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!

I is for illuminated salt and pepper pots (and other everyday essentials)

C’est simple comme bonjour — it’s as easy as ABC

How can you not love a country where you can buy illuminated salt and pepper pots and chocolate-flavoured postage stamps?

The big question, though, is why anyone would want illuminated salt and pepper pots. (For the technically minded among you, they are conventional salt and pepper mills that incorporate a torch.) Worried about seasoning your salad during a power cut? Concerned about putting pepper on your dessert during a candlelit dinner? Sadly, they’re not on my list of ‘must haves’, but I am pretty taken with a smart wooden box — complete with stylish knife — where you can store your dried saucisson.

The stamps really do smell of chocolate. And if that’s not good enough for you, we saw an offer where you could get stamps printed with your own picture on— ideal to pop on envelopes destined for friends and family. Pull a glum face and you could use them when paying bills.

Every few weeks a large white lorry comes to our Sunday market. A few days before its arrival a catalogue arrives showing all the goodies you can buy there. It has things I never knew existed — and I am a big fan of the Ideal Home Show and the Lakeland Ltd catalogue.

One essential is a device that apparently consists of a piece of string and two bulldog clips. It’s for holding your serviette in place around your neck (possibly aimed at people without illuminated salt and pepper pots). The use of this contraption is illustrated by a girl of about 10 who, in picture one, looks absolutely devastated that she has spilt bolognese sauce down her t-shirt. In picture two, duly kitted out with this nifty contraption, she is all smiles. Unfortunately, there is no picture three showing her expression when her friends come round unexpectedly and catch her thus attired. But here’s a tip that will save you 2 Euros 99. If you want one, make your own with a piece of string and two bulldog clips… Now where’s that application form for Dragons’ Den?

You can also buy electronic mole scarers from the van. Not very exciting, I know, but in the UK when we needed one, we found it very difficult to obtain. A garden centre advised us to try Argos. So I typed ‘mole scarer’ into their search box, and it gave me a page of Barbie doll bed accessories. In the spirit of true investigative journalism, I tried again the other day to see what Argos offered to scare away moles. This time it came up with a game called ‘Whac a Mole’, which is more or less understandable, and also a Denby 12-piece breakfast set (in blue). Anyway, we bought a scarer from the van, just in case.

I’m saving my centimes, though, for something that I’m sure will be really useful: my own personal, portable sauna that can be used in any room of the house. Costing just 99,99 Euros, it looks like a cross between a blue tent and an igloo; it will improve my skin, get rid of toxins and help me lose weight. I simply have to get into it, making sure my head pokes out the top, and voila, I’m ready for my sauna. I’m just a little worried about plugging it in with me inside it…

A new mail-order catalogue has just been delivered, full of really useful stuff. It’s addressed to Mme Poter Doreem, but I’m sure they’ll accept my order for a pair of ‘chaussons a polir’. These are mop heads that you wear like slippers, so you can polish the floors while gliding (or sliding) around the room. They’re reduced from 12,99 Euros to 6,49 Euros (but only come in women’s sizes!). Who needs a Wii-fit when you can buy these so much cheaper?

Then there are things that you are really tempted to buy here that would never have crossed your horizon in the UK. Yesterday we saw a wicker trolley that is designed specifically for carrying your firewood from wherever you store it to the fire. I did think of buying Gavin one for Christmas, but at 54 Euros, thought it a bit expensive when he already has a wheelbarrow. It was very smart, though.

If anyone thinks I’m not taking these inventions seriously, let me say that I find the clip-on extensions to the car’s sun visors very useful. Just put them in place and (a) if the sun is very low and (b) you are quite short, you won’t get blinded as you drive along. I’ve recommended them to all my (short) friends. Honestly.

H is for Hypermarkets (and shopping in general)

On part dévaiser les magasins — we’re going on a shopping spree

What can’t the Germans and Belgians do, the British are discouraged to do, yet the French do as much as ever? The answer is, pay by cheque. There are no guarantee cards, but cheques are almost as good as cash in France, simply because it is illegal to go overdrawn at your bank without authorisation. If you do, you could be banned from the banking system for several years, which might be a tad inconvenient.

