The Saga of the Chipped Tooth

“Do we have to? I bloody hate going to the dentist,” my husband, Jack, groaned.

“Don’t make such a fuss,” I replied, “at least you haven’t got a problem, I’ve got a chipped tooth that needs sorting out.”

“Well that’s your fault for eating all those sodding apples isn’t it? I told you all this healthy eating wasn’t good for you.”

Not many of us look forward to a trip to the dentist, but needs must. When we first came to France I had no idea how to register with services such as a dental clinic, but fortunately it turned out to be fairly easy. Taking care to heed advice from those with a headful of pearly-white gnashers, I ignored protestations from my mainly-toothless husband and booked us in for an appointment with a local dentist.

Sadly, our first attempt ended in failure. The highly recommended clinic was located halfway down a gritty backstreet and hidden behind a very large security door. The access buzzer rarely worked, which meant loitering outside and waiting for someone to wake up and activate the unlocking procedure. Once open, one was faced with an interminably long, very steep flight of stairs which led to yet another security door. It was not uncommon to meet a straggler mid-ascent, hanging on to the bannister gasping for breath.

Inevitably, the climb meant that upon their arrival at the reception desk patients had worked up a decent sweat. This is probably why the desk was never attended, which meant hanging around until the receptionist decided the patient was no longer a health hazard. The only distraction here was the ominous collection of dentures which glared ghoulishly out of an old glue pot.

The next leg of this dental visit marathon was the requirement to spend a very long period in a box termed la salle d’attente. It happened every time. Patients would be directed to the waiting room, which housed several cracked plastic chairs and a coffee table piled high with an assortment of heavily soiled, dog-eared magazines. Heeding the sage advice of my Grandma, who told me that one could never be sure what previous users had been fiddling with, I have always avoided reading material like this.

Internet connection and mobile phone signals never functioned in the Tardis-like salle d’attente, so the only form of entertainment was to examine the wall art. I tried not to, but the macabre side of my nature always got the better of me. The walls were covered in ancient posters. These displayed a series of grisly teeth, mostly in various states of decay, and one of a strangely coloured, slightly furry tongue. The only cheerleader in this grim collection was a perky post-it note sized photo displaying a tube of toothpaste. This probably contained a wise reminder about the importance of brushing one’s teeth. However, it was lost on all but the very young, and those with acute vision, because the writing was miniscule.

In contrast to his office decor, Docteur Boureau, the dentist, was a very pleasant man. And refreshingly clean. He had piercing blue eyes and a magnificent handlebar moustache, which despite being pinned down by the straps, sprouted defiantly either side of his surgical mask. I felt it was a very French look. There were two tiny glitches though. The main one was his speech, he was a mumbler. Try as I might, it was awfully difficult to understand what was going on behind that mask as it gently puffed up and down in time to his sotto voce tones. This created a lingering anxiety that I might inadvertently agree to unwanted dental action of a permanent kind.

The other issue was his diet. Docteur Boureau was quite clearly a garlic devotee. Whilst I applaud anyone who follows a healthy regime, it can be rather off putting when second-hand waves of garlic fumes scream through the mask of one’s dentist merely centimetres away.

The last straw for me came one day last summer, and it had nothing to do with dentistry. It was a boiling hot afternoon and I was wearing my usual tee-shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. Jack was still having his check-up so instead of gently melting in the sauna-like salle d’attente, I decided to wait outside in the relative cool of the street. Minding my own business, I was checking my phone for messages when there was a light tap on my shoulder.

I looked down and there was a very grubby oldish man leering up at me. Resisting the inclination to recoil and run for the hills, I asked him what he wanted. He smiled gummily at me and, reaching into his mac pocket (which seemed altogether the wrong attire for that day), he produced a scabby 20 euro note. Still clueless, I repeated my question which seemed to delight him, and brought on a decidedly unpleasant chesty spasm. Fortunately, well-practised at this particular skill, he spat the unwanted gubbins in a different direction to ours. Once recovered, he pointed in the direction of a herd of wheelie bins and asked me if I would like to join him in his apartment. And just in case I was in any doubt as to what he wanted, he sealed the generosity of his offer by giving me a knowing wink and proffering the 20 euro note under my nose. The penny finally dropped.

I’m not sure which horrified me more, being propositioned by a man who was probably stark naked under his dirty mac, or that I was only worth 20 euros. I managed to stifle a scream, refused him in my typically polite, frightfully British way, and scurried off back to the car. So that was that, we needed to find a different dentist.

As luck would have it our insurance man came to visit and recommended an alternative clinic in the local city of Montauban. In France all dental care is paid for by the patient, but the rates can vary considerably. Despite Jack’s whinges about it probably being ridiculously expensive I went ahead and booked our first appointment. What a difference!

We found our city centre location easily, and drove into the private carpark. Ambling between the landscaped rockeries and assortment of Zen-inspired borders, we arrived at the single-storey building and pressed the entry buzzer. As if by magic it swung open and we were ushered into the reception area.

The first clue that this might turn into a fairly pricey establishment was the arrival of our dentist’s personal assistant. Each dentist in the practice had one. We filled out a wad of forms and were led down a plush corridor to the semi-open plan salle d’attente, which was more like an aquarium. One wall masqueraded as a fish tank. It was filled with shoals of colourful fish which drifted around dreamily, oozing calm and tranquillity. Another wall was made of glass and offered further views of the Zenful garden, and the final section contained abstract art, which was gentle to the eye and enabled even the most nervous client to banish the ominous sound of dentists’ drills. It was all very pleasing.

When our turn came we were plucked out of our cosy cocoon and wafted into the dentist’s room, which was pristinely clean and could easily have housed six practitioners. It also had the interesting addition of a small gallery of observer chairs.

Docteur Cabane proved to be every bit as good as our insurance man had said. She was extremely polite, listened intently to what we said, and even spoke the odd word of English. She attended to her work with great care and attention too. We were very impressed. So much so that Jack only winced a little when we were presented with the unimaginably enormous bill at the end.

When I had my unfortunate tooth chipping incident I was absolutely confident that our new dentist could fix it in a trice. I booked us both in (Jack just for a check-up) and we arrived on the appointed day. Docteur Cabane, perfectly punctual as usual, shepherded us into her treatment room and decided to sort me out first.

