in at the table on the other side of the room. As I dutifully followed orders, with all seven triplicated forms in hand, I had a moment of regret. With this sudden influx of clients, I knew my strategic advantage, which might have allowed me a quick getaway, was now doomed.

Meanwhile the clients had started a riveting debate about the emerging mushroom crop and were becoming rather rowdy. Poor monsieur. He ended up having a devil of a job trying to restore order and work out which customer he should handle first. Nobody took a blind bit of notice of him until he stood up and banged his fist on the counter top. This caused a momentary pause in the debate, and one lady reluctantly peeled herself away from the thoroughly engrossing discussion, and took out her envelope to be stamped.

Monsieur had dealt with about eight customers by the time I had filled in my forms, so I took my place at the back of the queue and waited. Then the buzzer went again. Monsieur steadfastly ignored it which led me to conclude that he was obviously not a multi-tasker. But, of course, it kept buzzing because the client still hadn’t gained entry. To make matters worse the client then started knocking on the door. This caused monsieur further anguish. He glowered accusingly at the security door and stabbed his entry button.  Unfortunately it seems that the customer had been knocking just at the very moment when monsieur hit the door release button, so the magical timing opportunity to open the door was lost, and precisely nothing happened. ‘Ah well, at least there’s another of us who struggles to master the open-door system,’ I briefly thought.

The buzzer sounded again, persistently now, then immediately followed by more banging. I could see that poor monsieur’s nerves were close to maxing-out as the pattern of buzz, bang, door-release-button-push activity consistently failed to allow the customer in. It had to happen – Monsieur snapped. Puce with rage, he jumped up, grabbed a big key and walked out of his office area.  I think we could all hear what he was saying in the corridor. Moments later he appeared through the front door with his equally dishevelled customer, and order began to be restored.

My (second) turn finally arrived, and I re-presented my parcels together with neatly filled in forms. He grabbed them from me and studied my work. Then his moustaches started quivering at the end. I was convinced that he was going to burst in to tears. Now what had I done wrong?

Monsieur:  “Madame, but this one is wrong. Look!”

With that he jumped up again and flattened his moustaches against the security glass in his endeavours to show me the error of my ways. Unfortunately the glass could not mask the fact that he had eaten garlic for breakfast, but at least it prevented him from landing on my lap. In mid stab of the chitty he stared wildly around him and muttered “Merde! Wrong form!” With no apologies for the fact that he had supplied it, he hurled it in the bin and produced a replacement set and pointed at the table. There was nothing for it, I had to return to my seat and start all over again.  At least it was only for one parcel this time.

After what seemed like a very long time, I returned to the counter with new form duly filled in.

Monsieur:  “This is better. But you know the parcels they are too thick. There are different regulations when they are this thick.”

Me:  “Monsieur, I really don’t think they’re that thick.”

Monsieur:  “Oh là là, madame, but this one for the dog it is more than three centimetres thick, I am certain.”

Me:  “Oh dear, well never mind, I want them to go as they are please.”

Monsieur: (Muttering “Bizarre” again under his breath.)  “I see, very well. And is there anything else you would like today?”

By this stage I was surprised that we were still ‘today’, and quickly shook my head. The prospect of asking for a book of ten stamps was simply too risky to contemplate. With a wonderfully diffident French shrug of the shoulders monsieur proceeded to perform a tap dance with his fingers on the calculator. He presented me with a bill that I felt sure belonged to our entire group, but reached for my wallet anyway, just thankful that our transactions were nearly at an end. Monsieur presented me with my two cents change and wagged his head sorrowfully.

Monsieur:  “The next time madame, you must not have the fat parcels that weigh too much.”

As usual I found myself apologising profusely for my insensitive oversight, thanked him for his kindness, wished him ‘goodnight’ and hurried out of the door.

The happy end to this story is that, in spite of my poorly completed documents, each of the recipients received their parcels. They were sent speedily and arrived intact, and Gill’s big dog loved his bone. Unlike monsieur, I wouldn’t have wanted to change my parcels at all, and I am grateful that the French postal system is every bit as efficient as it is reputed to be.