So it’s quite common to stand behind someone paying for three apples at a market stall by cheque. A French friend once gave me a cheque for the 6 Euros she owed me. Having said that, there are some garages that won’t accept cheques, but I suspect that is because no one is ever on the till. It seems we always end up getting our fuel dispensed automatically after inserting a credit card and trying to follow instructions that are about as complex as those that come with a self-assembly IKEA wardrobe.

Incidentally, IKEA is very popular here. We once saw a coach trip to Toulouse advertised, and thought it would be good as it would save the hassle of finding somewhere to park. Turned out it was a day trip to IKEA — and nowhere else.

High streets here still boast a range of small, independent shops. Hypermarkets and larger supermarkets are found out-of-town, alongside DIY stores and furniture superstores; everyone seems to co-exist in reasonable harmony. 

Whatever town or large village you visit, you can be sure to find at least one of all the following: a boulangerie (bakers), a pharmacie (chemist), a bar, a tabac and a ladies’ hairdresser. The bar invariably doubles as a PMU (betting shop), and the ladies’ hairdresser also caters for those men who aren’t put off venturing inside an establishment with a name like Chez Virginie.

Hypermarkets and supermarkets sell local produce as much as possible, so your fruit, vegetables and meat has probably had a shorter journey than you. Hypermarkets are very big and sell anything and everything; you get used to standing at the checkout behind families with a patio table and four chairs or a fridge-freezer in their trolleys.

Even our small local supermarket has a fresh meat counter. If you want mince, you ask the butcher for ‘steak haché’ and he minces it in front of you. And the larger supermarkets and hypermarkets have extensive fresh fish counters too.

The other week we arrived at our local Intermarché to find all the staff dressed in kimonos and the whole place done up to resemble an establishment that would have been more at home in downtown Tokyo. They were promoting sushi and had shelves and shelves of the stuff. We accepted a free tasting, thought it very nice, and bought some. A couple of weeks later, we went back to buy some more. Not a bit of sushi to be seen. That, I find, is the trouble here. You see something you really like, go back like Oliver Twist for more, but you never see the same product again. I’ve never quite got to the bottom of that one.

G is for Gone Swimming

Il faut se méfier de l’eau qui dort — still waters run deep

Our track record in relation to public swimming baths in France is not good. That’s probably why we bought a house with its own pool. A few years ago, on holiday in the Loire, we came across some public baths and decided to patronize them the next day. I can’t remember what the town they were in was called, but if you ever want to find them, they were opposite the romantic-sounding Café de l’Abbatoir.

We arrived and were somewhat puzzled that no one was on hand to take our money, but assumed they had gone for a comfort break and we could simply pay later. We went into the changing rooms, donned our swimwear — and emerged into the middle of a swimming gala. Narrowly avoiding entry into the 200m relay, we made our excuses and left.

For a nation that is somewhat relaxed when it comes to certain aspects of health and safety — we have just returned from an event where some pensioners cooked chestnuts over an open fire — France is particularly harsh when it comes to what you can and cannot wear at the public piscine. We knew from previous encounters that there is just the one style of trunks men are allowed to wear; it can be summed up in a single word — ‘brief’.

But, with our own pool closed for the winter, we bravely decided to head for the nearest public baths.

Gavin had lost his approved trunks somewhere in France, some time ago — hardly surprising, they were pretty small. So we thought we would just check with the receptionist, who looked as if she was having a bad day even before we arrived, whether the ‘brief’ rule was still in place. We showed her Gavin’s trusty-but-not-brief M&S trunks. From the look of complete horror that came on her face, we took the answer as ‘no’. Once she had recovered, she helpfully directed us to a vending machine where, for 9 and 3 Euros respectively, we could buy the necessary trunks and the regulation swimming hats. Even the tiniest tots have to wear the hats, despite generally having little or no hair. I think too we will draw a line under the time I forgot my costume and had to buy one from the dreaded machine. It was not a pretty sight.

Some time later, we made our way into the pool — via the communal changing rooms. Well, it is France. And machine-bought trunks and swimming hats do not a fashion statement make, believe me. Still, after an energetic work-out in the pool, you can always repair to the café upstairs for a three-course lunch and a bottle or two of wine.

