by Mary Moody
The Parisians are also generally disliked for their arrogance, whereas the British, if they are friendly and attempt to assimilate by learning the language, are much more warmly welcomed. My favourite local story involves two such Parisians, a couple of gay men who arrived several years ago to open a small antique shop in the main street and to live in a cottage on the outskirts of the town. Within a few months they managed to alienate their neighbour—a well-loved farmer—by complaining bitterly about his rooster which woke them up far too early in the morning for their Parisian tastes. When the farmer refused to silence his bird, the couple took their complaints further, initially to the local gendarmerie then to the Palace of Justice in Bordeaux. With a good lawyer on their side they won the case, however the court awarded a fine of only 10 ff against the farmer to symbolise its disgust at the proceedings. The next weekend the farmers and villagers banded together and staged a protest street parade of children and animals. Cows and chickens, goats and horses, ducks, geese and sheep all paraded down the main street to the beat of drums and the clanging of cymbals, passing slowly and ceremoniously in front of the antique shop. The children wore T-shirts printed with the slogan, ‘Ne touche pas à mon coq’, which loosely translates as ‘Hands off my rooster’, and at the end of the parade they gathered in the ancient village square where a jaunty local band had been hired to play music. There was much singing, dancing and general merriment while the Parisian antique dealers peered out nervously from behind their shutters. The story was well covered in the local media and even made it to the evening news in Paris—the ultimate humiliation. Surprisingly, four years later they are still living in Villefranche, though keeping a much lower profile and never complaining publicly about a thing.
There is a strong feeling of community within the township, with everyone throwing their full support behind events like village fêtes and repas (feasts), brocantes (antique fairs) and fundraising evenings organised for the football club or the Pompiers, which is a group of civilian volunteers who perform vital services such as firefighting, ambulance and rescue operations. In my first week there is a village meal organised to raise money for the football team, and Jock comes over to join in. The poster bills it as a ‘Paella Géant’ which indeed it is—a paella pan about four metres across that starts being prepared about midday for serving at 9 pm. The smell of garlic, saffron and seafood fills the entire square, and tables are set out in the hall for several hundred people. For 100 ff ($25) patrons get a five-course meal: a rich soup of garlic and bread; a rough country pâté with fresh bread; the paella piled with prawns, chicken and spicy sausage; followed by cheese, then glazed apple tart. The red wine is compris (included in the price) and as each bottle is finished another appears as if by magic. There is coffee and the local pear liqueur, eau de vie, which is about as potent as any alcohol I’ve ever tasted. Strictly speaking distilling liquor is highly illegal, but it is such a strong tradition in these parts that nobody dares enforce it. Eau de vie can be made from any fruit that can be fermented but plum, pear and apple are the most popular. I remember this stuff from my birthday lunch: one tiny glass of this firewater is more than enough.
Later in the evening—after three-and-a-half hours of wining and dining—we retire to the tables and chairs of the Hotel du Commerce in the square for more coffee. It’s nearly midnight when the children are each given a candlelit lantern to carry, and are led with music in a parade down the main street; despite the late hour, it’s a village tradition to include children in most social occasions. As they return, there’s a small but pretty fireworks display against the facade of the old stone church. People are still drinking and talking and children are still running excitedly around the square as I wander off to bed at nearly 1 am.
From my bedroom near the main street I can usually hear if there’s a village celebration or a more sombre occasion like the church bells ringing incessantly for a funeral service. The most alarming sound that intrudes on my life, however, is that of the siren that calls the Pompiers into action. It’s akin to a wartime air raid siren and it can go off at any time of the day and night, though somehow three o’clock in the morning seems to be the most popular time slot. The Pompiers are a group of highly respected civilians who have been professionally trained for all the rescue functions normally performed by ambulance, police rescue and fire brigade. They have become a vital resource in remote and rural areas where there are no government funds for such essential services. They deal with every imaginable emergency, from car accidents to floods and fires, to heart attacks and babies being born before they reach the hospital, or to simple domestic crises situations, like wasp nests stuck in the chimneys. The force is drawn from a cross-section of men in the community, from the main street butcher to the real estate agent, and when they need to be rallied to attend some local disaster, the sirens sound the alarm. Each ring seems interminable, and there are different numbers of rings according to the type of emergency: one long ring means a car accident, two long rings means a heart attack, and so on, so that the men, as they scramble into their uniforms, at least have a vague idea of what they are about to deal with.
