by Janine Marsh
Flea-market aficionados largely fit into three different camps. The first are serious shoppers, antiques dealers and online shop owners looking for treasures to upsell. They attend the specialist markets dedicated to postcards, stamps, militaria and antiques as well as local flea markets, hoping to find a Renoir or a Monet, hidden away in an attic for centuries. It happens. Not long ago, a family who lived near Toulouse found a long-lost painting believed to be by Italian painter Caravaggio; it was valued at the time at 120 million euros. You can bet your life when that story appeared in Le Figaro newspaper, people all over France were checking their attics for treasures. Just a few years before that, a ninety-year-old woman, who was selling her house in Compiègne in Picardy, called in a local auction company to dispose of belongings. The young auctioneer who arrived, just a year into the job, spotted an intriguing painted wooden panel above the hot plate of the old lady’s oven. He decided to research it and it turned out to be an old masterpiece dating back over seven hundred years. Depicting a scene from Christ’s Passion, it was by a thirteenth-century Florentine painter known as Cimabue, and valued at over 5 million euros.
Then there are those who are obsessed with collecting things. They visit several brocantes each weekend, travelling from town to town seeking a bargain. They include sharp-elbowed little old ladies who will nudge you out of the way if they spot something special – they’re certainly not going to let you get in their way. Gary and Annette also fall into this category.
They live in an old building, a former village schoolhouse of several rooms, a cellar and multiple outbuildings. Every room in the house is filled to overflowing with all sorts of things. Medals, uniforms, books and ancient newspapers are Gary’s penchant. He’s a retired electrician turned historian and battlefield guide, and sports an extended, imperial-style bushy moustache with curled ends and mutton-chop sideburns. He looks like an ageing Freddy Mercury. Annette, a rosy-cheeked former matron, cannot resist the lure of antique clothes, buttons, magazines, knitting patterns, glass, china, perfume bottles, kitchenalia, ornaments and much (much) more. Every Sunday they set off in their car with a goal to visit two brocantes before lunch and two more after lunch. They are bargain hunters extraordinaire and their car is normally fit to burst with their buys. When I visit their house, I wonder how much more they can possibly buy as every inch of their home is full. They converted an old stable block into a dining room and study but that’s now full, so they’re considering converting a huge barn, currently the playroom of two goats and umpteen chickens.
And there are others, who like us, are happy just to wander and browse. Mark likes to look at militaria; I like to look at almost everything else. We’re constantly amazed by the often hideous, the frequently weird, and the frankly downright odd. You will, more often than you would ever think possible, see leaking, long-dead stuffed animals, the ugliest dolls in the world – they would give Chucky a run for his money – or used wine-bottle corks. On the other hand, I have bought some real gems, including an antique typewriter for a few euros, though Mark didn’t think of it quite as fondly as he had to carry it a mile back to the car. I also bought a huge threadbare but beautiful tapestry in a frame that was too big to fit in the car, so we had to tie it on the roof where it flapped all the way, making everyone we passed turn in amazement. I’ve even come home with a cat and a cockerel.
Mark is a fairly reluctant flea-market-goer. There’s always the issue of parking to start with. A good brocante can lure hundreds to a small high street. Diversions are usually in place to deal with the traffic, and a uniformed official (think hi-vis jacket and whistle) will be directing a long line of cars full of impatient treasure hunters. On the whole, French people have an aversion to walking, except in Paris where walking is de rigueur, so parking more than hundred metres from a brocante brings out the worst in drivers. They will park in the middle of a roundabout, around a roundabout, at odd angles sticking out in the road at junctions, across gates clearly marked no parking and even on pedestrian crossings.
A brocante is also a day out for the stallholders. People set out tables and blankets in the road in front of their homes. Several generations of the family will be present, sitting at picnic tables, enjoying an all-day barbecue, chatting with neighbours and friends, bartering over 50 centimes for that pre-loved item.