F is for Food

F is for food

Trop de cuisiniers gatent la sauce — too many cooks spoil the broth

The cheese counters and shelves of any large French hypermarché are probably around the size of your average Tesco Metro in London.

Charles de Gaulle once asked: “How can anyone govern a nation that has 246 different kinds of cheese?” And Winston Churchill said in 1940: “A country producing almost 360 different types of cheese cannot die.”

You see, that’s the trouble with French cheeses, no one really knows how many there are. It’s thought there are now around 400 different varieties, although Wikepedia puts the number as high as 1,000 — but they are probably including different types of the same cheese. Complicated, isn’t it? Problems of government aside — I am sure Nicolas Sarkozy does not rank cheese high on his agenda, and Carla probably thinks it’s too fattening — we have vowed to taste every one, from Abbaye du Mont-des-Cats to Vieux Lille. (My current favourite is Pechegos, an absolutely delicious goats’ cheese that we buy direct from the producer.)

When eating out, restaurant portions are not as big as those in the US. But, as there are exceptions to everything, here are some helpful pointers. If a second waiter and the proprietor come up to check whether you really do want a portion each of the dish you have ordered, you know a mammoth plateful is on its way. And if the waiter leans over and asks in a stage whisper whether you want a ‘petit dessert’, you can bet that the concoction soon to be set in front of you — perhaps with a sparkler fizzing away on top of it — will contain several scoops of ice cream, a mound of Chantilly, some chocolate sauce, a handful of strawberries, a wafer and a slug or two of strong liqueur. You have been warned.

If you decide to order your steak, lamb or duck ‘bien cuit’ (well done), be prepared to wilt under the disapproving glances of anyone within hearing distance. Not that it really matters — however you ask for it cooked, the dish put in front of you would undoubtedly merit the description ‘rare’ in the UK.

It’s true to say that the French appreciation of food begins early. At the primary school in our road, alongside a notice urging parents to check their children’s heads for nits, they display the three-course daily lunch menu that the kids will enjoy. Today, duck breast and veal in mushroom sauce feature. Even with the efforts of Jamie Oliver, I can’t see UK schools offering similar fare.

There are some French foods that divide opinion. Foie gras has Sir Roger Moore picketing the stores that sell it, but is on every menu here. You can still find butchers that specialize in horse meat, and how about some donkey sausage for lunch?

To some, snails are a delicacy, to others a fate worse than a Bushtucker trial. The main problem with snails is actually getting at them. They are served in their  shells, in their own specially-designed dish and come with the appropriate tools, namely a pincer and a pin for getting at them. But get your grip wrong, and your snail — which is covered with lashing of garlic butter — flies across the restaurant and into the potage of the lady at the next table. She smiles weakly and, you guess through gritted teeth, murmurs ‘Ce n’est pas grave’ — that wonderful French phrase for ‘It’s OK’ that is so useful in such situations. You, in your turn, mutter, ‘Je suis désolé’, the catch-all for ‘I’m really, really sorry’.

Frogs legs too are delicious, but so fiddly that I’m never sure they’re worth the effort.

Personally, it’s tripe, whether in the mode of Caen or a l’ancienne, that has me screaming ‘non merci’. I still remember with horror the time we mistakenly bought some andouilles (tripe sausages). They. Were. Horrible. And pigs’ trotters are definitely a taste that I have yet to acquire.

However, offer me a plate of confit du canard, moules et frites, boeuf  bourguignon, fruits de mer, charcuterie [cold meat] or cassoulet and I won’t say no. And although you can’t get a decent curry, you can get amazing couscous and paella.

Outside large towns, France is not really that geared to vegetarians, whose choice is invariably limited to crudités and a mushroom omelette.

P.S. Perhaps now is the right moment to apologise to the waiter at our local restaurant. We really don’t know why our guest suddenly decided to thrust her lettuce, complete with dressing, into your hand. But, anyway, je suis désolée.

E is for Everyday Conundrums

On n’avance a rien — We’re getting nowhere

Sometimes it’s the little things that make life difficult.

Route barré

You’re driving to a place you have driven to many, many times. Suddenly you see it — a sign saying ‘route barré’ [road closed]. The resulting ‘deviation’ takes you through several industrial estates, a quarry and the southern part of Belgium, before depositing you a kilometre further along the road you left several hours earlier. Sometimes the ‘route barré’ sign will have some exceptions listed — if you are an hgv delivering something, you can go through; if you have an ‘T’ in your name or were born in December… You get the picture. But, somehow, I am never allowed past.

