The Libertys, however, are a little sceptical when I tell them the plan. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ says Lola. ‘Wouldn’t you be better off in a chambre d’hôte or B&B?’
‘Have you ever been camping before?’ asks Dylan, looking doubtful.
‘No, but how difficult can it be?’ I reply, rummaging in another bin bag for my Tiffany penknife (also a gift from a PR). ‘Anyway, it’s only for a week, while the boiler and plumbing works are being carried out at the house.’ And even though it is late September, the weather is on my side and unseasonably warm.
In the end Dylan accompanies me to the campsite on Friday evening to put up my tent, neatly ending my delusions of self-sufficiency. ‘Are you sure that’s meant for real camping?’ he asks, as I pull my tent from its nylon casing.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Here’s a picture of what it will look like when it’s up.’
‘Well, at least you won’t have any problems finding your way back to it,’ he says. I can tell that he disapproves of my tent because it is made from nylon and is not biodegradable.
‘Now, have you got a wooden mallet?’
‘A wooden mallet?’
‘To hammer the tent pegs in.’ Dylan reaches into his rucksack and pulls one out. ‘Fortunately, at least one of us planned ahead.’
The campsite, by the side of a river and accessed by a stone bridge and a narrow country track, is very peaceful – and, since it is late September, mostly unoccupied. There are just a few camper vans dotted around, mostly occupied by middle-aged French couples making the most of the unseasonably warm autumn weather. I have been given a plot next to one such couple, both sporting khaki shorts, matching fleeces and a tan. They are camping à la française: a big camper van with a separate, designated dining area under an awning, from which a delicious smell drifts my way. They are also, I note, drinking wine out of proper wine glasses and are about to eat dinner at a little table laid with real white china and a tablecloth. Madame watches as Dylan and I unfurl the small, flower-power tent and whispers something to Monsieur, who looks over with a wry smile.
‘Now are you sure you are going to be OK?’ says Dylan, packing his mallet back into the rucksack. ‘Remember, if you change your mind you can always book into Le Vieux Chateau for a few nights.’
‘Oh no, I’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘It’s so peaceful here.’
Less than half an hour later I am sitting inside my sleeping bag, taking alternate bites out of a lump of Brie and a stale baguette, when the peace of the campsite is shattered. A camper van draws up in such close proximity to my tent that I fear it is going to park on top of me. Amid much shouting and laughing, at least half a dozen men roll out and proceed to have a party. They are not the only newcomers. In less than an hour, the tranquil campsite becomes the equivalent of an all-male Glastonbury, with a sudden influx of camper vans, motorbikes and men. Most of them seem to be travelling in large groups. The countryside rings to the sound of male laughter, and the persistent beat of my neighbours’ ghetto blaster, regularly interspersed by the sound of cans of lager being opened and someone peeing in the bushes nearby.
Lying in my sleeping bag and attempting to read by torchlight another memoir of someone living the good life in France, it occurs to me that some might view this as a marvellous opportunity. Miranda, for example, finding herself camped out in the middle of what appears to be a stag party, would no doubt put on some lipstick, grab a beer and join in. Me, I lie in the dark wondering why they have all decided to converge here off-season.
The answer presents itself the next day. A huge ‘TRIATHLON’ banner has been erected across the campsite and there are racing bikes everywhere – propped against bushes or tents or hung on the side of camper vans. Emerging stiffly from my tent, I see lots of men in cobalt-blue Lycra, already up and about and performing muscle stretches in the early morning sunshine. My neighbours, dressed in form-hugging sunflower yellow, are frying sausages on a small gas stove. One of them waves a cheery ‘Bonjour’ as I pass by on the way to the shower block. ‘C’est jolie, votre tente!’ he declares.
‘Merci,’ I reply, not sure if he is being facetious.
In the shower block – fortunately not unisex – I encounter yet another irritating shower. Unlike the Libertys’ high-tech monster, this one does not take you by surprise with cold jets from odd angles but it does require you to push a button every ten seconds in order to keep the water going. I perform a curious hopping routine to try and get dressed in the small cubicle without dropping or trailing my clothes on the wet floor and, once again, think longingly of my former bathroom in London with its power shower, pale limestone tiling and ladder radiator with warm, fluffy towels.