While her assistant unfurled a brand new set of instruments, our dentist kitted herself out. This was a very thorough business. I’m not sure whether Docteur Cabane had experienced a life-threatening trauma at some time during her early career, but she certainly left nothing to chance now. She wore safety glasses, a theatre mask then a clear Perspex faceguard over the lot. She could have been chewing on a clove of garlic for all the patient knew, there was no possibility of any fumes escaping that protective covering. She then donned her extra-long rubber gloves and we were off.

It only took her a second to spot the offender on my bottom set. With a gentle utterance of “Oh la la,” she slotted a cotton-wool sausage between my gum and bottom lip and fired up her drill. This was a tense moment. I hadn’t been injected and was certain that it could only be moments before the instrument struck a nerve. Feeling it might be useful to mention this unusual omission I tried my best to alert her. But speech was difficult with a lump of hard material that felt like a railway sleeper in my mouth. Instead I made injection squirting motions with my hand in an attempt to attract her attention.

Quick as a flash the ultra-sensitive Docteur Cabane detected my anxiety, moved her drill to one side and looked at me enquiringly. I attempted to explain the situation, but of course communication was difficult. The cotton log had swollen, and the tube which she had now hooked onto my mouth was doing its best to suck the rest of my teeth out. Nevertheless, I managed to burble, “Njekshun” which she seemed to understand. She waved away my concerns, explained that there was no risk of hitting a nerve, and re-ignited her machine.

Somewhat comforted I stared fixedly at her floaty Zen mobile, trying to ignore the whine of the drill. Happily the tortuous sounds didn’t last long, but my feelings of relief were short-lived. Our diligent dentist downed tools, peered at my chipped tooth from several angles and then pronounced herself dissatisfied. Her drill wasn’t man-enough for the job – more substantial equipment would be needed. After a short debate with her assistant she was handed something that looked like an industrial grinder. Muttering something sweet about getting everything ‘just right’ she probably smiled, pressed a button and the machine roared into life.

I’m not sure what was worse, the smell of burning coming from my tooth as it was being ground down, or the torrent of water gushing out of another tube that had mysteriously made its way into my mouth. The sucky tube had now stuck itself to a gum and was of no practical use whatsoever, which left me at real risk of drowning. Nobody likes a dribbler, so I started waving again to attract my dentist’s attention. Unfortunately she was so intent on her grinding that she didn’t seem to notice my protestations. Fortunately Jack, relaxing in an observer’s chair, did.

“Why on earth are you waving? Just keep still, you’ll put poor Docteur Cabane off.”

Not a remotely helpful comment in itself, but it did distract Docteur Cabane for long enough for me to attempt a swallow, and un-stick the sucky tube. Nicely reassembled, she set to work once again.

Finally all equipment was removed from my mouth and I was handed a beaker of pink mouthwash to rinse out the remaining particles of tooth and strings of cotton wool. She handed me a dental mirror and we both studied her handiwork.

At first glance I think we both felt that it was a job well done. Yes, the tooth was a little lower than the others now but, as Jack annoyingly reminded me, “That’s what happens when you eat too many Grannie Smith apples.” I thanked our dentist for her help, un-bibbed myself, clambered out of the chair and went over to the large wall mirror to have a proper look. Docteur Cabane came over to join me and motioned for Jack to sit in the treatment chair.

We both examined my bottom row of teeth. Unfortunately something wasn’t quite right. The act of grinding the chipped tooth into shape had caused two others (one either side) to stick up somewhat.  

“Ah, I did not see this before,” commented Docteur Cabane (in French), the personification of concern.

“No, nor me,” I replied, searching for the correct French word, “it’s this tooth here,” I said tapping a sticky-up one, “it looks a bit…”

“Vampire! Yes, I know, you look like a vampire,” Docteur Cabane concluded with absolute sincerity.

This was a tad mortifying, that wasn’t at all what I was going to say. But now that she’d mentioned it, I suppose I did. I nodded morosely.

“This is no good, I must work again on your teeth,” she added decisively.

With that, Jack, now grumbling about me taking so long over a single tooth, was ejected from the dental chair and returned to the gallery. I was re-positioned, re-bibbed and Docteur Cabane was supplied with a brand new pair of rubber gloves and completely new set of instruments. My mouth was re-filled with tubes and bolsters and she began to grind vigorously on the latest offenders.  

The smell of burning was becoming significant, but my anxious thoughts about accidental combustion were quashed by the new deluge of water that bypassed the sucky tube and flowed down my throat again. I was also becoming slightly worried that if we carried on like this my bottom row of teeth would be reduced to stumps. Happily, before that concern took root, she stopped. Everything was removed, I swallowed, and we paced back over to the big mirror for another look. Docteur Cabane made her pronouncement, this time in English.

“Yes. This is good. You have the, how you say in English, la vague.”

“Oh dear. A wave in the water?”

“Ah, yes, thank you. Now you have the wave where the chipped tooth is lower but you are not looking like the vampire any more. This is a good thing.”

A wave – I could live with that. Mightily relieved that I still had a bottom row of teeth left after all that grinding, I thanked our diligent dentist profusely and swapped places with Jack.

Jack has been entirely merciless with his teeth over the years, subjecting them to bouts of neglect and gallons of Coca Cola and coffee amongst other tooth-decaying substances. This has taken its toll but there is still a small battalion of hangers-on left. Docteur Cabane takes each one extremely seriously. After fishing around for a bit, she repeated her lecture to him about dental care and the need to cherish the dwindling army. Already irritated by our prolonged treatment session he rapidly gargled various promises to treat the remaining survivors with the respect they deserved. He then removed the tubes and sprang out of the chair.  

We were finally done, me with a reformed bottom set and Jack with a posh new soft bristle toothbrush. We bade farewell to our lovely dentist and returned to reception where we were presented with another eye watering bill. But it was all worth it. We had avoided grubby back streets and buzzers that were never answered. We had received first class treatment from a superb dentist, and I hadn’t been propositioned. My chipped tooth had been sorted out and I no longer looked like Dracula’s bride. All in all it had been a successful visit to the dentist. 

Rabbits and my sister - the terrible awful secret

As part of our aspirations to restock the enclosed section of our forest with indigenous wildlife we decided to buy some rabbits. The previous population had been decimated by a particularly virulent strain of myxomatosis and the introduction of limited numbers would help keep the track verges in trim, and contribute to the natural balance of the area.