Lost in France

Getting into any town is quite easy. Simply follow ‘Centre Ville’ [town centre] and voila, find somewhere to park, go shopping, have a meal or explore. Getting out of a town you don’t know is not quite so straightforward. You can’t go back the way you came because of the one-way systems.

You drive off and come to a roundabout: one exit leads to the hospital, the next to the municipal rubbish dump, then there is ‘Toutes Directions’ [all directions]. Actually, there are two exits for ‘Toutes Directions’ — one is for ordinary traffic, one for heavy loads. Don’t worry about that, after about 50 metres they both go exactly the same way. You follow either of the ‘Toutes Directions’ signs for another couple of roundabouts, then they disappear, to be replaced by two exits that lead to places you’ve never heard of, another goes to Paris (despite it being 700 kilometres away) and, finally, there is ‘Autres Directions’ [other directions].

You follow that. You come to one last roundabout. There are signs to lots of new places, but not the one you want. You go round the roundabout twice more. You spot your destination — in the opposite direction to the way you were heading. You turn round. You start again.

We’re closed

You’ve checked and you’ve double-checked. The shop you want to go to, 50 kilometres away, is definitely open on Wednesday afternoons. You set off and arrive to see a large sign ‘fermeture exceptionnelle’. There is never, of course, any explanation as to what exceptional circumstance caused this closure. So you go home and try another day.

Do not pass go

The French seem to like blockades. Fishermen blockade the ports to protest at fish quotas; lorry drivers blockade the roads to protest at fuel prices; milk producers blockade distribution centres to protest at wholesale prices.

It can be inconvenient if you get caught up in one, but don’t worry. At around midday everyone disperses and heads for the nearest café. We did think of blockading Calais when we were having such problems getting a phone installed. But we didn’t want to miss our lunch…

D is for Driving

D is for driving

Il me tient soigneusement a distance — he keeps me at arm’s length

There’s a downside to everything. Living in France it’s…  the driving. Here’s a typical journey.

About a kilometre after leaving home, a Renault 5 tucks itself behind you, so close that to an outside observer you could be welded together. He sticks with you up hill and down, round every bend in the road. Then, when it is safe to overtake, he drops back to allow a tractor and a teenager on a moped to fill the gap between you.

A few minutes later, as two Dutch caravans and a convoi exceptionnel [long vehicle] approach on the opposite side of the road, he takes his chance to pass everyone. He just manages to pull, almost horizontally, into the gap between you and the taxi in front of you. Yes, you had actually left a gap, much to the relief of the family from Nijmegen who feared the Renault 5 driver would be going home with them, embedded in their caravan.

About 100 metres later, Monsieur turns off left — with much aplomb but no signal.

His place in your bumper zone is taken by a beret-wearing pensioner. He’s driving the Citroen 2CV that he bought to celebrate his retirement 30 years ago, and grins manically at you through the rear-view mirror. He doesn’t stay there long as a ‘no overtaking’ sign soon appears, enabling him to chug past in a cloud of exhaust. The pieces of string keeping his door shut flap wildly in the breeze. He then slows down so suddenly you are forced to brake, sending the EU-regulation florescent jackets, warning triangle, first aid box and carton of spare light bulbs that were on your back seat to the floor — along with the six bottles of wine you had just bought.

It’s not clear at first whether he has slowed to protect the residents of the village you are now passing through, or because he has spotted an old friend driving towards him on the other side of the road. It’s the latter. As the two cars draw level, both drivers stop and wind down their windows. A fug of Gauloise drifts over the village.

The drivers hold an animated conversation and several bags and a live chicken are passed from one car to another, as queues build up behind them in both directions. There is an occasional half-hearted toot of a horn, but most of the other, normally impatient, drivers take the opportunity to catch up on some sleep, reading or phone calls.

A crocodile of school children weaves between the cars (after all, they have parked on a pedestrian crossing), to get from one side of the road to the other; every child murmurs a polite ‘bonjour monsieur’ to each chauffeur.