The manager of the campsite rushes over as I leave the shower block. ‘Madame, you have paid for this evening also?’ he asks. ‘Because there is a sporting event happening today and I must tell you that access by car will not be possible later. The campsite entrance will be closed all day.’
‘That’s OK. I am leaving now and won’t be back until this evening.’
‘And tonight there will be a big barbecue but you must buy a ticket.’
‘Thank you, but I already have plans for this evening.’ I have plans for this evening. The campsite manager has no idea what pleasure it gives me to be able to say those words, for tonight I have my first real social engagement since moving to France. It’s a dinner party at Miranda’s, and the opportunity not only to dress up but to socialise with some real French people. Miranda hasn’t told me exactly who is coming – ‘It’s a surprise, darling’ – but has promised that at least two of the guests will be French, both of them male and single. As you can imagine, my expectations are high.
I drive to the outskirts of Poitiers and spend a useful hour in Castorama, looking at wood stains and varnish for the wooden floorboards, before visiting the DIY store Leroy Merlin, where I am accused of shoplifting. This is because I did not declare my electric toothbrush charger (for which I was seeking an adaptor) on entering the store. Fortunately, the girl at reception remembers me revealing my charger on entry and asking for help, so I am eventually allowed to leave, but I am bristling with indignation at the idea that I would steal something of such low net worth. Still, it teaches me a valuable lesson: in France, the customer is always guilty until proven innocent.
Afterwards, I drive into the centre of Poitiers and walk to the main square. There is a food market taking place in the shadow of Notre Dame Cathedral and, unlike the few stalls that pass for a market in Villiers, this appears to be the real French deal. People are bustling around with baskets or pull-along shopping trolleys, squeezing, sniffing or sampling the goods. Many stalls sell just one product – goat’s cheese, artichokes or exotic looking breads, for example – and the shopping process, I notice, is rife with flirtation: ‘Did you make those yourself, Monsieur?’ one elegantly dressed woman asks a man selling fluffy white goat’s cheeses.
‘Yes, with my own hands, Madame. Would you like to taste a little piece?’
‘Oh, but they look lovely, your pears!’ I hear another woman cry.
The produce itself looks very alluring: purple-green cabbages sprouting like big flower brooches, small black prunes glistening like jet beads, heads of purple and white garlic strung together like a necklace. There are aubergines, the same opulent shade of purple-black as a YSL smoking, piles of large mushrooms, their undersides pleated like a Vionnet gown, and stalls selling pungent frills of parsley and basil or velvety green leaves of sage, while plump and shiny red and green peppers nestle in wooden boxes. Unfortunately, none of this is much use to me as I am weeks, if not months, away from a functioning kitchen and mostly living on bread and Brie.
As I contemplate this depressing thought, a man pushes a plate of saucisson towards me. Would I like a little taste? Why not? I spear a disc of the claret-coloured sausage and savour its salty deliciousness.
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��Yes, it’s very good,’ I say. ‘I would like one please.’
Smiling, the stallholder wraps a saucisson in wax paper and hands it to me. ‘Thats thirty-two euros,’ he says.
‘How much?’ I gulp, thinking that I have misheard. ‘That seems a little expensive.’
He explains that the saucisson has been dried and left to mature for several years, that the pigs that produced it were fed a very good diet and it has been handmade to a recipe passed down from his grandmother. It seems churlish to argue. (I later discover that many an Anglais makes this mistake, assuming that all market produce is cheap and not bothering to check the price before being hit with a €40 bill for a small wedge of rarefied cheese.)
The sight of all this food is making me hungry. The cafes around the cathedral are packed with couples and groups of friends enjoying the autumn sunshine – and lunch. I think how nice it would be to have someone to eat lunch with: a leisurely Kir, followed by steak frites, or even an omelette and a glass of red wine. I think back fondly to the days when Dave and I were still friends. One of the great things about him was that he was always up for a long lunch.
