E is for Electricity

C’est dans l’ordre des choses — It’s one of those things

Beware of strange lorries in the road. We popped out for half an hour this morning, and all was well. We passed an ERDF (Électricité Réseau Distribution France) vehicle just beyond our house. We returned to find the electricity had been cut off. The man next door said he had seen two men clamber out of the lorry and run down the road, which didn’t sound too promising. And his wife’s cooking had also been abruptly interrupted mid recipe.

Cue several telephone calls; being re-routed to numbers that didn’t exist and eventual connection to someone who had a vague idea what was going on.

The electricity, we were confidently told, would be restored at 16.30 that afternoon (it was then 12.15), as there had been an “incident”. Twenty minutes later it was back. To hedge our bets, we had stuck a post-it note to the lorry asking what was going on. It’s probably still there.

Tomorrow we’re scheduled to have our annual visit from the meter reader, probably not the best time to pick given today’s events. Their letter instructs householders to keep all animals under control for the duration of the visit. Think he may just have to take his chances with the cats!

C is for Christmas

C is for Christmas

Si le temps le permet — weather permitting

Health and what? It’s difficult to imagine this happening in the UK. A few days ago, we helped out with the town’s annual candle lighting ceremony. This involved placing 2,000 tea lights in individual glass holders, lighting them, then distributing them around the old streets of St Antonin. There they remained, unsupervised, for several hours. After that, they were collected and stored away ready for next year.

After the ceremony, a ladder was brought to the local estate agent’s shop. Father Christmas then clambered out of an upstairs window, onto the ladder and wobbled down, clutching a sack of gifts for the children. Makes a change from Lapland.

It all finished with everyone singing carols — in English.

There’s not as much of a build up to Christmas here as there is in the UK — at least the French are spared the interminable DFS adverts and Jamie Oliver. Some Christmas lights have appeared in the streets. Lamp-posts, shop fronts and the bridge over the Aveyron have been adorned with prettily-wrapped parcels and ribbons. They will remain there — unvandalised — until the New Year. A few inflatable Santa Clauses have been attached to the chimneys of some houses where they will probably stay until about March. It’s pretty difficult to buy a proper Christmas card here; you generally have to make do with ‘Bonnes Fetes’ (happy holidays) — or order your cards from Amazon.

A stall selling oysters set up shop in the car park. The local supermarket has a couple of punnets of Brussels sprouts for sale each day that are fought over by traditionally-minded Brits. We missed out, but our friend Di knew of a secret source and kindly even battled through the snow to get them to us. We asked for the head and feet to be taken off our turkey, to the amusement of the French customers standing nearby.

British friends with the slightest baking skill enthusiastically start making mince pies, the mincemeat having been bought on trips to the UK. One friend swapped a plate of hers for a brandy in the local café. Our French neighbour popped round with a plate of treats — dates, nuts, dried apricots stuffed with marzipan and other goodies. She seemed enchanted with the Amazon-bought Christmas card of two dancing snowmen that we sent them.

Gavin’s choir has given two concerts. One, a short distance away, was in the coldest church I have ever been in. The fact that it was -6˚C outside didn’t help — it had been 14˚C earlier in the day! His second concert unfortunately coincided with the great candle-lighting ceremony, so was somewhat sparsely attended.

Of course, despite Gavin giving it its usual Christmas card, the boiler stopped working the day a group of friends were due to come round to sing Christmas carols around the piano. Our friendly boiler repairman was somewhat bemused by this spectacle, but completed the repair successfully.

And now it's snowing… H

appy Christmas and New Year to everyone. (And thanks to Glynis for the photo.)

L is for Lunches

J’ai une faim de loup — I’m famished

Tis the season for lunching. The first was with my photography club. The plan was to meander through the countryside snapping scenic scenes along the way, calling into the odd Domaine to taste some wine, and then having lunch. Unfortunately, we started late because I got the time wrong, all the Domaines we past were shut, and it was raining. So we just had lunch. And very nice it was too.

A couple of days later and it was time for the Christmas lunch with the Ainés Ruraux. The name literally means elderly country folk; it’s open to anyone over 50 and Gavin gives a group of members an English lesson once a week. It was the usually seven-course feast you get on such occasions, complete with aperitif, red, white and rosé wines and brandy. (In case anyone is interested, it cost €13 each, including the drinks.) It must be that they have been conditioned from an early age, but there were octogenarians there munching their way through everything and then having seconds. I recall my mother-in-law at that age would have struggled to get through a whole Happy Meal.

A charming lady opposite began telling us about her new kitten, and showing us where it had scratched her. She was off to Nice for Christmas, so I asked what was happening to the kitten. It turned out she was using the cattery run by a British friend of ours. Our companion told me: “She speaks really good French — much better than yours!” Thanks, I’ll pass that on, so if you’re reading this Gill…

It so happened that this lunch took place on one of the two days recently where the temperature got up to 18 degrees C during the day. At one stage, two of the club’s members appeared brandishing long bamboo poles. We couldn’t imagine what they were for. Then a large black swathe of cloth appeared; this was tied between the two poles and the whole contraption was then carefully raised so it blocked the sun that was streaming in through the windows. We’d shivered through a couple of weeks of temperatures hovering around zero, and now it was too hot for them!

Then there was a raffle. We actually won a teapot and a lavender bag. What more could you want?

C is for Chocolate and Curry

Tu me mets l’eau a la bouche — you are making my mouth water

The other day we went to one of our favourite local restaurants. At one stage, I trotted off to the ladies. Unfortunately, when I tried to wash my hands, a piece of the chic soap dispenser broke off and fell down the plug hole. Using various means, which I won’t go into here, I managed to retrieve it and stuck it back on the bottle, albeit in the wrong place. All this took some time and Gavin and the friend who was with us were about to mount a search party to see if I had locked myself in a cubicle. It has happened. The friend in question will remember the time we went camping in France together in our youth and I locked myself in the loo at a campsite. I managed to shout ‘au secours’ several times and was eventually rescued by some burly young men. It is difficult to make a dignified exit after that, while clutching a toilet roll.

Gavin, in turn, came back from a trip to the gents laughing at a notice he’d spotted. It read: ‘Nine out of 10 people love chocolate. The tenth is lying'. No — and it was cruel to laugh — the tenth is me. I can’t eat chocolate. Even one Smartie gives me such a bad migraine that I have to lie in a darkened room for a day. (Luckily I do not have this reaction to red wine or cheese.)

Given this sad affliction, we always ask whether a dessert has any chocolate in it, however unlikely it may seem. We did it that day. “Non,” said the waitress. When the dessert arrived, it had chocolate sprinkled over it and an artistic swirl of chocolate sauce. We pointed this out. The response was that it was just a little bit. I settled for ice cream.

Most Brits living in France pine for a decent curry. They are not easy to find. We recently discovered two lovely ladies who run a curry delivery service. We are somewhat out of their delivery area, but they will arrange to meet you at a mutually convenient spot. We opted for the car park of the swimming pool we go to in the winter. At the appointed time, foil containers were transferred from one car to another, like a scene from a bad spy movie. It was worth it. Lamb balti, sag aloo… delicious!