The Pompiers siren is so frightfully loud that the first time it explodes through my bedroom window I am convinced World War Three has begun. My heart thumping in my throat, I run to see what is going on, but all seems amazingly calm outside. Then the alarm rings again and I hear sounds of cars starting up in the laneways around the village. It isn’t until the following day when I ask around that I am told about the Pompiers, and right through the summer my sleep is frequently shattered by these sirens. The work and dedication of these unpaid community servicemen is taken very seriously, but I sense something slightly comical in the way they go about their business. They’re a little like Dad’s Army, or some of our less active bushfire brigades who perform magnificently when there is a crisis, but seem also to spend a lot of time drinking beer and playing with their equipment on quiet Saturday afternoons during the non-fire-fighting season.
Over time various people tell me anecdotes about the Pompiers, including Jock’s friends Carole and Bob who had to call them one weekend when they discovered a huge nest of angry wasps in the chimney of their youngest son’s bedroom. Lights flashing, the Pompiers truck appeared several hours later in their driveway, disgorging half a dozen uniformed but ill-equipped men. Being hospitable, Bob offered them a glass of wine, which they readily accepted. After an hour of drinking and chatting they decided to deal with the wasp nest, but realised they had no ladder to gain access to the roof, and no bucket to catch the nest when it was dislodged. Having borrowed these items from Carole they proceeded to free the nest from the chimney, and carry it outside where it was destroyed. They returned to the kitchen table for several more rounds of vin, then screamed off at speed in their truck, flattening the expensive borrowed galvanised bucket as they departed.
Without the Pompiers to help out with road accidents, however, the already alarming death and serious injury statistics in southwest France would be even worse. In time I learn to ignore the shrieking siren, rolling over and going straight back to sleep.
Villefranche is alive with stray cats, most of them very thin and certainly not desexed. My initial decision to ignore them comes undone one morning when a handsome but lean young tabby tomcat leaps through the window and starts purring so loudly I can barely hear the radio. I scrounge in the fridge to find him some bits to eat, and give him a saucer of milk. He is ostentatiously grateful, rubs my legs and purrs loudly before settling in the middle of the bed to clean himself and sleep. I name him Pierre the Pussy and he becomes a regular visitor, but the last thing I want to do is to make a cat dependent on me as I am staying for such a short period. Pierre is a real character, he hurls himself through the window and straight onto my bed with great enthusiasm or tries to play with my feet as I sit at the table reading or writing. However, like most cats that have not been handled routinely by people from kittenhood, he doesn’t quite know how
to play without inflicting pain: he grabs my leg and sinks his claws and teeth in, then is amazed when I shriek and leap to my feet. Thankfully Pierre doesn’t stay all day; after a catnap he takes off and I regularly see him in the village. When the market is being held on Saturday mornings he lies beside the fish stall sunning himself, obviously waiting for a discarded treat. He also hangs around the Hotel du Commerce restaurant at lunch and dinner time. Friends who have supper there one evening report that a friendly village cat swung from their tablecloth until he was given a piece of steak. I ask them to describe this freeloader, and it matches Pierre to a whisker. It is reassuring that he has plenty of other sources of food—I am just one of the many suckers on his daily rounds. Within two weeks another cat arrives, a desexed female and obviously also very well fed. She is much more demanding than Pierre but just as affectionate and I weaken. So I now have two regular feline visitors who sometimes arrive at the same time and hiss and snarl at each other at first, but settle to drink saucers of milk side by side.
