Copyright © 2019 Michelle Lawson
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Matador
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ISBN 978 1789019 346
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
This book is for everyone who has taken that step towards a new life abroad, whether by choice or through necessity.
Contents
Prologue
Life in France, in English
Push And Pull
Then Comes The Book…
Ariège, More Houses Than People
A House At The End Of A Track
1
Have A Photograph Taken With The English
An Englishman Abroad
Muriel’s About
Guests Of Honour
A More Human Sort Of Acceptance
Coq Au Vin À Deux
2
We Did It All Wrong
Sometimes I Think I Should Have Moved To Cumbria
Welcome To Valley Cottage
Like Hebden Bridge
Swimming In Arsenic
A Past Encounter
Thank You For The Food
Dinner For Eleven
3
The French Resistance (And Resisting The French)
A Lifestyle Change That You Know Nothing About
Resistance
In The Steps Of Piston And His “Trout”
Pic Rouge De Bassiès
Treading On My Toes
The Half-Baked Dream
4
The Quality Street Gang
Worzel Gummidge In A Jaeger Suit
Talk Politely To The Bear
Just A Stepping Stone
The Language Problem
The Legacy Of Vasconia
La Simplicité De La Montagne
Mont Valier
5
Like A Soap Opera
They Don’t Know Where Else To Turn
Just A Voyeur
The Online Amusement Arcade
They All Go Quoi? And Do That Frown
Interlude
Lucky To Be Here
Epilogue
The End Of The Track?
A Place Of Transience
Not A Bargaining Chip
Acknowledgements
Notes
Prologue
Life in France,
in English
I stood at a crossroads in a small town in south-west France, trying to make sense of the directions I’d printed from Gerald’s email. It was a Sunday morning in 2011, at that point between the seasons where summer was ready to tip over into autumn, but temperatures remained high and the town was dry and dusty as well as deserted. My eyes flickered around the two shuttered cafés and the browning verges but I couldn’t see anyone to help unravel the directions. Turning left as instructed had inexplicably led me out of town, so I’d turned back and parked the car on the outskirts. In unfamiliar places I always felt more at ease on foot. I walked a few more steps and dialled Gerald’s number, describing the arcade of shops opposite. ‘I don’t know where that is,’ he pondered. I began to doubt whether I was even in the right town. I read out the crossroad signage and it seemed to click with him. ‘Did I say turn left?’ he mused. ‘I wonder why I did that. You need to turn right.’ We ended the call with a promise that he’d put the kettle on.
I was on a journey to join a dozen or so dots on a map of south-west France. The dots were English incomers who’d chosen to make a new life for themselves in the green foothills of the Pyrenees, more precisely the little-known département of the Ariège. Hardly anyone seemed to have heard of it, including a fair number of the English incomers before they’d moved there. In time I came to find that many had uprooted to a corner of France that they were unfamiliar with.
I’d become fascinated by the Brits in France and I was setting out to interrogate, and perhaps even violate, that English dream to move to France. I wanted to delve beneath the romantic accounts, the television programmes like A Place in the Sun and the property magazines that encourage people to sell up and leave Britain for a new life in France. I’d also become mesmerised by one particular Ariège-based website that was dedicated to Life in France, in English. There are internet forums all over France to help people plan their move and support each other, answering countless questions and so on, but this one was particularly lively, with members even arranging to meet up offline. I’d also noted a fair bit of sneering from certain members. Unhappily for some, the soap opera of Life in France, in English offered an easy platform for infighting, with a few old-timers condemning recent incomers who have not done any homework; they do not know how to survive and they do not know anything about the country or language. Personal rants railed against needy newcomers who were being coddled, like cotton wool, who could not be bothered to get off their backside and explore a bit. Vicious seething against migrants is nothing new, but here it was the Brits pitched against each other.
At one point I found myself logging on daily, drawn into it as if it were a television soap. My interest only waned as it became plagued by hundreds of spam memberships, triggering its eventual closure. Another member set up a replacement site in no time, which continues to support English-speaking incomers in the Ariège, noticeably minus the infighting that characterised the original Life in France, in English platform.