Here's a short story

I was fortunate to have a short story accepted in an anthology of ex pat writers. It's about life in France. Hope you enjoy it. You can download the e-book free of charge, and I'm on page 70:
www.writersabroad.spruz.com

S is for Shopi

Sans rancune — No hard feelings

Shopi is the quaintly-named little supermarket in the small town where we live. It has everything you need (albeit at a price) and the bonus of a fantastic butcher’s counter. The butcher is very obliging, and happily takes the head, neck and feet off any chicken you decide to buy. Our welcome elsewhere in the shopi is not quite so effusive, but this may have something to do with the occasion when Gavin dropped a litre jar of tomato juice and the contents went all over the check-out counter and nearby assistants. (Isn’t it amazing how much a litre seems at times like this?)

We were somewhat surprised, therefore, in the week before Gavin’s birthday to receive a missive from Shopi saying a gift awaited him there to celebrate this auspicious occasion. After a quick rummage through our recycling paper — he accidentally threw the invitation away along with an old Radio Times and Heat magazine (you have to be grateful for what you can get here) — we went along to collect it.

The gift turned out to be a little silver cube with a peg mounted on it that you use to display a photograph or a postcard. Still, it’s the thought that counts.

Shopi also has a loyalty card scheme where you collect points to amass yet more useful gifts. We have so far claimed a memory stick that doubles as a pen (very useful), a bathroom set that holds your soap, toothbrushes and other essentials (not quite as useful, but very decorative) and a set of dishes (useful).

The town boasts another small supermarket called Casino. This establishment has embraced the diversity of its clientele and started stocking such delights as kettle chips, corned beef, baked beans and Branston pickle. Anyone who has ever visited France knows that Casino is the French equivalent of Sainsbury’s,Tesco’s or Wal-Mart. The uninitiated, however, have been known to track down Casino expecting to find chips of a different kind to the ones you put in your oven.

D is for Deliveries

Tout est bien qui finit bien — All’s well that ends well

However much you embrace your new lifestyle, there are things you miss from the UK. Thanks to the Internet, you can order pretty much anything. The downside? Delivery charges.

Hats off to Marks and Spencer and Boden, who charge only slightly more to deliver to France. I will now name and shame Links of London. I love their stuff, and shortly before we moved, bought a lovely watch from them. A few weeks ago, the strap broke, so I looked on their website, and yes, they deliver to France. The strap was expensive enough at £45, but then they wanted £25 for delivery. That’s £70 for a new strap. No thanks, I’ll get something over here.

Then there’s Amazon. Here’s the dilemma, buy from Amazon France, and post and packing is free, but the books are considerably more expensive. Buy from Amazon UK, and despite the fact the books are dispatched from within mainland Europe, the post and packing is pretty steep (although the books are cheaper). Amazon UK also regularly limits the number of copies of each book you can buy, not particularly helpful when you are ordering for members of your book club.

French deliveries are not without their dramas. We ordered a cabinet from a mail order company. Over the next few weeks, then months, we got regular communications advising us of delays to delivery. Luckily, our need was not urgent. We then realized we hadn’t heard from the company for a while, so phoned them up to find out where the elusive cabinet was. The voice at the other end was pretty surprised, and told us it had been delivered a couple of weeks ago and it had been duly signed for.

On the date in question, we were in the UK, so asked to see a copy of the signature. They emailed it to us — it was signed ‘Mrs Doreen’. Not a name I generally use. They promised to send another cabinet. When it arrived, the driver queried our need for it — he had delivered the first one himself. Yes, but where was it? He led us to the garage, where he had hidden it among stuff awaiting a suitable vide grenier, old removal boxes and several months’ worth of empty wine bottles. The signature? He had done it himself to be helpful. It would have been even more helpful to leave us a note indicating the whereabouts of the package.

N is for 'Non'

N is for ‘Non’

J’ai fait chou blanc — I drew a blank

Perhaps it’s the extra letter, but somehow ‘non’ always seems so much more final than ‘no’. “May we use these perfectly valid vouchers to get 10 centimes off six bottles of Badoit?” “Non.” “Can I have chips instead of boiled potatoes?” “Non.” “We’re a bit early. Can we have a cup of coffee while waiting for our friends?” “Non.” “It’s a lovely day, can we eat on the terrace?” “Non.” Occasionally, the ‘non’ will be accompanied by a “Je suis désolé” [I’m really sorry], but don’t count on it.

The other day we were in McDonalds. (I know, but sometimes you crave some junk food.) We ordered our ‘meal deals’. I asked for diet coke, and Gavin asked for coffee. “Non,” said the girl behind the counter. Thinking she hadn’t understood us, Gavin explained that he would like a coffee with his meal rather than a cold drink. Non. The offer came with a cold drink, coffee was a hot drink, therefore he couldn’t have it. He asked whether he could just buy a separate cup of coffee instead of having the proffered drink. Non.

Luckily at that moment the manager appeared. The girl asked him to explain the coffee conundrum to us in English to ensure we understood the gravity of the situation. The manager, a man of infinite good sense, but possibly not of French origin, just looked at us and told the girl to give Gavin his coffee. Oui

R is for Roadworks and Roundabouts

R is for Roadworks and Roundabouts

Je ne vais pas attendre cent sept ans — I’m not going to wait forever

For the past few months they have been resurfacing the road outside our house. Every so often, we receive a note saying that no vehicles should be parked on the road, as work is happening on a certain date. It never does. The date comes and goes, but no workmen appear. Then, one, two or three weeks later, some large, noisy, green vehicles arrive and work goes on for a day or two.

During the time that no work is being done, they may or may not remove the signs from each end of the road saying that it is closed. Not that it matters, as whenever it’s there, drivers just get out of their cars, move the sign, drive past and then put it back again. There may be a little skirmish further along the road as car and large green vehicle meet, but somehow everyone gets through.

On the first occasion they turned up unexpectedly to do the work, we couldn’t get out of our drive. This was slightly inconvenient as I had a dental appointment. Gavin explained this to the workmen. They kindly cleared everything up and escorted us out of the drive and we bumped along the road to the dentist.

The latest missive we received about the roadworks, informed us that they were being carried out to improve our quality of life. That’s very considerate of you. (Unfortunately a couple of potholes remain. But don’t worry, we’ll continue to drive round them.)

The French government must have appointed a roundabout czar. Everywhere we’ve been lately, new roundabouts seem to be springing up. I can only assume the money earmarked for roundabouts must have been underspent over the past few years. So now it must be used up quickly because there seems absolutely no need for new roundabouts where they are being placed.

T is for Television

Ce n’est pas ma tasse de thé — It’s not my cup of tea

We were woken at 2am by a text message from Orange telling me I can follow Secret Story (the French version of Big Brother) via my mobile phone. Thanks for that.

French TV is not that great. There are a lot of dubbed American and UK programmes: Midsommer Murders turns up as Inspecteur Barnaby, Law and Order UK has become London District, and Lewis remains Lewis. Sorry, but there’s something about John Nettles speaking French that doesn’t quite gel. We did get enthusiastic about trailers for the French version of Masterchef, but then discovered each episode was three hours long.

On Saturdays at prime time on one channel they invariably show an episode of Columbo from 1973. A bit like Murder She Wrote in the UK, you seem always to be able to catch on episode of Columbo whenever you turn on the TV.

We enjoyed a French version of Treasure Hunt (anyone remember Anneka Rice and the helicopter?), which was quite good as you got to see lots of lovely scenery, but that seems to have disappeared and the presenter now appears in adverts selling ham.

I don’t think I have quite tuned into the French sense of humour, which involves a lot of slapstick, shouting and invariably men dressing up as women and singing. Or perhaps I’ve just been watching the wrong programmes.