For keen gardeners, flea markets are a good place to get young plants, especially tomatoes and salads, as well as flowers grown by green-fingered locals. Our plans to grow our own vegetables as much as possible weren’t exactly successful due to lack of time but we were determined this was going to be the year, buoyed by the trays of plants we could buy at the brocantes. The greenhouse that I’d bought on eBay years before and dismantled, before transporting it to France wrapped in copious amounts of newspaper, was filled with seedlings and plants including some wild garlic we’d found growing prolifically in the Forest of Desvres on the outskirts of Boulogne-sur-Mer. At certain times in spring, you’ll find the forest full of foragers, keen to pick some of the strong-scented flowers and leaves for soups and salads. Jean-Claude makes a garlic soup that’s so strong you could probably light a fire with your breath after just a small bowl. The locals say that the garlic was planted by the Romans. Julius Caesar set sail from the beaches of Boulogne in 55 BC to conquer Britain and I love to think of the Roman emperor telling his commander to get some garlic ready for when he came back, and that I’m now picking from its offspring two thousand years later.
Although we can walk for miles browsing the brocantes, I knew I had to up my exercise because, like Madame Bernadette, I seem unable to resist cakes – and also wine, cheese, bread, chocolate and a few more things. The good life was definitely starting to take its toll on my waistline. And in this land of rolling hills and forests, it’s no hardship to walk the dogs for an hour twice a day. It meant I saw more of the wildlife – deer, wild pigs, hedgehogs, moles, Lady Amherst’s pheasants (no, she’s not a local but that’s what the colourful birds are called), rabbits and hares – since it frequently crossed our path as we traipsed through the woods and valleys. One morning three small grey owls accompanied us, flying from tree to tree along the path. The dogs thankfully have little or no chance of catching anything as they streak across the fields and up and down the hills – the wildlife here is tough and used to making a quick escape. On a rather damp April morning, however, they did make a catch – of sorts.
As the mist hung like wet cobwebs over the valley, we set off for our walk, out through the main street of the village (don’t get excited, it’s only eighteen houses), and up a small hill past the tiny private chapel where the road branches off. One way leads to the fields where Thierry the farmer grows sweetcorn and potatoes, peas and cabbages. The other way leads to a small alley with a couple of tiny cottages. We always go the way of the fields. The dogs know this and they never deviate. With that day being the exception. All three of them ran down the alley barking excitedly.
Both of us yelling at them didn’t make any difference at all. This is not uncommon when I shout – no one takes any notice of the maid – but they are usually better behaved for Mark. Clearly both being ignored this time, we took off in hot pursuit of the dogs, following the sound of wild woofing. To our surprise we were confronted by a very large white cow with black spots in the small, flower-filled front garden of one of the cottages. The dogs were utterly thrilled at their discovery. They were running around in circles, wagging their tails and panting with joy. The cow wasn’t remotely bothered by the attention. She lifted her big head slowly, stared for a second with soft brown eyes and, dismissing us all, ducked her head to carry on eating the pretty flowers.
The dogs barked as we stood there wondering whether we should knock on the door or if that might make the cow rampage and do more damage. We didn’t have to wait long. A pepperpot-sized old lady with a bun of white hair and little round glasses opened the front door of the house and stuck her head out.
‘Merde,’ she said loudly
when she saw the huge beast munching away. She disappeared back into the house. A short while later, she came out carrying a length of rope, rolled her eyes at us and, not remotely bothered by the size of the cow towering above her, tied the rope around her neck and then attempted to pull her off the flowers. That was never going to happen. The cow wasn’t moving. Not one inch. She didn’t even lift her head to look.
‘Bonjour Madame,’ I called, ‘can we help?’
The old lady beckoned us into the garden. ‘If you push with me,’ she said, looking at me, ‘and you pull,’ she instructed, looking at Mark, ‘perhaps we can move her.’
So there I was at the back end of a cow, trying to avoid being pooed and peed on next to a tiny old lady, while the dogs, silent now, watched on.