I’d begun to notice that British columnists based in France similarly had few good words to say about their compatriots. We’re accustomed to seeing Britain’s own immigration situation described in the tabloids using language such as threatened, invasion and swamped, but the incomers themselves were using it to draw a demarcation between their own behaviour and that of all the other Brits in France. That very phrase seemed to connote the negative side of things; I’d seen the title Wake-up call for Brits in France that introduced a story about the harsh truths of reality that contradict the initial dream of moving to France1. Telegraph writer Michael Wright observed that all the Brits in France seemed poverty-stricken – the nouveaux pauvres – who economised by buying items shipped over by fellow compatriots. It’s hard not to smile at his description of the unloading of John Lewis pillows, fresh mushrooms and grated carrot from a British van.2 Even a journalist of Belgian origin, Marc Roche, used the phrase to write about the limited adventurous spirit of the Brits in France who listen to the BBC, make sausages and mash and drink too much wine.3
The word Brits was often the word of choice when complaining, rather than Britons or British. People were quoted as having an I didn’t come to France to hang out with other Brits at
titude. The other Brits were the ones who had been suckered into buying unsuitable properties, and who’d come in such numbers that they found themselves in the ironic situation of having ended up with what they were fleeing – other Brits. And no surprises that it was used to refer to criminals in The Sun’s story4 about British cocaine smugglers and the raids on homes of more Brits in France’s Dordogne region.
Some writers saw it as an invasion of unprepared Brits who had come over because they’d seen it on a television programme. One particular article, by John Lichfield, warned readers to avoid the British hotspots such as Dordogneshire and find a rustic retreat away from other Brits.5 Lichfield drew an unambiguous line between these recent migrants making up the “new” British invasion, and the longer-established British residents. Lichfield naturally included himself within the latter, claiming that the presence of the old-timer residents was prized by the local French for what they brought to the moribund villages. To be fair, there’s a long tradition of anecdotes that justify the British incomers as active protectors of local heritage. There’s been enthusiastic, as well as sometimes grudging, acceptance by the French that the British do a good job of restoring their decaying buildings. Besides, an influx of eager rural dwellers can bring life to dormant villages and help to revive local businesses. Despite a reputation for buying at inflated prices and driving up the average property prices, the French appreciate a British willingness to pay decent money for their old wrecks.
That’s not to say that there’s been no anti-English sentiment expressed by the French themselves in recent years. Following the large numbers of property seekers coming into Brittany, demonstrations in February 2005 saw protestors in Bourbriac claiming that Brittany “is not for sale”. The French journalist José-Alain Fralon has written an entire book about the recent incomers in and around the Dordogne département: Au secours, les Anglais nous envahissent! (Help, the English are invading us!). Despite the tongue-in-cheek title and the invasion metaphors that repeatedly refer to the English as our best, our oldest, our most sincere enemies, the examples that he gives of French resentment seem underwhelming. Fralon noted some “English go home” graffiti on dustbins in the Périgord, and how the depth of resentment increased in 2006 when the French press uncovered that sixty of the 7,000 fraudulent benefit claimants in the entire département were British. As anyone familiar with our tabloids will know, the idea of scrounging migrants, even in relatively tiny numbers, is one of the most provocative topics there is.
From my own observations, any discontent from the French was largely overshadowed by the infighting of the Brits themselves. Those who’d already made the move appeared to feel threatened by a mass invasion of armchair Francophiles knowing nothing about the country apart from the price of the property. Some writers made snide references to our rich depository of regional stereotypes to drive home the point, relying on the reader to nod and grimace at Lichfield’s metaphor of a slice of the home counties parachuted into the Périgord, for example. On the other hand, being a Midlander, I felt an obligation to be affronted by Mail on Sunday journalist Lauren Booth6, when she raised her eyebrows at the possibility – Gosh – of Brummie mummies in the local supermarché, buying ketchup to put on their magret.
All of this helps to reinforce the caricature of the dependent Brit clinging to their British ways, and it’s easy to join in with mocking our embarrassing compatriots. They are not like us! Yet stereotyping is all about over-generalising. I already had an idea of this supposedly typical British incomer in France, but as I moved around the Ariège talking to the incomers, the caricature became more defined as the incomers ranted against it. I could understand how this kind of thinking is a way to make sense of one’s own situation as an English incomer in France, particularly when one moves to the notorious hotspots such as Brittany and Dordogne. It’s a way to build imaginary boundaries between who we think we are, and those we want to stand distinct from. But what happens where the British incomers are thin on the ground, as in the Ariège Pyrenees? Do people still complain that the Brits dotted around this under populated region don’t integrate properly? Surely the Ariège would be a million miles away from what the columnists termed English suburbia gone badly wrong?
The Ariège département is about as far south as you can go before hitting Spain or Andorra. Formerly within the Midi-Pyrénées, the département now lies within the recently-formed Occitanie région of south-west France. Unlike the honey pots of Dordogne, where the existing incomers seem afraid that newcomers will dilute the French culture they’ve come to enjoy, the rural and depopulated Ariège is, both physically and metaphorically, miles away from the property magnet of Dordogneshire. So I’d been surprised to find the same bickering expressed online among English incomers in this little-known and remote corner of France. According to Tina, one of the incomers I spoke with, Ariège is ‘the last place to go in France really, there’s not a lot left, is there?’ And there was the same sense of being a territorial pioneer. ‘I’m not sure where I’ll go when they all get here.’