The good thing is that you generally know where you are. The news is always on at 8pm, regardless of the World Cup, weekends or any other distractions. On Channel 1, from Monday to Friday, the news is always preceded by a game show along the lines of The Price is Right, Wheel of Fortune or Family Fortunes. These too involve an awful lot of shouting — on the part of the presenters, one of whom seems always to be accompanied by a dog.

You pay for your TV licence as part of the French equivalent of Council Tax, which seems to be a good idea and would probably save a lot of money if they adopted the same system in the UK. Mr Osborne please note. If you don’t have a TV, that’s just your bad luck. But you can always go and blockade a road or two in protest.

S is for Summer's Over

S is for Summer’s over

Il fait un temps de chien — The weather’s lousy

There are certain unmistakable signs here that winter’s on its way. The tourists have all gone and the Chinese restaurant has closed for the season. Some less hardy souls prepare to shut up their houses and return to the UK.

You start smelling whiffs of coal fires and the leaves begin to fall … and fall… and fall. Though before they do, the autumn colours are spectacular.

A succession of men in boiler suits arrive at the house. They are delivering oil for the boiler, servicing the boiler and sweeping the chimney. They invariably all arrive at the same time. The winter cover goes on the pool; the cats realize this, and start scampering all over it. Winter activities resume — Gavin goes back to his Occitan classes (I’m opting out this year as I wasn’t really that good), and we begin giving English lessons to the old folk of St Antonin once again.

But at the moment, in mid October, it’s still sometimes warm enough to sit outside in a T-shirt. So we make the most of it.

P is for Protests

P is for Protests

Il y aura un tollé général — There will be a great outcry

We have a friend staying with us, who likes to go to the really good Chinese buffet restaurant in Montauban. The sun was shining, we’d panic bought some diesel, so decided to set off for lunch. About 500 metres from the restaurant, everything came to a halt. The unions were blockading the road to protest about pensions and reforms to the age of retirement.

We didn’t think we could discuss with them the fact that M. Sarkozy was raising the French retirement age to 62, whereas Mr Cameron was going to make our compatriots struggle on until 66, so we graciously accepted a leaflet, turned round and headed to the Chinese restaurant in a nearby town. It was closed on Thursdays. Still, we had a very nice Cassoulet in a Basque restaurant near home, where the waiter’s command of English was limited to “Bye, Bye!”.

Unfortunately, the blockade meant we couldn’t visit the Lerclerc supermarket where we wanted to buy some wine, were unable to get to the garden centre where we wanted to buy some fish for our new pond, and couldn’t detour via the goats’ cheese factory to replenish stocks.

I did try to read the leaflet later, but my command of militant French trade union vocabulary needs just a little bit more work.

C is for Coypu

On apprend a tout age — you live and learn

Shortly after we moved in, our British neighbour told us several times that there was a coypu living in the river at the bottom of our gardens. Not being too sure what a coypu looks like, we nodded wisely and kept a look out every time we sat by the river.  No sign of any coypu.

The other day, though, Gavin came back from a walk to say he’d seen an otter in the river. This was exciting news, as the only wild otter we’d ever seen was a few years ago in the Lake District in the UK. Back to river watch.

Then our new (French) neighbour came round. (The coypu fan had since sold the house to buy a boat on which to sail the British waterways, probably hunting for coypus.) Our neighbour was talking about the fact that the river level was low as work was being done to clean it further upstream. She was horrified because she’d seen couple of water rats on the opposite bank. Sitting by the river later that day, Gavin said he could see the otter. You’ve guessed it, it was a water rat. I’m now beginning to have my doubts about this mysterious coypu…

Incidentally, our neighbour has promised to lend us a book on French wildlife. I think it’s long overdue.

Z is for Zebra Crossings

Je ne veux pas rester sur la touche — I don’t want to stay on the sidelines

I have just one thing to say about zebra crossings. Ignore them. All the drivers do. Whatever you do, don’t ever try to use one to cross the road. (But it's perfectly OK — in fact it's expected — to park across one.)

Well, that’s the end of the alphabet. I’ll be adding entries on an ad hoc basis from now. Hope you enjoyed what you have read — if you have, tell others about it! Thanks for reading.

Y is for You're Missed

Y is for You’re Missed

L’éloignement renforce les sentiments — Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Of course when you move to another country there are things that you miss. I’ve already mentioned a decent curry, fish and chips and ‘proper’ sausages. But a straw poll of some friends came up with some others:

·      Waitrose

·      Charity shops

·      Marks & Spencer (buying your undies by mail order is not the same)

·      Boots the Chemist

·      Shops being open all hours

There may not be charity shops on every street corner here, but they are very fond of their ‘vide grenier’, literally ‘emptying the barn’. These events would equate to garage sales in the US or car boot sales in the UK. The concept is the same — someone puts everything they don’t want on display, and others come along and buy it.

You never quite get used to most shops being closed between noon and two or even three in the afternoon. The concept of 24-hour shopping has become a distant memory.

The things we do love about France include:

·      Real markets

·      Lots of space and beautiful countryside, with no litter

·      Sense of community

·      Politeness and welcome of the people

·      Food and wine

Outside large towns, France is still a great place for children to have their freedom. There’s a primary school at the end of our road, and you regularly see kids under 10 trotting happily along to classes on their own. There is definitely a sense that people look out for each other.

So what are the signs that you are now at home in France?

·      You eavesdrop the French family at the next table and

understand everything they are saying

·      You have loyalty cards for at least five French supermarkets

·      You actually fill in the Orange customer satisfaction questionnaire

·      On a walk round town you find more people to say ‘bonjour’ (or even ‘re-bonjour’ to than ‘hello’

·      You no longer need a dictionary when visiting the doctor, dentist or hairdresser (on second thoughts, the latter might be a bit rash…)

X is for Xtras

Il  fait un froid de canard — It’s brass monkey weather

These didn’t really fit anywhere else…

We’re shut

It could appear to the casual observer that whole towns and villages have been shut up and deserted. Not so. The French close their shutters in summer to keep the heat out and close them in winter to keep the heat in. There are two spells of about a week in spring and 10 days in autumn when the shutters are flung open and lukewarm air is allowed into the house.

If, during the height of summer or the depths of winter you see houses with their shutters wide open, you can bet that the owners are British.

A lot of rubbish

Like lots of people all over France we have to take our rubbish to bins at the end of the street. There, we carefully sort it into household waste and stuff for recycling.

I think it’s a great system. You don’t end up with streets and streets full of unsightly black plastic sacks that have been nibbled by wildlife so their contents spill over the pavements. The bin areas also act a bit like skips do in the UK. If you’ve got anything you don’t want that’s in reasonable condition, you can leave it there — as long as it’s not too big — and someone will more than likely claim it for themselves. A friend got some lovely chairs from her local bin area.

If you have anything that’s too big or needs specialist disposal, you take it to the ‘dechetterie’. There is only one way to gain entry to the dechetterie — you have to show the man in charge your electricity bill.

What’s in a name?

It’s difficult to remember people’s names at the best of times. But in France there are some very long names because the French love hyphens. So don’t be surprised to see in the local paper, the announcement of the forthcoming marriage of Veronique-Dominique Ferrero-Rocher to Sebastian-Christophe Renault-Megane. Strangely, too, you find men with women’s names and women with men’s names — hyphenated, of course, with conventional and appropriate names. We’ve come across Anne-Francois (a man) and Marie-George (a woman).