A friend of ours told me about some game farms that specialise in breeding ‘lapins savage’ for release into the wild. The even better news was that there was one such establishment fairly close to where we live. Excited by this, I studied the lapin website and made my order of 25 eight-month old fully inoculated rabbits – five bucks and twenty does. That was the easy bit.

I telephoned the man in charge, Benoit, about the delivery. It was as much of a struggle as I’d feared because Benoit had an extremely strong S-W French accent and spoke at around Mach 2. He didn’t seem to take a breath at all during our conversation, and gaily steamrollered each of my pleas to speak a little slower.

By the end of our semi-conversation I had what resembled a plan. I would drive to his farm near Cahors at the end of May and he would have the livestock crated and ready to go at 2 pm. My attempts at garnering directions failed miserably but I didn’t pursue it too many times. We have satnav in the car and it was less painful to plug in the coordinates than attempt to understand his instructions.

The pick-up date coincided with a visit from my sister, Di, so I refused Jack’s offer to accompany us. I told him we’d be perfectly fine, assuring him I knew exactly what I was doing and where we were going, so there wouldn’t be any problems. Jack knows me too well. With a sceptical nod he told me that I wouldn’t be able to hear the satnav lady issuing instructions over the non-stop noise coming from my sister, and drew me a fail-safe map of our route, just in case...

Our rabbit pick-up day was beautiful so we decided to have a leisurely lunch in our local city of Montauban. We’d drive the 15 minutes or so up the A20 autoroute and take the exit to the farm, which was only a couple of kilometres further on.

We parked our car and wandered down a sunny boulevard following our twitching noses, increasingly allured by wafts of baking. They quickly led us to a perfectly French café filled with freshly baked bread, patisseries, cakes and deserts. With oodles of time on our hands we surveyed the culinary offerings and chose two meals that turned out to be every bit as delicious as they looked.

The concept of time is utterly lost on my sister, but happily not me. I clock-watched my way through a particularly yummy desert of tarte aux fraises à la crème mascarpone, and after a couple more sips of velvety espresso, announced it was time to go. Jack had given us an errand to run on our way to the autoroute so I’d allowed time to pop in to see his mate, Hubert.

Hubert is a super chap. Short, very sturdy and permanently attached to his phone. He consistently fails to perfect the art of serving multiple customers whilst issuing instructions to the caller. Nevertheless, every time we visit, he’s still trying to get it right. One does have to admire dogged determination like that.

The only way to win Hubert’s full attention is to wait for his phone battery to run out, and it frequently does. Luckily we arrived at such a time so I quickly made our purchases. Just as a precaution, I produced my Jack-map along with the rabbit farm telephone number and asked Hubert if he could telephone Benoit to double-check the location. Knowing that Hubert wouldn’t be able to pass up the opportunity to use a telephone, I passed him mine. He grabbed it enthusiastically, slapped it on the shop counter, dialled the number and prodded the loudspeaker button.

What followed was a rapid-fire conversation between Hubert, who I understood a bit, and Benoit, who I really didn’t much at all. The first signal of alarm was when Hubert’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. The second was when he began to shout (a very French habit for those in charge of the phone) and poke my map. He bellowed ‘attend’ a couple of times at the phone and then stared fixedly at me, “You are not meeting monsieur at his farm, no! You are meeting him in Cahors!”

“Oh dear, how awful. How far away is that?” I cried.

“Easily 50 minutes from here.” 

We stared at him boggled eye. Di gave me an accusing look, which I ignored, and quickly asked Hubert to arrange a new meet time for us. That done, he told us how simple it would be – Benoit would be waiting outside a shop called La Cave in Cahors at 3 pm. What a stroke of luck I had asked Hubert to help. We thanked him profusely, rushed back to the car and sped off towards the A20. There was no need to use the satnav system so that was switched off.

Di and I congratulated ourselves on narrowly avoiding an embarrassing situation and agreed that, on the whole, it was just as well that Jack wasn’t with us. With his zero-tolerance attitude towards moments of incompetence, I could just imagine how he would have reacted to this minor misunderstanding. After a couple of sisterly chortles we resumed our meaningful discussion about nothing in particular. Time was on our side and we were confident that nothing could go wrong now. 

A feature of the A20 is that there are very few sortie’s (exits). I’ve never noticed this before because my attention has always been taken by the beautiful scenery. That, together with the constant chatter, might possibly have been the cause of our first mishap. After about 30 minutes and apparently no exit junctions, I began to feel the odd pang of anxiety.

“Hang on a minute, Di, we haven’t blinked and missed our exit have we?”

“No I don’t think so but…ahah! Look over there, that’ll be it.”

Di pointed towards a dot on the horizon, which I assumed would be for our sortie. That was a relief. Sure enough it was a sign telling us that in 20 kilometres the next exit would be for Cahors Nord, which was promising – at first. It took a couple of moments for the penny to drop. Ignoring Di’s whoops of joy I cut in, “But that doesn’t make sense.”

“Why? What’s the problem? We’re nearly there.”

“I hope so it’s just that Montauban is south of Cahors and it looks like we’re driving towards the wrong end of it.”

Di stared at me blankly, momentarily caught off balance. “Really?”

“Yes, look.”

I switched the satnav system on and sure enough we were passing the city which was somewhere to our left. Mystified, we reluctantly conceded that we might just possibly have been talking so much that we’d missed our junction. Feeling slightly foolish we decided to get off at the next sortie, make a U-turn, and drive back down the autoroute to the southbound exit. Simple.

Still feeling confident that we had oodles of time we duly took the next exit. Di was in charge of finding the correct turning while I negotiated the traffic.

“There isn’t one!” she howled.

“What? What d’you mean?” I retorted, narrowly avoiding an old tin can on wheels.

“There isn’t a southbound on.”

“There must be, we’ve just got off so there must be an on,” I cried, feeling distinctly queasy.

“Yes, but it’s the same side on, not the southbound on – honestly, there isn’t one. Go round again so I can check.”

“Oh come on, Di, stop messing about – just look properly will you?”

“I am – or at least I would if you could keep the car on the road!”

“Huh!”