Of course the attraction of France for a new life is nothing new to the British. Peter Thorold’s book The British in France sets the current phenomenon into its historical context, going into exhaustive detail about who, when and where. Around the time of the Napoleonic wars, for example, many British artisans moved to France as it was easier to earn a living there. When the peace of Amiens failed, many of them were sent to detention centres. The centre at Verdun developed into a facsimile of an English town, where the 1100 detainees were free to open shops, join the Jockey Club and patronise the English church, as well as marry French spouses. After the battle of Waterloo, a developing entente brought English artisans and professionals to Paris, and English industrialists were sought elsewhere to set up cotton mills. Many of these earlier settlers lived in small towns for commercial reasons, while others came to buy the kind of extensive property that they could no longer afford in Britain, since estates in France might cost around a third to a quarter of their equivalent back home.
The Pyrenees in particular became a magnet for the English during the 19th century. Travel accounts portrayed it as a mysterious and undiscovered landscape, drawing plant collectors, geologists, hunters and climbers as well as general travellers. In fact, the man regarded as the greatest Pyrenean mountaineer, Charles Packe, was an Englishman, whose 1862 A Guide to the Pyrenees is still in print today. Pau in particular became known as an English colony, with its spa drawing those who were convalescing as well as the seekers of exotic flora, fauna and landscape. Traces of the “colony” are still visible in the names of the rue des Anglais and a quartier des Anglais. Even then it was criticised for what some saw as a transplanting of English customs and social habits, including fox hunting in the surrounding area. There were also substantial English communities building up along the cosmopolitan Riviera, with Nice, for instance, having a range of English churches, doctors, banks, libraries and shops at the end of the 19th century. And just as we have nicknames and clichés of the French, so they developed the same for the English. One occasionally comes across the term Rosbifs, from our apparent obsession with a meat that we found annoyingly expensive in France, and Thorold brings in the delightful military term of hermit crabs, reflecting the French perspective of an English soldier’s tendency to move in and take over other people’s property. It was a metaphor that some might feel is just as relevant today in certain areas.
In some respects, today’s influxes are seen as a continuation, as a more modern kind of exploitation of France by the “Ryanair crowd” flooding in to snap up French property bargains and sit around drinking like neo-colonials. Yet the idea that the incomers are mostly wealthy or in retirement is a myth. As in the past, there are Britons whose professional expertise invites them to live and work in France, such as the Airbus workers in Toulouse, for instance. What’s more, only around half of the British citizens living in France are aged fifty and over, and this per
centage is actually lower than that in Spain, Portugal and Bulgaria, according to a report compiled by the Office for National Statistics from Eurostat data.7 The number of British children living in France is correspondingly higher too. Incomers aged 65+ make up just 19% of the total of around 157,000 Britons living in France. All of this suggests that a significant number of the estimated total will be earning a living, or at least attempting to.
In his survey of British migration to France, Thorold saw two fundamental differences between the older influxes and the ‘new breed’ of those coming to France over the last thirty or so years. One is that the newer arrivals show a distinct longing to be accepted by the French, compared with their historical counterparts. Of everything that I came away with after my time spent among the Ariège incomers, it was an impression of an overwhelming obsession with being seen to be integrated, and that this was responsible for the infighting between the old-timers and the newcomers. The second difference is the draw of the exotic versus that of the familiar. The 19th-century incomers to the Pyrenees came seeking the unfamiliar, yet many of today’s incomers claim that they are attracted by a France that they think is “like England in the 1950s”. That England of the past is now out of their reach, since the few remaining pockets of English rural idyll are largely unaffordable for many. Similarly, the French journalist Fralon concluded that many moves to the Dordogne had been driven by nostalgia; the English might talk about their “love of France”, but it is really a longing to return to a more spacious and peaceful England of the past. ‘If the English want to breathe,’ he claimed, ‘they need to emigrate.’
Fralon identifies three distinct “waves” of more recent English incomers to the Périgord that can more or less be applied to other regions of France. The first influx took place during the late 60s, and certainly in the Ariège this has been linked to the arrival of “hippy” or alternative incomers, many of whom have not moved on. This was followed by another wave during the late 1970s, one that was marked more by arrivals who needed to find some kind of paid employment in France. The third wave from the late 1980s was boosted by what Fralon, with his fondness for invasion metaphor, calls the “Blitzkrieg” of the low-cost airlines flying into previously tiny airports. But the bargain seekers were not simply taking advantage of low-cost flights for their summer holidays. Fralon notes that the number of signed property purchases – actes de vente – by Britons in 2000 had doubled by 2004 to over 30,000. The Brits were now accounting for 41% of foreign property purchases in France.
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