My experiences at La Poste that day weren’t entirely unique. But they do present another example of what it’s like to live in our part of France. A place that’s rich in eccentric personalities, and simple living. That’s why we love it so much.

The Chicken Riddle.

There we were, working at our desks as usual, when our peaceful concentration was shattered by the harsh ringing of the telephone. If there is such a thing as smalltalkaphobia then Jack has a bad case of it. This means that he normally avoids answering an incoming call in the same way one might an infectious disease carrier. However, on this occasion, my luck was in. After taking one look at my face that was still rigid with concentration, he evidently decided that I was involved in yet another software battle, and reached for the receiver himself. That was his first mistake.

Although it was not immediately evident, it transpired that the caller was Martine Dussan, one of our farmer friends. She and her husband, Claude, are amongst the kindest and most generous people we have ever met. Martine is a typical farmer’s wife. Always dressed in dark clothes, with pockets stuffed full of interesting bits of binder twine, bolt-shaped bulges and the occasional chicken egg. She also wears steel-capped boots, presumably to guard against the hazard of a rogue tractor tyre rolling over her foot.

But she has one particular mannerism that sets her apart from the others. It’s always the same, and quite persistent. Every now and again, for no apparent reason, she will issue a noise that is similar to the sound made when taking a mouthful of red-hot coffee, or being stood on by a beefy heifer cow. A kind of uooooff sound. The first time we heard it we thought something awful had happened to her, but since she looked perfectly normal, and didn’t seem to notice that she’d made a strange noise, we let it go. We’re quite used to it now.

As usual, the conversation that followed was in French, so I’ll give you a translation of events:

Jack picked up the telephone.

Jack:  “Allo?”

Martine:  “Yes, Jack?”

Jack:  “Erm, yes, and…”

Martine:  “I have them uooooff!”

Jack:  “Right, got it. Good morning Martine, what do you have?”

Martine:  “It’s MARTINE DUSSAN, Jack, your neighbour uooooff and now I have them!”

Jack:  “Yes. I recognised your voice Martine. But what is it that you have?”

Martine:  “I have your chickens of course!”

Jack:  “Chickens?”

This caught my attention. I looked over at Jack who was staring at me accusingly. I rapidly shook my head fearing that I was about to be implicated in a clandestine chicken order that I knew nothing about. The haphazard conversation continued.

Martine:  “Yes the chickens! Claude told me you needed them. I am at your gate this minute uooooff. Can I come in with them please?”

Jack:  (wondering why she hadn’t come to the door):  “Oh I’m terribly sorry Martine I had no idea that you are actually here. Yes, of course. I’ll come out and open the gate for you.”

Martine:  “Good, thank you.”

Jack, now looking at me even more suspiciously, said he’d go and fetch Martine and invite her in for a coffee. I readily agreed, thinking that a conversation over a cappuccino and a biscuit might help us get to the bottom of this strange chicken mystery.

Within a couple of minutes Jack was back with our blustering neighbour, dressed as normal, with the exception of an additional tell-tale feather or two embedded in her jumper, and a couple more sticking out of her hair. But no chickens.

Me:  “Hello Martine, what a lovely surprise. Gosh, we had no idea that you might be bringing some chickens. Sit down and have a coffee.”

Martine:  “Ah, yes please uooooff, a very quick one would be nice. Claude told me that you would like these birds, they are very big and lay enormous eggs.”

I had a moment to mull over this last remark while I was brewing our drinks. It struck a tiny chord. I had the faintest of recollections that I might have heard about it before, but I couldn’t for the life of me think when it might have been.

Me:  “Well that sounds excellent. Here’s your coffee. Careful, it’s a bit hot.”

Martine took the mug and began blowing energetically. This caused small waves to appear on the surface of the drink, and sounded extraordinary when combined with her other sound effects.