Then, wishing each other ‘bonne route’, the drivers set off again, the one in front of you immediately pulling into an adjacent parking space by the side of the road.

Your new rear companion turns out to be the French equivalent of White Van Man. Seated on his knees is an enormous dog that must have wolf somewhere in his pedigree. You hope he has his paws on the wheel, though, as WVM has a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

You’ve forgotten it’s market day in the next village and have to slow to a crawl behind a couple walking in the middle of the road, who stop every few paces to embrace. You are overtaken by several ladies pulling shopping trolleys and WVM has, by now, found his pitch and is already selling his second crate of aubergines.

At last you emerge. There is no one in front of you or behind you. This is what driving in France is all about. You spot a speck on the horizon to your rear. It gets closer and closer. Then it stops a safe few vehicle lengths behind you. “Hmm,” you think, “must be that new British family who’ve moved in down the road…”

STOPPRESS: It’s just been announced that the French driving test is to be made easier. I have only one thing to say about that — help!

C is for Communication

C is for Communication

Cela ne casse pas trois pattes a un canard — it’s nothing to write home about

It’s good to talk — and write, and twitter and email…

Remember, when you buy your dream home in France, that one day in the not- too-distant future, you will have to spell out your new address to someone in the UK or, even more alarmingly, a call centre in Mumbai.

With our address including — Chemin du Tour du Pre (five words), Saint Antonin Noble Val (four words) and the optional Tarn et Garonne (three words), it was never going to be easy. Generally, people cope with the first line OK, but by the second they are beginning to lose the will to live. The word France, however, seems to pose few problems.

We have had letters addressed to us in Sant Antoni Noble Val, Saint Antonia Noble Val (I have a friend called Antonia, so am quite fond of that one), Saint Antonin Nobel Valley and Saint Antonin Noel Val. The latter was from HM Revenue and Customs, so didn’t contain tidings of seasonal joy. We have also been transported to the Torn et Garonne, but it could have been Gavin’s Scottish accent to blame there. Accents do have an impact on your address, as a former colleague, who originates from Birmingham, found when she took a job with the Bucks Free Press and was puzzled to get letters addressed to her at Box 3 Press; and workers in Mersey House in Liverpool were equally perplexed to receive missives destined for Miss Maisie House.

Still our postman is very good and has helped himself and others by writing our name in BIG letters on our post box and delivering anything arriving in Saint Antonin from amazon.co.uk to us first.

But it’s not just the post. You also need a telephone. When we moved in, it was great ­­— we had a phone and a phone number. We phoned friends and family to spread the good news. They called us back. That lasted three days. Then we were told we were actually using our predecessors’ line and number, as they had apparently failed to inform France Telecom that they had departed. Blissfully ignorant and enjoying their new life in Charente Maritime, they were paying for our calls to the UK. And non, said France Telecom, we couldn’t keep the line or the number. We had to start again.

Three months later, after numerous visits to the Orange [part of France Telecom] shop in Montauban — easily recognizable by the crowd of dejected-looking people gathered outside, waiting for the doors to open — several visits to us by Cyrille of Orange on his moped, two defective Live boxes, various different explanations about the cause of the delay, lots of mobile phone calls and several letters, we eventually got our phone and broadband. And a questionnaire from Orange asking — “How did we do?”

During our Orange-less period, we had to use the Mediatheque [the local library that offers Internet access] in town for all our Internet needs. And they were fierce in there. On my first visit, I had already completed the necessary paperwork, booked my slot and arrived in good time. The lady at reception looked at her watch, frowned at me, and told me that there were ‘encore 3 minutes’ before I could be allowed anywhere near the computer, despite the fact no one was using it at the time. And the man at the next desk was severely admonished — he was using a computer when his girlfriend came in to find him. He let her look at her Facebook page while she was there. Bad idea. Madame from reception marched over and informed the poor girl that she could not touch the computer without first filling in the appropriate forms and showing them a copy of her electricity bill. (Forget national identity cards, all you need in France is an electricity bill — it’s the passport to everything.)

Communication. It’s not easy. Was it our accents or our handwriting? There must be a reason why, among at least one group of French acquaintances, we seem forever destined to be Govan and Dolly.