One day when I am in the phone box calling David, Pierre sees me through the glass doors and miaows loudly to be let in. I open the doors and he enters, purring and miaowing so vigorously that David in far-off Queensland can hear him clearly down the phoneline. After ten minutes of rubbing my shins he becomes impatient—he wants me to take him back to my room and feed him—and stretches up and bites me hard on the shin. I quickly turf him out and he sits scowling at me through the glass, then stalks off before I finish talking. Several weeks later Pierre arrives at my windowsill with a third cat, a large, black desexed male who tentatively sits on the outside, peering in. I am determined not to start feeding yet another stray cat but he seems quite happy anyway, purring and watching us inside while having a good view of the action out on the street. The village cats are terrified of dogs, probably with good reason, and they never seem totally relaxed, even when inside my flat. They are always on the lookout for a predator and I suppose the other, wilder tomcats must also be a threat, so their life is never really carefree like our own domesticated moggies.
Towards the end of my two months in Villefranche I have to accept that I now have three cats who love to pop in for a visit, for a saucer of milk, some dry biscuits and a comfortable place to carry out their cleaning ritual and snooze. One day I return from the shops and find all three of them asleep on my bed. It feels very much like home.
15
FRENCH RURAL COMMUNITIES live for the summer. When the crops fill the fields and the grapes are swelling on the vine and twilights are long and warm, living outdoors is a delight. From June until September the southwest region reaches its highest population, with summer holidaymakers coming from the UK and other parts of Europe to savour all the pleasures it has to offer. August is possibly the peak month, when the French and English have their main school and business holidays, and every weekend is alive with celebrations, antique fairs, feasts and communal parties. It’s a time of nonstop eating and drinking.
Among Jock’s circle of friends, summer is always a busy socialising time, with part-time residents arriving in dribs and drabs and getting into the swing of it. There are plenty of activities to keep visitors entertained, both during the day and into the evening. You could easily find something new and interesting to do every day, if your stamina was up to the pace. I certainly did my best to keep up, trying not to miss out on anything.
Near Frayssinet-le-Gélat is a body of water grandly known as the Plan d’Eau. It is a man-made lake, which feeds into two smaller streams, one of which was originally used to run the local millhouse. During the summer months the water outlets are closed marginally so that the lake fills to capacity, making it a refreshing swimming area shaded by huge plane trees. There is a bar–café that opens during this balmy period to serve cold drinks, ice creams and simple lunches to families enjoying the cooling waters of the lake. On the way back from market or sightseeing, Jock and I call in for a pression, or draught beer, and are always warmly greeted by the cheerful barmaid, Christine. We are regulars, often stopping for a light lunch of salad or omelette. On Friday and Saturday evenings there are also simple meals at the Plan d’Eau, the best being the eccentric combination of moules et frites (mussels and chips); although the regional cuisine is extensive and varied, the locals also enjoy a wide range of specialities from other parts of France and Europe, and this one comes from the Belgian border area, and is simply a huge bowl of steaming mussels accompanied by an equally huge bowl of hot, crisply fried chips. Together with bread and beer or red wine, it’s a meal not to be missed and is surprisingly rich and filling—we are groaning by the time we make it to the bottom of the bowls. There are also spaghetti nights and other evenings where the locals come to eat steak or chops and frites and play boules well into the evening. The tranquil setting, with the water sparkling and the trees spreading their cooling shade and the children paddling on the edges, is like a dappled Monet painting.
This time of year also means the village streets are blocked off regularly for antique markets as well as book and junk fairs. The standard of goods on sale varies according to the name given to the occasion: ‘brocante’ implies an antique sale; ‘vide grenier’ is an attic or boot sale; ‘troc’ means to barter and this usually also indicates a junk sale; while ‘salon du livre’ indicates a book, magazine and art print sale. Sometimes the fairs are a little bit of all these various things mixed in together, with some gorgeous antique furniture and bric-à-brac lumped together with all sorts of rubbishy goods of little value. It’s a treasure trove for those who have somewhere to put what they are buying. All I can think about is the impossibility of trying to get goods back to Australia and so am constantly in the position of resisting temptation. It’s very frustrating.