Martine:  “Ah yes, thank you uooooff, UOOOOFF – it is hot isn’t it?”

Jack:  “As you may have deduced from the feathers darling, the chickens are in Martine’s van. So, Martine, how many birds have you brought?”

Martine:  “About nine, I think. You can have as many as you want uooooff and I’ll give the rest to my mother. She probably needs some new ones.”

Me:  “Honestly this is so kind of you, we must give you some money for them.”

Martine looked absolutely horrified at my vulgar suggestion. Then, whilst checking her watch, replied:

Martine:  “Ah no no – absolutely not! They are a present. And look I am late. Now I must go. Can we take the chickens to your pen?”

We decided it would be easier if Jack walked through the field and opened the gates, whilst Martine and I followed in the van. Hers was a typical French farmer’s van. White (or it used to be), probably dirtier inside than out, rather smelly, and covered in dents. This one was made additionally colourful by the presence of several very indignant-looking chickens.

We parked outside the pen and Martine threw open the rear doors, grabbed one of the large plastic crates and lobbed it in amongst our flock. She opened the lid and unceremoniously started grabbing birds, turning them upside down, and chucking them in the general direction of the existing flock. Jack leant in to help and made his second mistake. As he gently drew one of the ladies out of the crate head-side-up, his careful handling was rewarded by an extremely loud squawk from the bird followed by a drizzle of fetid fluid that carelessly made its way down his jumper. That could only have come from one place. I now saw the sense of Martine’s upside-down technique. Not only did the bird immediately become calm, but she also avoided being squirted with an unwanted avian deposit.

During the unpacking process a fifth chicken popped up and made a rapid escape to the far corner of the cage. Thinking that this was probably a chicken too many, I commented:

Me:  “Oh dear, we’ve got five out now. Is that too many Martine? We can always catch one up again (whilst really thinking: no, we probably wouldn’t stand an earthly chance of catching any of them.) if you need more for your mother.”

Martine:  “No, that’s no problem uooooff; they are a present for her too. She only needs a few.”  She then stopped, peered into the crate and exclaimed. “Aha!”

Jack:  “What’s wrong?”

Martine:  “Very good! Look! One of them laid an egg on the way here.  It is very big, just like I said.”

With that she thrust the warm egg in Jack’s hand, packed up the crate and flung it back into her car. But I was still intrigued, and determined to get to the bottom of this mystery.

Me:  “Just tell me again Martine, when it was that Claude told us he was going to give us some chickens? I know this sounds terribly rude, but I honestly can’t remember.”

Martine:  “Uooooff well I think it was four or five years ago, perhaps more. But the ones we had before were too old. We had to wait for them to breed first because we wanted you to have young birds.”

So that was it. I do vaguely remember Claude declaring something about us needing bigger chickens to join our hybrids, and that he would sort it all out. But, to be honest, that was indeed a very long time ago. It was also said during a period when our lives were rife with day-to-day builder disasters, so a short chat about chicken sizes could easily have got lost in the general chaos, and translation.

Our strange conversation with Martine also reminded me how our life in this rural area ebbs and flows with the seasons. This means that a simple matter of dates and times has reduced significance. That said, promises made here are rarely broken, but the actual execution of the pledge may not occur exactly when one might imagine. This causes unexpected moments of great pleasure, and surprise, when a gift (that one might reasonably assume had been long forgotten) turns up unannounced. Today’s event was another perfect example.

 Martine took a moment to check the now happily foraging birds, and prepared to resume her morning of chicken deliveries. After the customary frenzy of hugs and kisses, she strode off purposefully, tinkling across some loose gravel, and looking like a sparkler on legs as her hobnails struck the stones. She got in her van, gave a final hearty wave, and a noisier than usual uooooff as she connected with the accelerator. The remaining chickens bounced around in the back as she sped off to her mother’s house.

Waving goodbye, Jack said, with a broad smile on his face, “Well, that solves the chicken riddle. Typical of our farmer friends, they’re every bit as good as their word – eventually. And there’s another bonus, I’ve now got an extra-big egg for my tea.”