Much to the fascination of a herd of cattle watching from the field, I duly trundled round again, desperately searching for the elusive southbound sign, but Di was right – there wasn’t one.

There was nothing for it, we had to continue north. This was a worry.

Back on the autoroute I checked my watch – we had half an hour to go. Determined we could still make the time we vented our frustrations on the French road planners who didn’t have the foresight to provide junctions that enabled drivers to retrace their steps. It was then that things took a turn for the worse.

“I don’t believe it!” shrieked Di in horror.

“What’s wrong now now?”

“That sign – in the distance, [my sister has x-ray eyes] it says Paris!”

“Does it? Oh don’t worry about that, lots of them do. It’s a bit like saying ‘all roads lead to Rome’.” I giggled nervously.

Sure enough it indicated several hundred miles to reach the capital but, far more significantly, there was no further mention of Cahors. Equally worrying, the exit was another 20 kilometres away.

 “Oh nooo,” I moaned.

“What are we going to do? All I can see is countryside around here.”

There was nothing for it, we were stuck. It was boiling hot outside as we hacked northwards through an endless heat haze in completely the wrong direction. There was no point asking satnav lady for directions because we didn’t have an address, and she added to our misery by losing Cahors off her monitor altogether. Di produced a map from somewhere which she studied for a good 10 seconds before using it as an armrest.

Finally the exit came into view. Di gesticulated at it frantically from around a kilometre away, but it was alright, I could see. We pulled off and found a place to stop. There was no avoiding the horrible truth, it was nearly 3 pm and we were going to be very late. I telephoned Benoit to explain what had happened – it didn’t go well.

The first word he uttered was “Merde!” After persuading him to speak slowly enough for me to understand, he explained that we were about 65 kilometres from where we needed to be. Quite understandably he didn’t sound at all pleased, but grudgingly agreed to wait.

Back on our new roundabout, as luck would have it this one had an ‘on’ in the correct direction. We were both getting a little snappy towards one another now, so I put Di on gendarme alert, which diverted her attention, and hammered the poor car back towards the elusive southbound junction.

Satnav lady teased us by gently bringing Cahors back into view as the sign for Cahors Nord finally came into view. This was fine, just one more to go. Our mood was raised by this so we began chatting lightly about our mishap. But our gossip was interrupted by the harsh ring tone on my hands-free phone. Di peered at my phone. “Oh my God!” she squeaked, looking as though she’d had an electric shock.

“What? Stop sounding frantic – you’re scaring me.”

“I’m not! Anyway – you’ll be scared in a second – it’s Jack!”

“Oh my God!”

“Yes. What are you going to say? You’re not going to tell him are you? He’ll be furious!”

“I’m doomed!”

“You are!”

I answered the phone and sure enough it was Jack, who naturally assumed that we were fully armed with rabbits and on our way home. He wanted to know if everything was going to plan. Using airy tones I explained that there had been a tiny change to the arrangements, but otherwise everything was going very well. Suitably comforted, he rang off.

Finally, and really very close to where we had started, we cheered with relief as another sign came into view. I slowed right down and prepared to pull off but, to our absolute horror, there was no mention of Cahors on it at all. Was it possible that we had missed it again whilst I was talking to Jack? Completely appalled, we made a snap decision to stay on the autoroute, persuading ourselves that this was a sign for a minor town, and continued towards what we assumed to be our correct exit. It wasn’t to be.

The tension was palpable, even Di had stopped talking. It was also swelteringly hot. The heat penetrated the windows like laser beams causing me to become decidedly moist around the edges and Di’s freckles to merge. Another sign appeared – but there was no mention of Cahors.

“I just can’t believe it – it’s like Groundhog Day,” Di groaned.

“What d’you mean?” I sniped, about ready to snap with tension.

“We’re going to end up driving up and down this autoroute all afternoon at this rate. I can’t believe you didn’t get the right instructions.”

“Oh don’t start – I thought I had! Look we’ll just have to get off here.”

I pulled off into a truck drivers’ stop and reached for the phone, intending to ring Benoit to confess that we had somehow missed the junction for Cahors Sud again. Di stared at me, owl-eyed as I keyed in his number. Here is the English version of our very short conversation.

“Hello, Benoit?”

“Yes, yes it is me. Where are you now?”

“We’re in a truck stop just off junction 16. I’m terribly sorry but we must have missed the exit for Cahors Sud again.”

“Ha ha ha! But there isn’t one.”

I thought my ears had gone wrong, “Erm I don’t understand.”

“No, you should have taken the signs to Lestatier, this will lead you to Cahors.”

“Should we? B…but we were told…, never mind. We’ve just passed that one, it’s very close. Can you still wait for us please?”

“I cannot stay much longer – I have to feed my animals.”

“Okay, we’ll be with you very soon.”

“H’m – okay.”

With that the phone went dead. I turned to Di, “Okay, he’ll wait for us – I don’t think it’s far now.”

“Hope not, I can’t stand much more of this.”

“Don’t be pathetic – I’m more worried about running out of petrol.”

“Oh God, no! Are we?”

“No – only kidding.”

“Huh! You never were any good at telling jokes.”

I fired up the car again and cannoned back towards the autoroute. We tutted self-righteously about being given the wrong information all the way back to the correct junction and made our exit. We circumnavigated the roundabout a couple of times, just to make sure that we were finally on the correct road, and shot off towards Cahors which was only five kilometres away.

Feeling as relieved as we could be under the circumstances, we faced our next challenge. Finding La Cave.  Benoit said we wouldn’t be able to miss it (famous last words) – it was at the start of the town on the right hand side. As we reached it the road narrowed and was extremely congested. Di scanned each shop while I drove as slowly as possible, ignoring the irritated drivers hooting their car horns behind me. I was way beyond caring about that sort of thing by this time.

“Oh noooo, it’s not there!” she exclaimed.

“Oh for crying out loud, you’ve missed it. It must be there,” I shouted.

“No it bloody well isn’t. You’re driving too fast anyway, turn around and have another go.”

Moaning and groaning with frustration I found a place to turn and started to retrace our steps. Di was right, we couldn’t see a single shop called La Cave. Before we ran out of town, we decided to stop the car and ask for help.

Close to tears with frustration I pulled the car over and stopped in front of a wine merchant. We were heading towards the door when something caught my eye. On the opposite side of the road outside another wine merchants store there was a bashed-up old white van. The car windows were down and inside was a man, head back, fast asleep.