The first sale day I attend is a troc at Duravel, about twenty minutes drive from Villefranche on the other side of the Lot River. The village square and surrounding streets have been taken over by literally hundreds of small stalls, some on tables but more often simply laid out on old sheets or blankets on the ground. By custom each household in the village is entitled to set up a stall, and it’s a great way of clearing out unwanted junk and making a few centimes into the bargain. Some of these fairs discourage professional dealers or traders who compete with the village people, and some welcome them to add a bit of glamour to the occasion. It’s a bit of a free-for-all and keen buyers start arriving early in the morning to snaffle up the best bargains. We arrive mid-morning and the atmosphere is rich. Caravans serving steaming black coffee and warm croissants compete with beer and wine stands for custom. I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of articles on display, from some quite splendid pieces of furniture, china and glassware to stuff normally relegated to the rubbish bin. Who would want to buy a broken saucer or a cracked teapot minus the lid, or a filthy rubber doll with wild eyes and no arms? I am drawn to the stalls selling old garden tools and agricultural paraphernalia, such treasures that I wish I could load them into a container and take them back to Australia. There are brass backpack drums used for spraying gardening chemicals such as arsenic during the last century—I have seen pictures of them over many years of research in books about garden history. Some of them have been polished and others are crying out for restoration. There are wicker baskets and trays for gathering and drying the harvest, glass bells for covering seedlings to protect them from frosts, all manner of old pruning tools and spades, as well as forks made from willow. I am enraptured.
I am also drawn to the collections of tin-lined copper cooking pots that were commonly used in kitchens all over France. They are incredibly heavy and would be impossible to carry home—I imagine myself with cooking pots slung over my shoulder trying to board the plane at Paris. There are piles of beautiful antique linen: bedspreads, sheets, pillowcases, curtains and delicately embroidered white nightgowns that look as though they were never worn apart perhaps from a few brief moments before being removed on the wedding night. Seeing all the bric-à-brac of everyday livi
ng from the past gives me a fascinating insight into the local way of life.
In my real life I seldom have time to browse in antique shops and I rarely, if ever, stop to rifle through boxes of unwanted household items at a garage sale. I have many friends who regularly attend auctions and open days and regard trawling for bargains as a splendid way to while away their weekends. My lifestyle dictates that the weekends are for early morning shopping and cooking up large family feasts, and spending whatever few hours I can spare to weed my garden or tend the vegetable patch. I usually allow some time for grandmotherly play with the little ones, although I also often work at my computer over the weekend, trying to meet outstanding deadlines or to get ahead on projects. In the end my weeks and weekends often blur into a flurry of work and commitments. Therefore leaping around these charmingly different flea markets and seeing what’s on offer is a rare treat, even if I am not in the position to spend any money.
Although the village antique and jumble sales are a great way of picking up interesting local furniture and household goods, a lot of the items on sale are also ridiculously overpriced when you consider how junky they are. It’s almost as if the owners don’t really want to part with them. On the other hand, some items are extremely cheap—they would be considered an absolute bargain in an Australian antique stall, and I spend several hours, like everyone else, peering and fossicking among the collections of fascinating articles. The troc is also an opportunity for socialising, seeing friends and being seen, and at Duravel we link up with various members of the gang including retired English photographer Claude, who lives in a beautifully restored millhouse at Frayssinet-le-Gélat; Danny, who is also English and rents his beautiful farmhouse to holidaymakers in the summer; and Anthony, an escapee from the world of high finance who is also in the throes of restoring a stone house and therefore definitely in the market for bargains. Surprisingly, he buys an expensive and totally impractical addition to his new household, a beautiful antique slide projector, possibly more than one hundred years old, but in full working order. He doesn’t quite know what he will do with it, but like a lot of market shoppers he just can’t resist certain treasures. Jock buys a chipped bowl for 15 ff and is delighted. We decide to meet back at the Pomarède restaurant run by Madame Murat for a simple but weighty five-course lunch. So there goes the afternoon.