Shopping Trolley Treachery

As most people who live here will tell you, the French are devoted fans of the weekly market. The smaller ones are usually set up in the centre of the town, whilst the bigger versions may also take over streets and alleys, surrounding fountains and other civil adornments. Whatever the size, the designated areas are cordoned off from traffic, enabling the workers to set up shop. Stands, stalls and mini tents are erected in double-quick time, as the market traders prepare to offer endless selections of interesting (and sometimes dire), goodies to the discerning consumer. The sights, sounds and smells are heaven, and I absolutely love them.

Our local market is small and, although it’s attended by a wide range of people, the majority of shoppers tend to be quite elderly. It takes place every Monday morning and fills the tiny town centre plus one street. The number of traders ebbs and flows according to the seasons and the weather, but there are always those stalwarts who brave it, come what may. These are the people that our sturdy regulars do business with regardless, and why? Because here is a place where one finds produce so fresh that it is likely to have been plucked out of the ground earlier that morning. It’s a place where prices are fair, and bargaining is rife. It’s also a place where the weekly gossip is exchanged, where new babies are slapped on the head, and where much debate can occur over a particular recipe or jar of recently purchased pickles. It is an intrinsic part of our lives. As is our indispensable team member, the market basket (panier), an essential receptacle for those hard fought-over bargains.

As one might expect in a deeply rural spot like ours, we all wander around with our woven hazel or willow market baskets, gently filling them with mud-caked veg, and other produce. It’s an accepted form of luggage for the weekly groceries and, in many ways, eminently practical. The basket can be dumped on the floor when an aching back needs to be eased. It can be placed onto a market stall to enable the trader to fill it with goods. The mud from extra-fresh produce drops through the holes in the sides, and an accidental glancing blow from a fellow passing shopper amounts to nothing more than a gentle nudge. It’s a bit like the dodgems. In spite of the fact that they can become rather weighty, we have all coped perfectly happily with the state of affairs, or at least we did, until the advent of the market shopping trolley.

The market shopping trolley as we all know is a bag on wheels supported by a metal frame. Practical though it may be, it is viewed with deep suspicion by the locals. Many are seriously concerned that this new-fangled, and often garishly-decorated, shopping aid is going to become an unwelcome feature of our otherwise traditional market place. This means that most of us still stubbornly slog around with our paniers, steadfastly ignoring the occasional trolley users as they skip youthfully up and down the street with their wheeled ‘paniers of fire’.  It was during one such demonstration of gay abandon that our orderly market was transformed into a place of chaos and general devastation.

We’re all a bit frightened of Madame Canorgue. Well at least I am. At full height she’s probably just about touching 5ft, but she’s often weighed down by her abnormally heavy basketful of goods so it’s difficult to be accurate. I’m not sure how old she is, I’d probably do her a dreadful injustice if I guessed. However it’s safe to say that she’s likely to have lived through several major wars. Her face is often partially obscured by her black woollen scarf, but the expression is there for all to see. It is one of grim determination towards the task in hand. On Monday mornings her total focus is, as usual, on the vegetable stall. Madame Canorgue likes to charge to the head of the queue, and woe betide anyone getting in her way. In her endeavours to achieve this she’ll scan the assembled company with hawk-like, dark brown, beady eyes challenging anyone who might be brave enough to step in front of her. Nobody does. This is not a lady to be messed with.

So there we were, a typical market day, going about our own business, and learning about that of others. We had the odd interloper with wheels, but determinedly ignored the ease with which they tripped along, their trolleys gliding seamlessly over humps and bumps rendering the prospect of making further acquisitions an act of simplicity itself. Instead we carried on lugging our baskets that were becoming heavier with every purchase. Then it all kicked off.