The latest survey lists the most popular children’s names (before hyphenation) as:

Girls: 1. Emma; 2. Lea; 3. Manon; 4. Clara; 5. Chloé; 6. Ines; 7. Camille; 8. Sarah; 9. Oceane; 10. Jade

Boys: 1. Enzo; 2. Mathis; 3. Lucas; 4. Hugo; 5. Mathéo; 6. Nathan;

7. Théo; 8. Noah; 9. Mattéo; 10. Thomas.

W is for Weeds

Tu me mets l’eau a la bouche — You are making my mouth water

I’d been thinking for a long time of starting a society for the appreciation of dandelions (SAD), as we have so many in the garden. Then Georgette gave us some delicious dandelion jam. Problem solved. In French dandelions are known as pissenlits, literally ‘wet the bed’, as folklore claims that is what they make you do. Below, for anyone who wants to love and appreciate dandelions, and is willing to take a risk with their bed linen, is a recipe for dandelion jam.

Incidentally, we have found a foolproof way of dealing with weeds. If someone French points to something in the garden and tells us it’s a weed, we explain that in the UK it’s considered to be a sought-after plant. And if a visitor from the UK remarks on the profusion of weeds in our flowerbeds, we simply explain that, in France, they are considered welcome and attractive additions to all the best gardens. (With apologies to the QWIG Gardening Group.)

Dandelion flower jam

Ingredients:

250 g dandelion flowers

1 ¹/₂ litres water

750 g sugar for each 1 litre juice

1 lemon juice

2 oranges

Method:

Wash the oranges and cut into pieces without peeling them. Wash

the dandelion flowers and dry them in a soft cloth. Cook them in

the water with the oranges for an hour then strain. Measure the

juice, and then add the lemon juice and the appropriate weight of

sugar. Cook a further hour. Cool before putting into jars. It should set OK, 

but if it still looks runny at the end of the cooking time, add some vegetarian gelatin.

V is for Vendu (Sold)

Ils ont decide de partir vers d’autres horizons — They have decided to pull up sticks

It’s easy to be seduced by what your money can buy here. But remember, if you hated gardening and DIY in the UK, you are unlikely to develop a passion for them here. Enough said.

We did a lot of viewing on the Internet before we started looking seriously, but even then on our first property-hunting trip we were disappointed. One house seemed ideal on paper, and it was a beautiful place in reality. However, it was also next to a firm that repaired lawnmowers and tractors. The daily noise would have been awful. Another lovely-looking place was fine until you got to the master bedroom where the ceiling was so low you literally had to crawl from the door to the bed.

And make sure you know what you are getting for your Euros. Some neighbours didn’t realize until the time came to sign on the dotted line that they were also going to be the proud owners of the field opposite. You can’t build on the field, you can’t really do anything with it — except mow it. (Of course, that is a good excuse to buy one of those sit-on mowers.)

As with house buying anywhere, it’s the little things that trip you up. When we looked at this house, the lounge was attractively furnished and had a couple of table lamps each side of the room. We didn’t think to check they were plugged in. When we moved in we discovered there wasn’t a single power point in the lounge — the TV was actually plugged into a point in the kitchen. However, there were approximately 10 sockets in the bedroom.

The previous occupants very helpfully prepared a box for us containing instructions for all the appliances — we particularly wanted them for the induction hob, which we hadn’t ever used before, and the cooker, which is beyond state-of-the-art. However, when they weren’t looking, their removal men packed the box and it went into storage for a couple of months. Once retrieved, they very kindly sent it to us and the contents have since proved invaluable. It was trial and error before that box arrived.

They also proudly told us that the chandelier in the lounge came from Selfridge’s. What they didn’t tell us was that you couldn’t buy the bulbs for it in France. At one stage we had to get a friend to send us some in a well-padded Jiffy bag. Our thanks go to the British and French postal systems for getting them to us intact.

When buying a property, on the day of completion, you visit the house before signing. This confirms that you are taking over the property in the condition you see it in on that day. Then you, the vendors and the estate agent all troop off to the notaire (lawyer) together to sign a rain forest of paper, and you get the keys.

Estate agents do a lot more for their money in France (and they get a lot more money for doing it). They accompany you on all viewings and sort out much of the admin for you, such as dealing with utility companies. But even with the help of our very efficient estate agent, it still took three months to get a phone and broadband.

U is for Ulysse and other animals

Ne réveillez pas le chat qui dort – let sleeping dogs lie

Ulysse is a pretty little white dog that lives in the house opposite us. The only problem is, he hates us; every time we venture out of our front gate he erupts in a frenzy of barking. To be fair, it’s not only us. He’s not too keen on the postman either, or, let’s be honest, anyone who passes within a couple of metres of his front garden.

Our cats, and the ducks that wander up and down the road, know to steer well clear of Ulysse.

Ulysse had better mind his manners now, though. We received a letter from the EDF electricity company saying that someone was coming to read the meters and all animals had to be kept under strict control for the duration of the visit. The cats were duly warned. The company that looks after our water softener, however, merely asked for a nice welcome. No sooner said than done.

Whoever said Britain was a nation of dog lovers has obviously never been to France. Dogs are everywhere and so too, sadly, are the deposits they leave behind. Our town has installed several jaunty wooden dogs that have plastic bags attached to them so that people can clean up after their mutts. The initiative has had limited success. (But, amazingly the plastic bags are never vandalized.)

I have tried to establish what the most popular names for dogs are in France without success. However, we have recently been introduced to one called Tarquin and a puppy called Popsie. For pedigree dogs, though, names have to begin with a different letter each year. In 2009 it was E. So if you hear anyone shouting ‘Edelweiss’, ‘Edna’ or ‘Eicko Eico’, you know when their furry friend was acquired.

Go to any brasserie and you will probably have to step over the owner’s dog to get to your table. Customers come in with large dogs on leads or tiny, pampered pooches toted around in designer bags. They’re not turned away; the waiter merely asks if the dog would like a bowl of water.

You can buy a jazzy yellow sou’wester and four matching boots for your dog from one of my favourite catalogues. On a far posher scale, I’ve seen poodles wearing diamante collars being led round Galeries Lafayette by elegantly-clad ladies. And if you’ve ever wondered what the sign at the entrance to a building that shows a dog with a red line through it means, it’s ‘dogs welcome’, of course.

We have two cats: Angus [or An-goose as he is known among his French friends] and Kandy. They have come a long way since they were abandoned as kittens on a building site in Theydon Bois, Essex and rescued by Cats Protection. Duly equipped with their pet passports, they flew to France courtesy of British Airways cat class, in huge crates marked ‘Live cat Angus’ and ‘Live cat Kandy’. We had to collect them from the Freight Depot at Toulouse airport, which was a slight affront to their dignity. They’ve settled in well, are fascinated by the local lizards, and were only slightly disconcerted to find that their Whiskas comes flavoured with petit pois.

The first time we took them to the vet for their annual inoculations, we swotted up on the appropriate feline vocabulary beforehand. The vet turned out to be British.

Finally on the subject of animals, in all the time we’ve been in France I haven’t seen a single ferret. That may seem an odd thing to say, but when we booked a journey with Eurotunnel recently, we were asked whether we would be accompanied on our journey by any cats, dogs — or ferrets. There must be a lot of them crossing the Channel.

T is for Tradesmen

Il a de la bouteille — he’s an old hand

Around the end of November or the beginning of December, a succession of people call at the door selling calendars. One day it’s the Pompiers (fire fighters), the next it will probably be the postman.