After a few seconds of making absolutely no progress, she said, ‘Wait there. I will get my old man,’ and disappeared back into the house, leaving Mark and me standing in the garden. She shortly returned and introduced her husband. He was tiny, too.
Mark was now relegated to the cow’s backside alongside me, while Monsieur and Madame Pepperpot pulled on that rope for all they were worth. At this, the cow got the hump and started mooing, grass and flowers falling from its enormous gnashers. The dogs seemed to enjoy this immensely. Ella Fitzgerald started howling and then Churchill and Bruno joined in.
That did it. The cow looked up from her floral feast and blinked. We instinctively seized our chance and heaved as hard as we could. The Pepperpots tugged with all their might. The beast lurched forward with a surprised look in her eyes.
‘Don’t stop,’ yelled the tiny old lady. ‘Keep pushing … get her round the side of the house and into the field.’
We finally got that bugger back into the pastures from which she had escaped. Evidently a gate had been left open (Madame Pepperpot narrowed her eyes at her husband). We were invited in for coffee, so Mark put the dogs in the front garden and made sure all the gates were shut before stooping to enter through the small front door. At over six feet tall he could hardly stand in the tiny kitchen, with its low ceiling festooned with pots and pans of all shapes and sizes. The smell of coffee from a pot heating on the wood oven filled the room. The flower-patterned wallpapered walls were chock-a-block with cupboards and dressers, and a small table and four rickety old chairs sat in the centre of the room. An ancient spaniel woke up from its slumber in front of a roaring wood fire, wagged its tail and wandered over to sniff us. A solitary canary sat in a cage by a small window overlooking the errant cow’s field. The cow was leaning her head over a fence, with a donkey and a goat on the other side. It looked as if she was telling them about her adventure.
Monsieur Pepperpot, whose name we discovered was Jean, poured the coffee – strong and thick, guaranteed to keep us awake that night. The old couple chatted away in a heavy local accent, but seemed to be talking slowly so that we could understand. Madame Pepperpot, who was really Agathe, told us they were in their seventies, had been childhood sweethearts and married for more than sixty years. As they chatted Jean constantly patted her arm and Agathe rubbed her hand through his mop of white hair.
‘We used to be cow farmers like our parents before us and their parents before them. But we’re too old really and we’ve only got the three cows now,’ said Jean, adding that their only son, like so many in French rural communities, had left decades before to work in an office in a city and now lived in Toulouse. Every winter they spent time with him there and kept their cows in the barn of a friendly farmer nearby.
‘We’ve got a trailer,’ said Jean, sighing, ‘but getting those beasts onto it isn’t easy sometimes …’
‘Well,’ said Mark, ‘we’d be happy to help you. We seemed to have managed pretty well between us.’
‘Bien sûr,’ I said, ‘of course.’
Madame Pepperpot gave us a litre of fresh cow’s milk when we left.
If you had told me just a few years ago that, one day, I’d be shoving the rear end of a cow, accompanied by an orchestra of barking dogs and led by a tiny old lady in a garden in middle-of-nowhere France, I’m not sure I would have believed you.
MAY
The house where the pigs live
MAY DAY FELL on a Monday, which pleased everyone since last year it had fallen on a Sunday, which had pleased no one as it meant no extra day off. In France, the date the national holiday falls on is the day you get off, even if it happens to be on a weekend.
As well as being International Workers Day, it’s also the Fête du muguet in France. On the first of May in 1561, France’s King Charles IX was given a muguet flower, a lily of the valley in English, as a lucky charm. He loved the idea so much he was inspired to offer the delicate white bloom each year to the ladies of the court. The practice spread and these days the flowers are sold in bouquets or as potted plants all over France in May. It’s common for people to give lily of the valley to friends or family members for good luck.
I’ve been told that in some parts of France it’s also traditional for young men to place a tree outside the door of someone they love during the night before 1 May. We’re not talking a pot plant here. Imagine waking up to find you can’t get out of the house because your admirer has put a tree in front of the door!