I buy a pain au chocolat and a bag of chocolate-coated nuts in the Cordeliers shopping mall and eat my lunch alone sitting on a bench outside the hôtel de ville.
The cycling stage of the triathlon is reaching a culmination when I return to the campsite early that evening. I park my car on a grass verge half a mile away and pick my way back into the campsite through a crowd of cheering spectators and past groups of men pedalling furiously in shiny Lycra. Miranda has very kindly offered to pick me up at 7.30 p.m., as she says it would be very difficult to find her house on my own. I call from my mobile to warn her about the triathlon. At least she won’t have any problems finding my tent. I perform a strange series of contortions inside my tent in order to change into a green swirly print dress and sparkly black sandals. I crawl back out and wonder what to do with myself until Miranda arrives. The ‘must-have’ accessory on a campsite, I realise, is a camping chair. The couple in the camper van next to me look very comfortable as they sip aperitifs in theirs. Rather than face the ignominy of sitting on damp grass, I crawl back inside the tent and wait and think to myself, What a waste! The campsite is wall-to-wall men – hundreds of them, all fit, buff and primed for action. I am surrounded by more eligible men than I have met in a lifetime of living in London and here I am hiding in a pod of floral nylon.
‘Coucou! Anyone home?’ I am thrilled to hear Miranda’s voice. ‘My word, isn’t this just darling? And so clever of you to put up a tent all by yourself…’
I crawl out on my hands and knees to meet her.
‘Oh dis donc, look at you! You look divine. It’s so important to maintain standards, even when camping,’ she says, kissing me through a cloud of Shalimar. She is wearing a purple satin dress, a feathered headband and high heels. This campsite, I think to myself, has probably never seen such kit.
‘So you weren’t tempted to don a Lycra suit and join in the triathlon then?’ she says.
‘Tempting, but no.’
‘Well, darling, this is definitely what I would call integration. You’re completely surrounded by Frenchmen. If I had a tent, I’d come and join you.’ We head back out of the campsite, Miranda teetering along in her high heels. ‘Allez, Monsieur!’ shouts Miranda, at one particularly handsome athlete, who turns around and gives her a little wave.
Miranda is right. I would never have found her house on my own. It is tucked away on a dark, narrow track leading from a dirt road. There are a few other barn conversions dotted around nearby, but Miranda’s house feels isolated and alone. The front door opens immediately into a windowless kitchen and dining area. It is dark, sombre and chilly. There is a wood-burning stove (unlit), with two very scary looking swords placed above it, and a rather stern, dark wood dining table, which is not laid. Nor is there evidence of any cooking activity, which is disappointing as I am starving and looking forward to my first home-cooked meal in weeks.
Miranda lights a solitary candle and places it on the dining table. ‘So, darling girl, what can I offer you to drink? What about a glass of white wine – though I’m afraid it’s nothing fancy? Job lot from Lidl!’
‘Lidl?’
‘Discount store. Fabulous value!’
‘That would be nice,’ I lie. Cheap white wine always gives me a headache.
She pours us both a glass of wine and then says, ‘I know! What about some fairy lights? It would brighten the place up. I do so love fairy lights.’ She runs upstairs and returns with a string of red, flowery lights that between us we string across the rear wall, Miranda balancing on a chair in her high heels. ‘There,’ she says taking a large gulp of wine. ‘What do you think? Do they look OK?’
‘Very nice.’
‘Really? You’re not just saying that?’
‘No, they definitely add something.’
‘Now I must just quickly paint my nails.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I ask.
‘Oh no, darling. It’s all under control.’
I sit opposite Miranda at the table and watch as she produces a bottle of Chanel nail polish and proceeds, in a leisurely fashion, to paint her nails.
‘So who else is coming this evening?’ I ask.
Miranda looks hesitant, embarrassed almost.