At that time of year too, you see groups of people marching into banks and insurance offices. They are off to claim their free year planners. And very useful they are too. We generally stop off at the garage that supplies the oil for our boiler to get ours.

Our fire fighters are part-time and are summoned when needed by one or two blasts of a Blitz-style siren. We actually recognized a couple of them in the group photo on our calendar. There’s the lady who runs the restaurant near the bridge, who also puts on cabaret-style revues at the local community centre; the man who came and mended our dishwasher and the proprietor of the garage that services our car. Incidentally, car servicing seems to be a lot cheaper here than in the UK. And when the service is done, they drive the car back to us and we go along later to pay.

Christophe is the electrician. Luckily he lives a few minutes’ walk from our house and comes quickly when called in an emergency, generally accompanied by one or more members of his extended family, his dog and/or a friend or two. Planned work aside, we tend to call him whenever the lights go out. When he arrives he invariably asks, ‘C’est grave?’ (Is it serious?) We, of course, say yes because we’ve been shuffling round in the dark trying hard not to trip over the cats while lighting the candles for the last half-hour. Christophe fiddles with the fuse box, or something, and 30 seconds later we have light again. He has shown us what to do, but somehow every time it seems to be something different that trips us up. He then just smiles at us, shakes our hands and goes away again with whomever he has brought with him. Invariably he refuses payment for what he’s done, saying it was nothing. We’re a lot happier knowing he is just around the corner.

You soon learn what not to do, electricity-wise. Using a kettle in the kitchen seems to turn everything off, as does using the washing machine and tumble dryer at the same time. So we now boil water a la Francaise, ie in a saucepan. Perhaps, of course, that’s why everyone does it!

René has the unenviable task of looking after our boiler. A Heath Robinson-style contraption, it is housed in its own room and is, to say the least, temperamental. We have a love/hate relationship with that boiler. I hate it; Gavin loves it. (Incidentally, the main topic of conversation among any group of Brits in the winter isn’t the weather but the idiosyncracies of their respective boilers.) Actually, René looks after all our plumbing needs. He has limited English. In fact, the only words he can say are ‘Big problem’. Still, that’s probably all that’s needed chez nous. René also sweeps our chimney — you must have your chimney swept once a year otherwise you could invalidate your house insurance.

Marie and her ‘copain’ (boyfriend) — we have never found out his name — arrive a couple of times a year to cut the hedges and generally sort out the mess we’ve made of the garden. They do a great job, though always seem to be lacking some vital piece of equipment. Given that our gardening vocabulary is not great and her English is non-existent, she tends to draw pictures of whatever implement is lacking. We have tried to find these tools in M. Bricolage (the French equivalent of B&Q), but somehow her drawings never seem to match anything on the shelves.

Thierry looks after the pool and does any other general building and maintenance work. A man of few words (French or English), we couldn’t do without him.

Our doctor and dentist are just five minutes’ walk away — always handy. On one occasion, we took some forms to be signed into the doctor, and asked the receptionist when we should return to collect them. ‘Non!’ she cried. The doctor would bring them round to us himself. And he did, the same day.

S is for Spam

J’ai des autres chats a fouetter — I have other fish to fry

There is definitely a lot more spam in my cyberspace here. About half are sent by a Canadian pharmacy that offers cut-price Viagra; most of the others come from on-line gambling, fake degree or porn sites, and are sent by people with names like Clay Montano, Bong Szmaic and Cullinane Pettry.

Orange very helpfully filters these into a folder called ‘indésirables’. Unfortunately, it also directs some genuine emails there if it doesn’t like the name of the sender. My friends Nancy, Rochelle and Tracey have all ended up there, as have messages from the Crown Prosecution Service (I used to work there), Apple and Marks and Spencer.

We also get regular emails from gentlemen in the Ivory Coast who want to book our b&b for several months at a time. Each enquirer is looking for an out-of-season holiday for himself, his wife and two children, aged nine and 12. (So why aren’t they at school?) All we need to do is send our bank account details, get the rooms ready, then sit back and wait for our guests to arrive.

Another correspondent, this time from the Cameroon, had a very sad story, so tissues at the ready. He was very ill and had no friends or family. He did, however, have several million dollars that he wished to give us. [All the more surprising then, that he had no friends.] In turn, he wanted us to set up a foundation in his name. As if I didn’t have enough to do without fighting French bureaucracy to set up a foundation. Anyway, all he needed was our bank account details.

Then there was a travel agency that claimed to be in Belfast that wanted to bring several pilgrims to stay with us. (We are, after all, just three hours from Lourdes.) All they needed was our bank account details. Another organization believed members of a Chinese football team would be very happy chez nous. As would some African gymnasts. All they needed was our bank account details…

R is for Really?

Je nageis completement — I was all at sea

Where?

The other day, Gavin went to answer a knock at the door. He reported back that it was the electrician’s son, who was selling raffle tickets to raise money for a school trip to Libya.

I thought it was a rather exotic and somewhat unexpected destination for a school from a small town like St Antonin. On closer study of the raffle tickets, it turned out the trip was to an amusement park called Walibi, which is near Toulouse.  Anyway, we won a very nice pack of playing cards and I’m sure the children enjoyed their outing.

When?

Gavin decided to join a local choir. After a couple of weeks, he came back to say they would be giving a concert in a church near Toulouse. A coach was being hired to take the singers, so I could go along as part of the audience. We were due to have a fairly late night the day before, so I asked how long the concert was expected to last. He said that, as the coach was leaving at 6pm and the choir had rehearsed five songs, we surely wouldn’t be later back than 10.30pm. That didn’t seem too bad.

It turned out the venue was the other side of Toulouse. Yes, the choir was singing five songs — and so were three other choirs. Not forgetting the Russian lady playing several (long) pieces on an obscure percussion instrument. The concert finished at around 11pm. Time to go home? No. We all had to go to the local community centre for a buffet supper and some wine. We got home around 2am.

What?

Some strange machines have started appearing in the vicinity of local supermarkets. Put your money in (after having read the rather complicated instructions or, in our case, watch someone else do it first) and you receive a plastic bottle. You then proceed to fill the bottle with milk fresh from a local farm. And while you’re doing that, the machine makes mooing sounds at you. All that entertainment for one Euro — and you’re helping local enterprises.

Q is for QWIG

Cela a du succes grace au bouche-a-oreille — It has become popular as word gets around

QWIG is the Quercy Women’s International Group, of which I somehow managed to be one of the founder members. Its aim is to bring women of all nationalities, who live in the Quercy region of France, together in the spirit of friendship, fellowship and fun.

There are regular group lunches (well, it is France) and a number of special interest groups you can join. I’m not sure what possessed me to join the craft group. My last attempt at anything remotely craft-like was a somewhat lopsided peg holder (with embroidered daisy-like flowers on it) that I made at school aged 11. And forget your modern sewing machines. Mine has ‘By appointment to Her Majesty Queen Alexandra’ embossed on it. In all, it did not augur well among several ladies eager to embark on making heirloom quilts.

However, the group leader is infinitely patient — she has to be — and my attempt at a lavender bag drew universal praise (or was it sympathy?). Next step was a laundry bag (basically an overgrown lavender bag). When I got it home, Gavin took one look at it and said “It’s a bit big, isn’t it?” I think he may have thought it was another lavender bag. Still, it is proving almost as useful as the peg holder did all those years ago.

Perhaps a quilt might not be out of the question… watch this space!