“Oh gosh, that must be him. That must be La Cave there, it’s a wine shop,” I whispered conspiratorially at Di.

 

“But there are loads of them here! Anyway thank goodness for that – probably no need to whisper from this side of the road. Quick, get the car over there.”

I moved the car and we went to investigate. I peeked in the rear window and sure enough there were several animal crates, some of which had tufts of brown rabbity fur sticking through the air holes. Worryingly, there was also a huge German Shepherd dog curled up in the back. I stepped back gently so as not to disturb it and returned to the driver’s window. This was rather embarrassing, Benoit’s mouth was wide open and he was snoring his head off – but at least he was still there. I gingerly tapped the door which simultaneously roused him and his dog. Fortunately both seemed to be in good humour.

Like a couple of old hyperactive fishwives we repeated our effusive apologies which Benoit waved aside, smiling as though having to wait for over two hours in a stiflingly hot layby was something he did every day. Benoit was a perfect gentleman.

We quickly completed our paperwork and he began to transfer the six crates from his car to ours. We were milling around the back of his car, cooing at his beautiful dog and doing nothing at all useful to help, when he bellowed, “Merde!” I followed his pointing finger towards our open car and to my horror saw that one of the cases had opened and the back of the car was full of enquiring looking bunnies. At that very moment my telephone rang again – it was Jack. I stared at my phone, Di stared at me with red-tinged eyes and Benoit waggled his finger at the bunnies. There was nothing for it I had to answer Jack.

Poor Jack was rather concerned that we were taking so long about our simple, near-Montauban pick-up. I responded as best as I could whist trying not to look at Di who was making strange wafting movements at the rabbits. Once Jack was placated I turned my attention back to the car.

Terrified they were going to escape and meet a grisly end on the busy road, the three of us formed a human wall and advanced on the bunnies. Mostly they were perfectly docile, but there was one adventurer. Quick as a flash Benoit grabbed it in mid hop and slammed the door on the rest – disaster averted. This was about all the excitement we could handle for one day.

We weakly reiterated our apologies, our thanks and admiration at his fielding skills and were just about to go when he gestured for us to stop. Benoit had something else. He delved in the back of his car and produced a different type of crate this time. He plonked it into my arms and said, “Cadeau.” After completely ruining his afternoon, the very last thing we deserved was a present. I peered into the box and calmly peering back were seven pairs of eyes. Benoit had given us a small flock of quail. We shook hands warmly, assured him that we now knew exactly where to come if we ever needed another rabbit, and parted company.

The drive back with our precious cargo seemed to be extremely quick. Jack was mildly surprised that we looked like a pair of damp gibbering wrecks, but grateful that we had returned in one piece. We gently took our rabbit crates out and released the animals into their new pens. They were a fine group of animals. Not at all nervous, just grateful to hop around on fresh turf and examine their new home.

We then turned our attentions to the quail. Benoit said they would live happily with other game birds so we took them into the pheasant pen. As Jack carefully removed each one he cried, “Ah look,” with a broad smile across his face, “one of them has laid an egg. Huh, life is full of surprises isn’t it?” Di and I looked at one another – completely wrung out with nervous exhaustion. Yes, life here in France is fully of surprises. It was a few months before I was able to confess our dreadful misadventure to my husband. 

Memoir Madness

A group of 10 authors and myself have got together to bring you #memoirmadness. Each best-selling author is offering the first book in their series at the reduced price of 99p/99c until the 10th April. 

In support of this Easter special you have the opportunity to chat to any of the featured authors tomorrow, from 10am onwards on FaceBook. Hosted by Alan Parks and Sarah Jane Butfield, it's sure to be a fun event. 

The lost French hunting dog

With my duster in hand, I flew to the front door to find out why the dogs were making such a racket. Our two Australian Shepherds aren’t quiet at the best of times, but what I saw would make most dogs howl with horror. There was a man outside with his nose squashed up against the window gabbling loudly, trying to calm them down. That was never going to happen.

I’m always happy to have my household chores interrupted, but the sight of this person made me think twice. It was Régis Faradoute, president of the local hunt here in our area of S-W France, and his visits often involve some level of controversy. Like it or not, hunting is part of the fabric of life here – it’s a tradition that has been followed for generations, and forms an integral part of farm pest control in the country. I banished the dogs to the kitchen and went out to find out what today’s problem was.  

Régis is a chap who takes his hunting very seriously indeed. There he was, clad from head to foot in a bright orange boiler suit, looking rather like Humpty Dumpty with a beard. The garish gear is normally used as a security precaution when out hunting. The idea being that humans can easily spot the colour but many game species can’t because they have a form of colour-blindness. In Régis’ case he wears this kit all the time, irrespective of whether he’s hunting.

Régis was is a terrible flap. After exchanging pleasantries he hurriedly poured out a horror story that would make most people fear that nature’s balance had been set on its head. Gangs of foxes were rampaging the area; chickens were being slaughtered, sheep were being worried and lambs had gone missing – something had to be done about it before it was too late.

I listened patiently, ignoring his cabaret of flailing arms and bulging eyes. I also overlooked his posture, which when he gets extremely agitated changes altogether. He bounces up and down on his toes, and then sways from side to side – it can actually make one quite giddy.  This was Régis’ usual precursor before asking permission to come on to our land. I was well used to his tactics by now. By creating a picture that was too dreadful to contemplate, he hoped to get his way. However, a few simple questions usually deflated him.  

“So, Régis, have you seen all these foxes?”

“No, but I have been told!”

“Ah. By whom?”

“The friend of my brother’s neighbour. My brother told me last night.”

“I see. But he lives around 15 kilometres from here doesn’t he? How many have you seen in our area?”

“I’ve definitely seen two male foxes. But I am sure there are more.”

We're involved in a project trying to raise pheasants and quail to populate our forest, and have extremely strict rules about where the local huntsmen are allowed on our land. We checked our boundaries thoroughly and knew that they were secure from predation. After listening to further pleas of livestock persecution, I allowed him access to the farthest border where our land meets his own. It was nowhere near our pheasants. He assured me it would be a low-key affair involving only himself and a couple of colleagues, together with one or two scent-hounds. That agreed, I left him to it and returned to my housework.