For the first time since the beginning of the year, we had lunch outside. When we had renovated the old pigsty, which had been no more than three walls and a falling-down roof, we had effectively created a small courtyard between it and the front of the house by turning it into an enclosed building. With shutters laid out on work benches covering most of the courtyard, there was just room for a table and two chairs. Several small worker bees came out of their hive from somewhere in the garden to look at the humans. There are naturally formed beehives everywhere in the village, mainly in concrete blocks in walls or in outbuildings. We just leave them be (no pun intended) and they leave us be, too.
The cats hovered around our legs, purring and rubbing their ears against us to get attention and scraps, noses in the air sniffing hard. The dogs barked from their bit of the garden at the back of the house as the aroma of our breakfast carried on the gentle breeze. Nearby, a cuckoo sang non-stop and the talented, whistling blackbird in the tree in the front garden made noises like a telephone. We planned our day ahead: more rendering for Mark, more painting of shutters for me and then I had some writing to do. May Day or not, we were determined to get on with the renovating. We also dropped off a lily of the valley plant for Bernadette, who ushered us through the house and into the garden where Jean-Claude was sitting, drinking a tiny cup of coffee.
I did initially wonder whether I was alone in my fondness for chickens as pets since, in this village, there is much boasting about the delights of someone’s coq au vin or their duck à l’orange – everyone seems to keep birds for the pot. So, it was a huge surprise to discover that Jean-Claude – despite thinking I was crazy for crying when my first cockerel died – keeps some chickens purely for fun.
‘I’m thinking that this one is pretty enough to win a contest,’ he said, pointing at a large chicken that was waddling about in an ungainly manner. ‘Un Soosecks.’ (A Sussex white to you and me.) ‘Look at those glossy feathers, those strong fine legs, the clear eyes and red neck, just like my lovely wife,’ crooned Jean-Claude. ‘I think I will show her at the big town fair.’ I think he was referring to the chicken, not the wife.
The big town, Hucqueliers, is about 5 miles away. It’s where we all meet for major local events such as flea markets and the annual fair. Lots of farmers take their best-looking animals to show and sell, and crowds of visitors guess their weight, age and even name – we make our own entertainment here.
Bird showing is immensely popular at the fair, with cages laid out in a row, full of beautiful and often unusual-looking chickens. Some have what look like furry boots or bouffant hairstyles, others quirky or colourful plumage. Their proud owners sit alongside, watching the visitors ooh and ah, and nodding with satisfaction when buyers approach to place or
ders. These birds are keepers and can be quite expensive.
‘Better yet,’ continued Jean-Claude, ‘I think my Soosecks could even win the beauty contest.’ He went to pick Soosecks up, and she pecked meanly at him and squawked loudly.
Jane-Claude likes to pull my leg from time to time, but Bernadette assured me he was deadly serious and that in France there is a famous competition called ‘Miss Poule et Mr Coq’ (usually with the English forms of address). Apparently it’s like a Miss World and Mr Universe combined – but for chickens. ‘No chance,’ said Bernadette ‘The winner is always the one that has a sunny nature, and that bird is bad-tempered and proper bossy.’ With that she strode off to the kitchen to make us all coffee.
‘See, just like my lovely wife,’ said Jean-Claude, but quietly, in case she heard him.
Later in the day, I was sitting in the pigsty, daydreaming about which of my chickens might be good enough to enter the Miss Poule contest and writing about beautiful Burgundy, which I had recently visited. It was peaceful at home, as usual. You could count the number of cars that go by our house each day on two hands if you don’t include the tractors from the farm at the top of the road. Suddenly there was a really loud noise. It sounded a bit like the quad bikes of the locals as they ride round the country lanes, but I couldn’t place it. I went to the front door – the sound was louder, but strangely it didn’t seem to be receding like it would if it was a quad bike driving away.