Sadly, there will be no quilt. Unfortunately, I — along with six other members — have been thrown out of this embryonic group by our President, who, it seems, feels she wields more power than a departing Egyptian president ever did. (This, it should be noted, happened after her entire committee resigned.) So what was our crime? We held a meeting to discuss the future of the Group,  to which our President was invited but declined to attend. That, in QWIGland it seems, constitutes subversive behaviour. So it was 'au revoir' to us. Still, as they say over here, c'est la vie. I may not have made a quilt, but I made a lot of very good friends. And that is what is important. But isn't it a shame how one person can spoil things for so many others.


The good news is that, out of the ashes, a new group has risen. This one - Friends in France International (FiFi) is here to stay. We already have more than 50 members. And it's fun!

P is for Paris

Ce café, c’est du jus de chaussette — This coffee tastes like dishwater

I love Paris. I even love the Metro which, as anyone who knows my views on the London Underground in general, and the Central Line in particular, may come as a surprise.

I love the way so many stations are named after people, from the well known —  Victor Hugo, Voltaire, Alexandre Dumas and Franklin D Roosevelt — to the not-so-well known. Richard Lenoir station, for example, is named not for one person but two: François Richard and Joseph Lenoir-Dufresne, industrialists who brought the cotton industry to Paris. After the death of Lenoir, Richard went by the name Richard-Lenoir. Étienne Marcel, who died on 31 July 1358 was provost of the merchants of Paris under King John II, while Gabriel Péri was a prominent French Communist journalist and politician.

Can you imagine that in London? ‘Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to William Shakespeare?’

‘Yes, change at Winston Churchill, then take the Tony Blair direction, and change again at William Wordsworth. Whatever you do, don’t get off at Simon Cowell, Robin Hood or Lennon and McCartney. Sorry, I have to go, I’m meeting someone at Dame Vera Lynn in 10 minutes.’

Of course, the stations are often named after streets, which are named after the person the station commemorates. But nevertheless, unlike Shepherds Bush, Mile End or Acton Town, you generally don’t have a clue where you are. However, London Underground lines are more imaginatively named: Bakerloo, Victoria, Jubilee… beats Ligne 1, 2 or 3 any day.

Above ground, you tend to find yourself in the midst of the sort of scene I remember Bill Bryson describing in his book, Neither Here Nor There, but thought was somewhat exaggerated. Not so. (Sorry for doubting you there, Bill.)

There comes a point when you have to try to cross the road. You wait patiently by the kerb for the green man to appear. In the meantime, two parties of Japanese tourists, several women pushing baby buggies, a man with a guide dog and a couple of drunks scurry across the five lanes of traffic in complete safety. The green man appears, so off you go. His appearance lasts about 5 seconds, leaving you in the middle of the road with those five lanes of traffic heading straight for you. Luckily one of the drunks spots your plight, heads back to the middle of the road and puts up his hand to halt the cars. You mutter a polite ‘merci’, which he probably doesn’t hear through the resultant symphony of car horns, and run for your life.

Paris is a good place to discuss coffee. Hands up if you’ve heard of Cappucino’s Law? No? It states that the smaller your cup of coffee, the longer you linger at the table of the boulevard café you’ve chosen to patronise.

Some say that ordering coffee in Starbuck’s isn’t without difficulty, given the choices involved. It’s not that easy in France either. Ask for ‘café’ and you get an espresso. If you want anything larger, ask for a ‘grand café’ and if you want milk with that, add ‘avec lait’. Or you can ask for a ‘grand café crème’. Either way, your large coffee isn’t going to be that big. Order a cappuccino and more often than not it will come as a black coffee masquerading as a cappuccino by having a large dollop of Chantilly and a few chocolate sprinkles on the top. But whatever you order, you always get a little biscuit with it.

The strange thing is, when the French sit in a café, they enjoy the smallest coffee you can find, yet for breakfast they love huge bowls of the stuff. And whatever we give them is never strong enough. We’ve even had people at our chambre d’hotes surreptitiously sprinkling a sachet of Nescafe in the coffee we give them. So we gave up and installed an espresso machine in the room — at least they can have strong coffee for the rest of the day.

Contrary to popular belief, you can get a decent cup of Earl Grey in France. But they really love their tisanes here — tea of every aroma you can think of. I like

the vanilla and the caramel flavours, but am not too keen on the apple and cinnamon. You can even buy special boxes so you can offer your guests the choice of a dozen different flavours. Just sit back and wait for them to choose!

O is for Oops!

Pour moi c’est du chinois — This is double Dutch to me

When we lived in Ealing, west London, we belonged to the Twin Town Association. Ealing is twinned with Marcq-en-Baroeul, a suburb of Lille in northern France. So, as long as the coach didn’t break down, it was a relatively easy journey.

Our first visit coincided with a grand occasion — the 20^th anniversary of the towns becoming twins. The mayor and other dignatories came along to help with the celebrations.

When we arrived at the Town Hall in Marcq, there was a copious champagne reception with lots and lots of fizz. Then we were duly located and spirited away by our hosts. Our host was a delightful lady, Madame P, who spoke not a word of English. Never mind, we could speak French. At home, she plied us with food and wine. It was a very hot day and, to be honest, our minds drifted as she outlined the programme for the afternoon. We suddenly realized we hadn’t a clue what we were doing.

Discussing it afterwards, Gavin was convinced he had heard the French word for ‘hops’; I was sure I had heard ‘beer’. (That shows the difference in the standard of our French.) Easy. We were going to a beer festival — we were near Belgium, after all, and they brew some pretty good beer there. So we dressed accordingly.

Meeting Madame P downstairs, she looked at us, sighed ‘eh bien’ [oh dear], loaded us in her car and set off, playing her favourite game of ‘dodge the trams’ on the way. Having crossed Lille with our eyes shut, we found ourselves outside the prestigious music academy, where everyone was dressed, let’s say more formally. It turned out the Mayor of Ealing was being invested as an honorary hop-picker to commemorate the twinning anniversary.

We spent the afternoon on the balcony.

Luckily — and perhaps surprisingly — we haven’t had too many mishaps. I don’t really count the bag of rubbish we brought on holiday with us one year. Somehow Gavin got confused and put it in the car, rather than the bin. Anyone could make that mistake.

Another year, this time in a gite in the Dordogne, I somehow turned over in bed and dislocated my shoulder. Gavin had to rouse the unfortunate owners, who luckily for us, lived next door. They warned us that as we were in the country and it was gone midnight, it might be an hour before the doctor arrived. (We thought this pretty good.) He came within the hour, manipulated my shoulder back in place, muttered ‘I normally do this to rugby players’, charged us a ridiculously small amount of money and went on his way. Perhaps I’m being unfair, but I couldn’t see that happening in the UK.

N is for Neighbourhood

Le monde est petit — It’s a small world

Enter any town or village and there will be a notice informing visitors of the attractions waiting for you there. These can be anything from ‘son église 18C’ [its 18^th century church], ‘son marché’ [its market], to ‘son chateau’ [its castle] or ‘son centre historique’ [its historic centre]. What happens if somewhere has no attractions whatsoever? Simple. The notice just reads ‘son parking’ (of which there is likely to be ample). A little more encouragingly, there may be ‘son shopping’.