Later that afternoon I took our dogs, Aby and Max out for their daily walk. We traipsed along several forest tracks, basking in pools of sun where it shone through the budding branches. As ever, I was on the lookout for sightings of deer that inhabit our woods, but there were none evident. Instead I caught a glimpse of a large hare in the distance, what a beauty it was. Capering around for a couple of hours is hot work, so on the way back I paused by a brook while the dogs had a refreshing dip and wallow amongst the tree roots.

As I watched the dogs playing I became distracted by the sound of baying – that distinctive sound of a hound on the scent. Although pretty close, I couldn’t work out exactly where it was coming from, and thought very little of it. We live in the countryside where our version of traffic noise comes in the form of animal chatter, including dog barks, so this was pretty normal.

We returned to the house where I was alerted by a soft donging sound. For anyone who has lived in the French countryside, it can mean only one thing. We were not alone. Somewhere in our garden there was a hunting dog, this must have been the animal we’d heard earlier on. Aby and Max rushed off, helter-skelter, to round up the perpetrator. I followed them, concerned that there might be a pitched battle over territory, but I needn’t have worried.

It took me a moment or two to spot it – at first all I could see was our two and 12 paws. We had a cluster of dogs alright, but what on earth was the stranger going to look like? Then it appeared from underneath Aby’s tummy, and stood surveying the area timidly.

It was a very stocky little dog with stumpy legs and long floppy ears, similar to a standard hunting hound. I thought might be a Teckel (the French name for a rough haired dachshund), but it was shorter in the back and a mix of black, white and fawn colours which do not match that breed. The poor animal bravely stood its ground, but it was clearly nervous. I assumed that it must have been one of the dogs used in the hunt that morning which had, for some reason, got lost.

This situation occurs very regularly and particularly so during the deer and wild boar hunting season. Hounds are released to flush out game, and during the pursuit they’re quite capable of following scents for several kilometres, ending up in far off locations. This should not have applied to Régis’ fox hunt. Nevertheless, right now I had the welfare of the animal to consider.

For some reason hunting dogs are often very reserved animals and almost impossible for strangers to handle. Very few are lead trained and, in our experience, will usually only respond to their owners. This has been difficult in the past when we have needed to care for lost dogs and return them to their owners, but today proved to be different. I approached the animal carefully and managed to sling a slip-lead around its neck.

In spite of looking very anxious, the bedraggled dog bravely followed me to the house. My husband, Jack, was in the kitchen and came out to find me with this forlorn creature. It stood, completely docile, as we checked it over. It was a female. She had some injuries but they seemed to be superficial. A sore eye, bloodied nose, scraped back, damaged ear and she was buckling at the knees from fatigue. Nevertheless, she stood proudly, and I couldn’t help but feel impressed by this stoic fighter.

Fortunately, she had a big collar which bore the mini cow bell and a telephone number. I quickly dialled the number, but there was no reply. Frustrated by this I called Régis instead and described our visitor. He huffed and puffed and confirmed that she had been used during the morning hunt but had run off. He assured us that he would contact the owner straight away.

Whilst all this was going on our dogs were getting to know their new companion. Max was immediately besotted, and lay by her side staring dreamily into her eyes, whilst Aby gambolled around the edges, encouraging them to play. Neither flinching nor budging, the miniature hunter stood her ground and looked curiously at the playful behaviour of our mollycoddled dogs.

A feature of lost hunting dogs is that they are usually desperately thirsty and starving hungry. Some will argue that we should not give the animals anything until their owner has arrived but we disagree. Over the years we have looked after several lost or abandoned hunt dogs. Some for a few hours, others a few days and one for the rest of his life, we did not want to run the risk of the owner failing to turn up for hours.

Although our visitor wasn’t skinny, she was definitely in need of refreshments. Jack gave her some water and then a small quantity of dog food. She looked at him, then over to me and began gingerly nibbling on the food. This was an extremely refined lady.

Sometime later the hooting of a car horn sounded the arrival of the dog’s owner. Still clad in his hunting orange, I took monsieur Baralet over to the house where Jack was sitting with the dog by his side. We had dispensed with the lead because she had begun to relax and seemed happy to stay put. Monsieur thanked us for looking after his dog and proudly gave us some history about her.

Dori is a Petit Basset Griffon Vendéen, an ancient breed of French hound that can be traced back to the sixteenth century. The name is descriptive with “petit” (small), “basset” (low to the ground), “griffon” (wire-haired), and “Vendéen” referring to the part of France where the breed originated. The animals are scent hounds bred for hunting game of all sizes over rough terrain.

It transpired that Dori was a terrific hunter and had the war wounds to prove it. Monsieur Baralet pointed to her shredded left ear saying that she had been bitten by a fox – and her other cuts and scrapes were normal after a day’s work. I looked at this tough little dog, then at ours. What a different lives they led.

Apparently it was Dori’s zeal for hunting that had been her downfall. Her job that morning had been to follow fox scents, but she was side-tracked onto her favoured activity – rabbit hunting. Monsieur Baralet did not elaborate on exactly how she’d got lost, but looking at this diminutive animal I could quite understand how she might be difficult to spot galloping off amongst the undergrowth.

I was fascinated by what he was telling us. He was obviously a keen huntsman so I asked him if he had any more dogs. He sighed, sadly explaining that he used to have 23 but, due to the difficulties in the economy, he’d been forced to reduce the number to 18. They were all shapes and sizes, and she was one of the smallest. That number alone made my mind boggle. She was obviously well cared for – I couldn’t even imagine how much it would cost to maintain a pack of that size.

Throughout our chat, Dori had been sitting calmly by Jack’s side. At one point she got up and wandered into the house. It prompted me to ask monsieur if she was allowed indoors. No, he’d replied, all his dogs lived in kennels. In all her ten years, Dori had never been in a house. My heart went out to this tiny soldier, I know it shouldn’t have done, but she’d grabbed my heartstrings, Jack’s too, I could see by the way he’d stroked her.

After exploring for a moment or two she came back to us and sat back down next to Jack – leaning against him slightly. Monsieur signalled that it was time to go and quietly called to his dog. She didn’t move a muscle. “Go on, little one,” said Jack, giving her an encouraging nudge, “get back to Papa.” She looked searchingly back at him with her meltingly brown eyes – was she trying to say thank you?