‘Well, let’s see… there’s Desmond and Elinor. You’ll love them. Elinor teaches yoga. Desmond is retired but he used to be a bank manager – I think. They’re both strict lacto-vegetarians and very into healthy living, but don’t worry, they’re good fun.’
‘Right,’ I say, thinking that I have yet to meet a strict lacto-vegetarian who was really good fun.
‘Now, darling, I have to tell you that I also invited Dave.’
‘Dave? You did?’
‘Yes. I’ve no idea what’s going on between you – and I don’t want to know – but he was absolutely adamant that he wouldn’t come when he found out that I had invited you.’
‘He said that?’ I say, surprised at how hurt I feel at this news.
‘Yes,’ says Miranda. ‘It’s a shame, as I always thought he was a bit of a dish. And now that his divorce has come through, he’s single and, word has it, very much looking for a girlfriend. I rather thought that you two might… you know.’
‘We were good friends,’ I say. ‘But now he won’t even talk to me.’
‘What a shame,’ says Miranda. ‘Perhaps he’ll come round eventually.’
‘Perhaps,’ I say, feeling doubtful. ‘But I’m really sorry that it’s causing other people problems because they can’t invite us both to the same thing.’
‘Well, it’s his loss entirely, darling. But I had to make up the numbers somehow, so… I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve invited Victor.’
‘Victor!’ The news is lurching from bad to worse.
‘Yes, darling. But don’t worry. I think he’s got the message that you’re not interested. And he’s promised me that he’ll be terribly well-behaved.’
‘Right.’
‘Oh, and I also invited Jacques, one of my neighbours. A farmer. Single! He’s darling, though he’s on antidepressants at the moment. I thought a little outing would cheer him up. Don’t be put off by his slightly brusque manner. Underneath it all, he’s got charm to spare.’
‘ANYONE HOME?’ shouts a cheery male voice, as he opens the door. Miranda jumps up. ‘Desmond!’ she says. As she does so she spills the bottle of Chanel polish, pouring a little pool of plum liquid onto the dining table. ‘Oh merde!’ she cries.
‘Don’t move,’ says Desmond, marching confidently into the room in crisp, pale cotton trousers, pink polo shirt and sand-coloured corduroy jacket. ‘I’ll deal with it.’
He hands Miranda a bottle of champagne and then finds a cloth and some white spirit to clean up the polish, nego
tiating his way around Miranda’s kitchen with ease. Job done, he briskly washes his hands and then takes charge of the drinks.
‘Isn’t he the perfect gentleman?’ says Miranda, as Desmond expertly pops a champagne cork.
‘I like to look after my ladies,’ he says with a wink.
‘Have you met Karen?’ Miranda asks.
‘No,’ says Desmond, ‘but I’d like to.’ He grabs my hand, shaking it firmly and pressing his lips to my cheeks. His wife – an elegant blonde in her late forties – greets me with a friendly smile. ‘So you’ve just moved to Villiers?’ she says. ‘How lovely! Are you going to be based here full-time?’
‘Yes,’ I say, explaining that the plan is to write from home for British newspapers.
‘She’s a fashion and beauty journalist,’ declares Miranda. ‘Isn’t that wonderful?
‘And I hear you’re a yoga teacher,’ I say to Elinor, who bears the markings of every yoga teacher I have ever met: clear skin, lustrous hair and a lean, bendy looking body. Even her fragrance – I recognise it as Green Tea by Elizabeth Arden – smells clean and wholesome. ‘Well, yes, but only on an informal basis now. I do voluntary work for a charity for the bereaved, which takes up most of my time.’
There is another knock at the door and Victor arrives, also clutching a bottle of champagne. He seems to know everyone – Desmond and Elinor, it transpires, bought their house from him – although he looks slightly sheepish when he sees me.
‘And are you busy at the agency, Victor?’ asks Elinor in perfect French.
‘Ah non,’ he replies. ‘Things are terrible at the moment. Terrible! All the English, they are selling up and leaving. And no one is coming to take their place…’
‘Good,’ says Desmond. ‘The less English there are out here, the better.’
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