Other places have even more to boast about. A nearby village is feted as ‘un des plus beaux villages de France’ (this means it is officially one of the loveliest villages in France), while others are designated ‘ville fleurie’ (literally, a town with lots of flowers). We are somewhat puzzled by a nearby village which, for some time, claimed it was a 3-star ‘ville fleurie’. Indeed, there were three little red flowers drawn under the sign, meaning it was a very flowery place indeed. A little while ago one flower had been scrubbed out. Something must have gone badly wrong in the flowerpot department.

Larger towns have more ambitious claims. Montauban, which is close to us, is billed as ‘ville d’art et d’historie’ [a town of art and history], while the smaller and nearer Caussade is ‘ville des chapeaux’ [town of the hats]. In summer there are hat-shaped flower arrangements on the roundabouts, hat topiaries, model hats dotted all around and the odd hat-related parade. Sadly, the hat-makers who used to be there have all but disappeared, but their legacy lingers on.

On an even larger scale, enter the neighbouring ‘departement’ of the Lot, and a sign proudly informs you that there are 420 historic sites and monuments to visit. That may take a while.

Our own town, Saint Antonin Noble Val, on the banks of the Aveyron river, is billed as a ‘cité medieval’. And it’s true. We have the oldest civic building in France and lots of narrow streets with houses that have been around since the English conquered the town about 600 years ago. (They didn’t keep it for very long, just a few months. But we’re back again!) It’s all beautifully and lovingly preserved. The movie Charlotte Grey was filmed there and we have one of the most popular Sunday markets in the region.

It was while at the market that friends who had come to visit saw someone who looked very much like a neighbour they played bridge with in Somerset. ‘That looks like John,’ he said. ‘It can’t be,’ she said. So he went behind the man, whispered ‘John’ and, yes, it was their neighbour. Neither knew the other would be in Saint Antonin that weekend — and the market was particularly busy, making it difficult to keep track of your own partner let alone discover a friend. It really is a small world.

So why not come and see for yourself? You will be welcome and, who knows, you may meet someone you know.

M is for Mind your language

Il parle francais comme une vache espagnole — He speaks broken French

Gavin believes that when in France you should always speak French. If I can get away with it, I’ll speak in English.

One holiday, we rented a lovely apartment in the South of France. When we arrived, I could see trouble looming. Artistically arranged on the steps leading up to the door of our holiday home were geraniums. In terracotta pots. There was one at the edge of every open step. I think I knew I should have done something about it immediately, but I didn’t. Sure enough, on the second day, Gavin knocked one of the plants off its step. The pot duly broke, but luckily only into two pieces.

We examined the fragments and decided that, with the help of some superglue, we could make the pot as good as new. So off we went to the nearest quincaillerie [ironmongers]. When we entered, the two old men and a nun, who were sitting on chairs just inside the door, smiled at us and chirped ‘Bonjour’.

Gavin went to the counter to ask for the superglue. Problem was, he didn’t know the French word. So he did some mimes of sticking two pieces of flowerpot together. The proprietor looked at him in increasing bewilderment. I wanted to just launch into English, but that would have spoilt the fun.

Eventually, one of the men sitting in the shop could stand it no longer. He looked at Gavin; he looked at the proprietor. He said two words: ‘Le superglue’.

A friend had a similar experience on holiday. Her husband, whose French was, to say the least, limited, caused a shop’s staff and customers to gather around him, fascinated, as he tried to convey that he wanted to buy a mousetrap. They all tried to guess what he wanted. They entered into the spirit of his quest and ran around bringing him things like clothes pegs and lavatory brushes — a bit like Supermarket Sweep meets Give us a Clue.

Incidentally, isn’t that the problem with the French you learnt at school? It doesn’t equip you to live in France and cope with a search for superglue or to say such vital things as ‘My boiler is making some rather strange gurgling noises’, ‘How often do you have to give the worming powder to the cats?’ or ‘Do you know a good piano tuner?’.

The nuances of a language can be tricky to pick up and some words are so similar you just can’t help getting in a muddle. I once wanted to try on a pair of shoes, but instead Gavin told the bemused shopkeeper that I wanted to clean the shoes in their window. ‘Essuyer’ mean to clean or wipe, and ‘essayer’ to try on. An easy mistake. (The shoes were very nice, by the way.)

Another time, while in a big store in Paris, I needed some tissues, so asked where I could find ‘tissues’ — and was directed towards huge swathes of cloth. ‘Tissu’ means fabric or material.

And recently a friend here was puzzled when she tried to order logs for the fire and the vendor kept telling her she’d got the wrong number and needed the baker’s. She was apparently asking for French-style yule logs —the edible kind.

And not forgetting the experience someone had when she wanted a receipt at a motorway toll booth. On requesting a ‘recette’, she was asked whether she fancied ‘tarte aux pommes’ or ‘steak au poivre’. She had actually asked for a recipe.

Then there is the problem of where to put your adjectives. Before or after the noun can have completely different meanings. Someone who is your ‘cher ami’ is a good friend; your ‘ami cher’, however, is anything but as it means they cost you a fortune — presumably they like to drink a bit of wine, have the occasional night on the town and buy a few pairs of shoes. If you describe a man as a ‘homme grand’, you mean he is tall and well built; say he’s a ‘grand homme’ and you think he is an important chap. Or is it the other way round? Anyway, you get the picture.

Maybe it’s the cap he wears, but when out and about Gavin is regularly asked for directions. The enquirers range from French visitors to Russian lorry drivers; the occasional lost Britons are generally quite relieved when he answers them in English.

And being of the Imperial generation, we are only just beginning to feel at home with Metric, and no longer ask for enough steak haché (mince) to last several weeks. We slipped up the other day, though, when filling in a form, and stated confidently that we each weighed around 300kg, which works out at 60 stone. The company came back to us, saying they believed we had made a ‘petit erreur’ (small mistake). Either that, or it’s definitely time to cut back on the steak haché.

L is for loos and other inconveniences

A Rome il faut vivre comme les Romains — When in Rome do as the Romans do

Any visitor to France will recall — generally with horror — those holes in the ground with porcelain footrests that pass for toilets. You know the ones: they are never in the first flush of cleanliness and you must remember to leap off those footrests quickly, otherwise your feet get drenched when the thing flushes.

Back in the UK, we tended to refer to them as French toilets. But the French call them ‘les toilettes Turques’ (Turkish toilets). I don’t know what the Turks call them.

On a more positive note, if you travel on the péages, or toll motorways, there are toilets about every 20km. French, Turkish, whatever, they are very conveniently sited.

Public toilets in France are always a bit of a gamble. You’re desperate and don’t want to go into a café for yet another coffee as that just exacerbates the problem, nor can you spot a handy McDonalds to sneak into. Then you see some welcome public conveniences. You approach. He turns left into the entrance for Hommes, you go right to the Dames. You descend some stairs — and meet in the middle. The unisex toilets consist of two urinals (in plain view), three toilettes Turques and a sit-down loo without a seat. Of course, there is no paper, the light doesn’t work and no water comes out of the tap over the basin.

My advice is to try not to go into such places on your own. You need someone to stand outside the door while you use the facilities, because the lock doesn’t work either. And always take some Wet Wipes and a torch with you.

Peace and quiet

Anyone who thinks living in the country is quiet has obviously never lived there. Birdsong can be soothing, but the same can’t be said for the electrician’s cockerel that crows throughout the day. Or the demented duck that lives on the river at the bottom of our garden and has the loudest quack I have ever heard; it squawks away — night and day — as the fancy takes it.

Church bells aren’t in sync, so first one lot ring out, then another, then another… You can hear the rattle of the postman’s moped from quite a distance, even over the lawnmowers, the chopping of wood and the occasional faulty swimming pool alarm.