With a kind smile monsieur thanked us once again and started walking back to his truck, calling lightly to his dog. Dori gave us one more look, got up stiffly and obediently trotted after her owner, no doubt ready for action when required.

I don’t know whether we will ever come across this particular dog again but one thing’s for sure, she’s a super animal, and one that we’ll welcome back at any time.

Our latest encounter with a hunting dog ended another day here on our domaine in France. It’s a funny old thing, despite living in the depths of the countryside there’s always something going on. And we love it.  

Family and Fungi

The thing about living in a rural location is that somehow one gets to know most of the people in the locale without realising it. At least that’s how it’s been for us. An example of this is our friendship with the Ambourget family, which began quite by accident soon after we had arrived.

One of my first forays into our nearest town was to shop at Carrefour, a supermarket, to buy food and other essentials. Unlike most of its counterparts, this store is pocket-sized and was peppered with people who seemed to know each other. I’m not sure what fascinated me most about this visit, hunting around the aisles inspecting the local produce, or observing the other customers’ behaviour.

One particular deep-seated custom that caught my eye was the in-shop greeting. When a friend or acquaintance was spotted, half-filled trolleys were immediately abandoned in favour of hugs and kisses, followed by a deep discussion. It was all very earnest and happened constantly.

As a newcomer, I had no-one to discuss the weather and local goings-on with, but it didn’t matter. Every single person I passed hailed me with a cheerful “bonjour madame”. This developed further when I got to the checkout. A small, sunny-faced lady operating the till asked where I was from. This began a stilted conversation which soon became a general chat as other customers joined in. Their places in the queue forsaken like the trolleys, everyone far more interested in learning about me than paying for their goods.

Sometime later I came away knowing the names of my checkout lady and one or two other shoppers. From these tentative beginnings my firm friendship with the wonderful Nicole was forged.

The timing of this fledgling friendship coincided with major renovations to our property. It was a tortuous project that took us much longer than we’d ever anticipated, but that’s the subject of another story. One of the artisans we dealt with was a granite specialist. His name was Georges, and he was ably assisted by his father, Yves. They were both very quietly spoken, built to hump lumps of granite with the greatest of ease, and all-round absolute gentlemen.  

We were enjoying an end-of-day beer with them one evening when we learnt the first link in their family tree. I’d explained where I was doing our local shopping and Georges shyly mentioned that his mother worked there. Coincidentally it transpired that this was Nicole, the checkout lady. There was absolutely no resemblance between burly Georges and his mother, who is very slim, so I felt I could be forgiven some surprise. But the genuine warmth of personalities was shared amongst all three of them. From there, further members of the family were gradually introduced, but in a somewhat unusual way.

Georges and Yves have an enduring love for mushroom picking, a popular obsession in these parts. One day they told us that our forest was famed for having some of the best fungi in the region. This was not the first time the subject had been mentioned –  most everyone we’d met was up to speed on the subject. Their idea of bliss was to amble amongst the trees searching for these woodland wonders, and then cook their spoils later on.

Because their faces lit up with such ecstatic pleasure at the very thought of it, we immediately invited them to do their hunting in the enclosed section of our woods, the prized area. We were in the process of adding they might meet one or two others to whom we’d extended similar permission when Yves said he’d already heard. Wringing his baseball cap bashfully in his hands, he confessed that his brother-in-law was one of our neighbours and he was also a mushroom fancier. The family tree continued to burgeon from there on.

Every time Yves or Georges wanted to go fungi foraging, Nicole would courteously telephone to seek permission. This is how we met Georges’ three children and one of his brothers, Dominique. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and they asked if we would mind if the family group could have an amble in the woods. Of course we readily agreed.

That same afternoon we were repairing one of our observation hides when they appeared around the corner, supported by shepherd’s crooks and armed with wicker baskets. Georges quickly arranged his cherubic children in height order and introduced each one, then his brother Dominique, whose basket was already overflowing with assorted mushroomy gems.

Yves and Nicole then appeared, beaming contentedly at their delightful grandchildren. With the introductions complete, Yves took on an air of the conspirator. In hushed whispers he informed us that they’d discovered a marvellous spot that, currently, was bursting at the seams with ceps. Clearly this was something to be excited by, except that I wasn’t at all certain what a cep was. We congratulated him on his find then I revealed my lamentable mushroom-ignorance by asking what they looked like.

Fortunately, this seemed to be the very question Yves was hoping I might ask. In response he proudly thrust his pannier under my nose which contained several large moth-eaten looking specimens. These, he assured me, were truly excellent. Intrigued by the possibilities of new discoveries, and persuaded by their infectious enthusiasm, we agreed to join them the next day.

The following evening Yves, Nicole and Georges arrived early. Barely able to conceal their excitement, the men dashed off leaving Nicole to tag along behind. We fell in step with her and ambled along, chatting amicably about local goings-on in the village. When we reached the special spot, we found Yves and Georges already hard at it, picking cautiously at the dead leaves, hoping to uncover a nugget or two. It was then that we realised we were not alone. To our surprise Gilbert, the brother-in-law, who apparently has an expert nose for these things, was already there and poking around with focused attention.

The following two hours turned out to be quite an education. Each of the men was armed with their proper mushroom-collecting wicker basket and shepherd’s crook, and foraged independently on different patches. Neither approached the others’ territory, it seemed to be an unspoken mushroom-respect rule.

Meanwhile, Jack, my husband, and I, totally clueless as to what we were looking for, wandered around with our plastic carrier bags. These graphically labelled us as total amateurs, but we hadn’t had time to buy the pro kit.

Nicole and I spent a goodly amount of time enjoying the rustic scenes, but none of that for the other men, they were entirely dedicated to the task in hand.

Every now and again there would be a whoop of joy, and an “oh, la la!” from someone who had a found a particularly wonderful fungus. We’d all gather around and coo appropriately, whereupon it would be delicately removed with the special mushroom-cutting knife and gently stowed in the pannier.

As beginners, it was decided that Jack and I needed to have our finds checked to make sure that they were edible. This was essential because even we knew that some varieties of mushroom can be deadly. We just didn’t know which ones. Yves, on the other hand, was an acclaimed expert and appointed as official inspector. He scrutinised each offering, segregating them into three categories: toxic - discard it immediately, edible but not of a professional standard, and highly sought after. 