Madame Canorgue, as usual, had stamped to the head of the queue at the vegetable stall. She plonked her basket on top of a hapless mound of carrots and started making her order. This sounded to me rather like fire from a machine gun, but the trader followed her instructions with typical good humour. There’s no doubt that this lady loves her vegetables, especially asparagus. After much prodding, poking, and close scrutiny of the legumes that caught her eye, her selection was finally made and packed into the basket until there wasn’t a single inch to spare. I watched on in amazement wondering how on earth she was going to lift the thing off the table. I needn’t have worried. Madame Canorgue is a farmer’s wife and I could quite clearly see her little biceps bulging gamely through her housecoat as she hoisted the basket and turned to march towards the bread stall.

During the vegetable examination process her scarf had slipped forward a little, and was now acting like a pair of flexible blinkers. Unfortunately this newly-developed tunnel vision meant she had no awareness of any activity to either side of her. A trolley was approaching stealthily, and at speed. Oblivious of the danger, she took a step sideways and walked directly into its path. Her foot then somehow struck the inside of one of the wheels thus causing her to lose balance. Our queue of vegetable buyers looked on in horror as, in her efforts to avoid an unladylike backward flip, she threw her hands forward, and with them, the basket laden with legumes. Vegetable shot everywhere, it was mayhem.

Desperately hanging on to her asparagus tips she shrieked at her goods, many of which were variously flying through the air. Help was definitely required. The more able-bodied of us rushed to her aid and gave chase to the rapidly-disappearing miscreant vegetables. I could see that the cabbage had become lodged in the leg of the vin man’s stall, so knew that it could be retrieved fairly easily. I left that for the moment. Simultaneously I saw an airborne bunch of parsley ricochet off Monsieur Dupond’s shoulder. It fleetingly reminded me of a bride’s bouquet being gaily thrown towards competing singletons. However, in this case it was Monsieur Dupond who caught it. Whilst extremely pleasant, he is a rather unique personality who normally only converses with himself, and whose independent eyes can often be a distraction. I was astonished at how well he made the catch.

But then I saw the apples. They were a different matter altogether. There must have been eight or ten of the blighters cheerily bowling down the street, gaining momentum as they glanced off the cobbles and cracks in the road. Happily most of these were retrieved by Monsieur Choi, the roast chicken man who parks his mobile oven at the bottom of the slope. But, sadly, some were lost forever. The potatoes posed similar problems, but my fellow fielders deftly gathered many of the offenders leaving just a couple to escape down the drain. During the general pursuit I felt a passing moment of utter relief when I realised that there were no loose sprouts involved, and that madame hadn’t made it to the grapes stall.

With much of the now battered and bruised produce finally corralled, we collectively returned it to madame. Although speechless with rage, she had fully recovered her equilibrium. She now wore an expression that spelt revenge. In a moment of suspense that would have made even the most die-hard horror movie fans quake in their boots, we watched to see how she would deal with her assailant. Murder was in those eyes as she turned, a little stiffly now, towards the offending trolley. Would she bring back the guillotine? I wondered.  But, fortunately, the opportunity for retribution had disappeared... Light as a feather, with not a care in the world, sporty trolley lady was already disappearing into the distance. She was apparently unaware of the chaos that had been caused by one of her wheels. All we could see now was her departing form as it rounded the street corner with trolley trundling effortlessly alongside.

 

Following the trolley incident it seems that the darkening veil of uncertainty is now descending over our rickety market-going community. In addition to the latest pickles or conserve recipe discussion, the new question that’s being debated (but never in front of Madame Canorgue), is the relative merits of this ultra-modern labour-saving device. Should we stubbornly persevere with our traditional basket-lugging, which finds us physically spent after a morning at the market? Or make the switch? There are those who will always consider the trolley to be a vulgar, dangerous piece of equipment, only acceptable if the user has a class one heavy goods vehicle licence. But there are others whose joints might altogether seize up if they don’t consider investing in wheels. They could well be forced to make the change. It’s a tough one to call, but one thing’s for sure – if I end up buying a trolley on wheels, I’ll keep well away from Madame Canorgue!