If anyone gets married, the guests set off for the reception in convoy, with the drivers of every car keeping their hand pressed firmly on the horn throughout the journey.

On the first Sunday of August we are woken by dozens of tractors gathering outside our house in preparation for their annual parade through the town. As Sunday is also market day, this causes some little local difficulties. Then, every few weeks during the summer months, a van with a tannoy tours the streets advertising that the circus has come to town.

We, to our shame, have added to the noise. During the summer several people came up to Gavin to congratulate him on his piano playing, the sound of which must carry a lot further than we thought. Still, there’s a possibility he might now get a gig at the local old people’s home out of it…

K is for kissing and generally being polite

On se dit bonjour, bonsoir, voila tout — We only have a nodding acquaintance

French folk are invariably very polite. Of course, there are exceptions, namely Parisiens, anyone behind the wheel of a car and the check-out assistants at Leclerc in Montauban.

Bonjour and bonne journée are familiar phrases to everyone. But stroll along the road to the Sunday market and you will be wished ‘bon marché’ (have a good market) by the neighbours. Get into your car and you will be exhorted to have a ‘bonne route’, but that is somewhat doubtful (see D is for Driving). At a restaurant, you will be wished ‘bon appetit’ before you start your meal and ‘bonne continuation’ after every course. In fact, everything you do, there is a ‘bon’ for it. A friend was once surprised to be urged to have a ‘bon fin de matinée’ (have a good rest of the morning) — at five minutes to midday. And just the other day, when we went to the swimming baths, the lifeguard exhorted us to have a ‘bonne baignade’ (have a good swim). Earlier we had been wished ‘bonne piscine’ (enjoy the swimming pool) by a friend as we set off. So, what do you say if you meet someone you’ve already wished ‘bonjour’ to? Simple. Just say ‘re-bonjour’.

The most worrying aspect of all this politeness, is whether you shake hands or kiss (twice on one cheek, once on the other) people you know — or indeed are being introduced to — when you meet them. The resulting confusion can lead to an odd little dance and the occasional clash of foreheads as you try to gauge what the other person is going to do. I think if in doubt, go for the kisses, as happened in the local swimming pool when I met a woman I’d exchanged a few words with the previous week. Amazingly she recognized me in my quaint little swimming hat and glided up to exchange kisses (or bisous as they are known to us locals).

The downside of all this is that it can take ages for any event to get started as before anything happens, everyone must go round all the attendees and exchange bonjours, hand-shakes, kisses and sometimes ‘re-bonjours’. And when you leave, another round of bisous, and choruses of  ‘au revoir’, ‘bonne journee’, ‘bonne route’ or whatever is appropriate to the time of day.

Then there is the vexed question of whether you call people ‘vous’ or the more familiar ‘tu’. ‘Tu’ is meant to be used when talking to small children, animals and anyone who gives you permission to ‘tutoyer’ (call them ‘tu’) them. But I can’t always remember who should be ‘vous’ and who should be ‘tu’. I generally err on the safe side and use ‘vous’ or nothing at all, which then leads to complications involving ‘on’ (the French word for ‘one’) and makes on sound a bit like the Queen. A French acquaintance, who started calling us ‘tu’ after about 10 minutes, explained that as she likes everyone, she uses ‘tu’ all the time. I don’t think I would have the courage for that.

Politeness hasn’t skipped a generation here. Shortly after we moved to France, we were walking through the town when we saw a group of teenagers idling on the street corner. As we walked past them, something you often did with trepidation in parts of London, they turned to us and chorused ‘Bonjour Madame, Bonjour Monsieur’. They didn’t know us and we didn’t know them, but it was the polite thing to do.

J is for joining in

Bienvenu au club! — Join the club

Xyst is a covered gallery in a gym; Wu is a Chinese dialect; a kot is a room rented to a student. Youp! (That’s an interjection.)

These words all have something in common — they get you out of a fix when you play Scrabble in French. X is worth 10 in French Scrabble. Personally I think it should be a lot more. In my shorter Oxford French Dictionary, which claims to have 45,000 entries, there are only three French words beginning with X. And one of those is xylophone, which is going to be pretty difficult to make. I know you can add X to the end of some words to make a plural, but the opportunity to do that doesn’t come up very often.

We play Scrabble in French once a week with members of the local Ainés Ruraux club. It’s pretty difficult, but would be even worse without access to the French Dictionary of Official Scrabble Words, which we have to rifle through frantically before every turn.

Literally, Ainés Ruraux means elderly country folk, but it’s open to anyone over 50. We thought it would be a good place to meet local French people. Our opponents may be a few decades over 50 in some cases, but they are pretty good at Scrabble. It took many months before Annick, who keeps the scores, uttered the words that still make me very proud: ‘C’est Dolly qui a gagné!’. [Dolly has won!]

Once a week Gavin gives an English lesson to around half a dozen members of club. Progress is quite slow, but they are now pretty good at saying to each other ‘’Ello, ‘ow are YOU?’ in a slightly Scottish accent.

They find pronunciation generally a bit tricky. Try explaining the sentence ‘My nice neice lives in Nice’ to a non-English speaker…

Then, every so often there is a lotto (Bingo) session. Following the numbers in French and crossing them off correctly on three cards is pretty tricky, but the other week I did win a packet of French toasts, a tin of ravioli and a packet of cup-a-soup (vegetable flavour). But, in my view, that’s preferable to the live goat, which was the prize in a nearby lotto a little while ago. Then, occasionally, there is a five-course lunch (with wine and liqueurs and a bit of dancing thrown in) for around 12 Euros each…

Adieussiatz! No, it’s not another strange Scrabble word. It’s the Occitan for ‘hello’ and, confusingly, ‘goodbye’.

Occitan is a Romance language spoken mainly in southern France — including the area where we live — and also in parts of Italy and Spain. There are some 1.5 million people who speak Occitan in their daily lives, while 5 or 6 million people have some knowledge the spoken language. It’s not unusual to meet some older folk who spoke Occitan at home and didn’t learn French until they went to school.

To make things even more complicated, there are six dialects of Occitan: Provençal, Gascon, Languedoc, Limousin, Alpine and Auvergne.  (We’re roughly the Languedoc version.)

Nowadays, the majority of speakers are elderly, but the language is undergoing something of a revival, with more interest being shown in it — many towns and villages have their names displayed in both French and Occitan. And that’s where we come in. As part of our campaign to integrate more with the local French community, we decided to learn Occitan. Well, it seemed a good idea at the time.

Occitan first began to appear in writing during the 10th century and was used particularly to write the poetry of the troubadours. The troubadours performed their poetry of love, satire and war in the courts of kings and nobles all over France, Spain and other countries in Europe. Things have gone downhill a bit since then, and we ‘perform’ in a local community centre under the direction of our teacher, Muriel. Unfortunately, on one occasion the caretaker decided to leave before our lesson had finished and we all got locked in. It took a phone call to the town hall (luckily a fellow student had the number on him) to alert people to our plight; happily someone quickly brought a key round and duly released us.

It’s actually quite a difficult language and it takes ages just to learn the pronunciation. Books in Occitan seem to put a heavy emphasis on giants, myths and ogres and there is a lot of importance placed on singing. I’m ruled out of that particular activity as my singing voice is beyond bad, though Gavin chants away enthusiastically.

And we’ve even got an Occitan (OC) sticker for the car.

Adieussiatz!