By the end of the evening every pannier was filled with a variety of different fungi, but the prized cep was by far the most popular. The enthusiasts were thrilled to bits with their harvest. Even Jack had done exceedingly well by stumbling on a bounteous crop which reaped many edible beauties. Conversely neither I nor Nicole had managed to gather any at all, but that didn’t matter – it had been a great experience.

We decided to celebrate our first champignon-picking foray with drinks, and returned to the house for a glass of wine. This was when we met Nicole’s sister. Gilbert had walked a long way across the fields from his farm to the mushroom zone, declared that he was too tired to walk back, and called his wife, Emily, to come and pick him up. Once she arrived we settled comfortably around the kitchen table where the next mushroom-related tradition was demonstrated.

Each of the men proudly showed off their goodies. We collectively viewed the spoils which included ceps, chanterelles and the trompette de la mort (trumpet of the dead) – the latter of which were as black as the ace of spades and looked extremely toxic to me. However they were deemed to be delicacies along with their earthy compatriots.

Typical of the generous folk in our area they insisted on sharing their harvest with us. They said that, since it was on our land where they’d picked the mushrooms, we must have some. Jack looked absolutely horrified at the idea and I quickly explained that whilst it was a very kind gesture, we would hate to deny them of their hard-earned bounty. Besides which, I added, I had no experience of the special cooking techniques that might apply to the more exotic varieties. I should have guessed what would happen next.

An energetic debate instantly began amongst the family groups as to which were the best cooking processes and recipes to teach me. Emily, who was is a sturdy, unflappable sort and structurally quite the opposite of her sister, was determined that the only way a cep should be eaten was in an omelette. I wouldn’t have dreamt of arguing with her. However, Yves was having none of it. Exhibiting horror at the idea of contaminating the magical flavour of the heavenly cep with any other substance, he insisted that they must be eaten on their own, or at a push cooked in a little butter with just a touch of garlic and parsley.

To save himself from expiring from a mushroom-information-overload, Jack concentrated on what he does best – making sure everyone had enough to drink. One bottle of wine was quickly consumed so he went to get reinforcements. Now, if there’s anything else that’s going to capture a Frenchman’s interest it’s the sight of a nice bottle of wine. Yves was in middle of expounding the values of the dried versus the frozen mushroom, when Jack produced three different bottles of wine. He asked which they would like.

Yves stopped in his tracks and issued a sigh of admiration. He quickly tapped Nicole on the shoulder – she knew what to do. Reaching into her voluminous quilt jacket pocket she produced a pair of broken reading specs which Yves balanced precariously on the end of his nose. There was a moment of hushed silence as each of the three bottles was reverently passed from one family member to the other and the labels studied in minute detail.

The culinary virtues of mushrooms were then temporarily traded with a pithy debate about the vintage, quality of grape and relative merit of each bottle. It was at this point I felt rather relieved that I hadn’t offered a selection of cheeses, we’d have been there all night.

Eventually the bottles were delicately handed back to Jack, who was looking as though he was about to stab himself with the cork screw. Fresh glasses were filled, contents sniffed, swirled and sipped, and we returned to the subject of mushrooms.

To my untrained eye some of the specimens had looked pretty grotty. I asked whether those with grubs in them would be discarded. This was obviously a dreadful notion. My innocent question was met by appalled expressions from everyone around the table, save Jack, who looked as though he would gladly chuck the whole lot into the compost unit. The thought of disposing of these beauties was obviously a sacrilegious one and gave rise to an even livelier debate about the quickest, and most thorough, cleaning methods.

Keeping up with the local accent is hard enough at the best of times, but when one is in the midst of a heated discussion with everyone talking at once, it’s very tricky indeed. In the end the matter was resolved by the diminutive Nicole. She wanted to make sure that I understood the techniques involved and held up her hand. In an instant the assembled company fell silent. She asked me whether I would mind if she demonstrated the process. I, of course agreed, and within seconds she had taken command of the range cooker.

Tiny, skinny, retiring Nicole transformed into master chef, and barked out instructions to everyone who did exactly as she commanded without question. She began by collected samples from each pannier. I produced olive oil (had to be extra virgin), butter (half-salt), garlic (pink), several eggs (brown, medium sized), parsley and various pots and pans. We all gathered round to watch as she treated us to a masterclass on how to prepare ceps and trompette de la mort – three ways. Others helped out at different stages, but she was definitely the boss.

As the culinary scene played out there was very little arguing over the techniques involved, but that’s perhaps because she expertly produced platefuls of mushrooms that were either plain, with added garlic and butter or as part of an omelette. Oh, and just a little seasoning. That, together with hunks of fresh bread, meant that there was something for everyone.

Another bottle of wine was carefully inspected and reverently sipped, apparently chosen for its particular suitability to go with the recipes we were savouring. Conversational topics flowed easily from the fruits of our forest to the local inhabitants of the village and it was then that Georges informed us that we knew another of his relations. It transpired that one of his uncles ran the petrol station we used. Huh – what a small world it was.

The evening finally ended around 11pm. Our simple impromptu glass of wine had evolved into a gourmet classic. Despite the late hour and our earnest protestations, they refused to go until the house was put back together again. Emily and Nicole fought over washing and drying duties leaving me to tidy up around the edges and put things away. Finally the men gathered up their precious harvests and they made their ways to the cars, each filled with gratitude and bonhomie.  

Yves had driven halfway out of the drive when he reversed back again. Nicole popped her head out of the car window and called us over. She’d had an idea. It struck her that we hadn’t met nearly enough of her family yet and invited us to their house for dinner. It might not be possible to meet everyone on one visit she said, but she was keen to introduce us to her other children and her mother, who had lived with them for years. She also wanted to cook us a traditional Tarn et Garonne dinner, it would be their way of thanking us. We tried to say that there was no need but that was a fruitless exercise. Our shy, quiet friend had made her decision and it was enthusiastically supported by both Yves and Georges who nodded vigorously.

That evening had been a very special one for us. We were introduced to new treasures in the forest, met more members of this wonderful family and cemented friendships that, I’m happy to say, have become stronger each year. And, despite socialising on a regular basis, I’m sure that we still haven’t met all of the family.