B is for Bottles and bread

B is for bottles and bread

Ca s’arrose — That calls for a drink

It’s said there are some 362 types of French wine, known as ‘appellations’ (that’s the posh stuff that comes in glass bottles with proper corks, to you and me), more than 50  types of ‘Vins de Pays’ (not quite as good, but still very drinkable) and an unknown (ie a lot) of Vins de Table. You may by chance stumble on some quite palatable Vins de Table, but others will probably come in plastic bottles (supplied by you) and cost around one Euros for 5 litres.

And don’t forget champagne and sparkling wine, both produced by hundreds of vineyards.

Red, white, rosé, sparkling or champagne. The choice is yours — and with seven to eight billion bottles of the stuff produced in France every year, there is certainly plenty to choose from. The research involved in finding your favourite tipple is likely to be fun.

There are perhaps not as many types of French bread, but they’re working on it. The baguette is familiar to everyone, but even here there is controversy. Some people say you can only find a proper baguette in Paris, where it is said to have originated; others disagree.

If you aren’t that hungry, try a ‘ficelle’, a very think version of the baguette — the name literally means ‘string’ in French.

For bigger appetites, a pain de campagne is a big, rustic loaf with a thick crust, while a pain de mie is sweet, sliced, packaged white bread, generally used to make toast or sandwiches or both. It can be surprisingly tasty compared to the white bread you find in the UK.

Bread comes with olives, spices, nuts, raisins. It comes in all sorts of shapes and sizes. And don’t forget croissants, pain au chocolat, and pain aux raisins to dunk in your morning bowl of coffee.

Because it contains no fat, French bread generally last about a day, which is why Madame pays daily visits to the Boulangerie. Even the smallest village will have at least one Boulangerie (or travelling equivalent). You will have to queue to get your baguette, which is handed to you wrapped in a tiny piece of paper that invariably gets lost on your journey home.

But here’s a tip my friend Judith gave me. And it really works. If you want your baguette to last longer than a day, wrap it in a damp tea towel and put it in the fridge. Take it out and reheat it in the oven just before you want to eat it. Absolutely brilliant!

A is for Abroad

Je ne peux pas etre au four et au Moulin — I can’t be in two places at once

Welcome to France. You can watch British TV and listen to British radio; you can buy Heat magazine, the Radio Times and day-old copies of the Daily Mail at three times their cover price. You can subscribe to which? or the Spectator. You can order from the Boden catalogue or have knickers delivered to your door courtesy of your M&S.  But you can’t find a decent curry, fish and chips or a proper sausage and you are banned from using BBC iPlayer.

You get excited when you see mint sauce, cream crackers or fresh coriander in the supermarket. And forget perfume; you beg your friends to bring you Oxo cubes and oat cakes when they visit. (On second thoughts, you can bring the perfume too, please.)

It’s more than just using Euros, driving on the right and trying to be understood in French.

The news, as read by Laurence Ferrari or Harry Roselmack, is more relevant to you than that broadcast by Huw Edwards or Fiona Bruce. You read more about Johnny Hallyday than Jordan, yet somehow Susan Boyle has become a national heroine. No one has heard of Ant and Dec, let alone Nick Clegg. Big Brother is Secret Story; Midsomer Murders has become Inspecteur Barnaby and The X Factor is — OK, it’s The X Factor.

You go to the local cinema and watch Mama Mia in English with French subtitles, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo in Swedish with French subtitles, and the very funny Odette Toulemonde in French with no subtitles.

There is a saint for every day of the year. Today it’s the somewhat obscure St Tanguy. I looked up my birthday, but sadly am not that inspired by St Gladys, despite the fact that she did various good deeds and suffered dreadfully in Wales in the 5^th Century.

Christmas goodies don’t appear in the shops until well into December, and Boxing Day is not a public holiday. Don’t feel too sorry for the French, though, they do get extra days off on 14 July (Fete Nationale), 15 August (Assomption), 1 November (Toussaint) and 11 November (Armistice).

You dial 18 or 112 for the Fire Brigade. If you want to cook by gas it’s likely to come in a bottle. Post is delivered to a box outside your gate; junk mail arrives in a bundle every Tuesday and newspapers and milk aren’t delivered at all.

You need a medical examination before you can pull a trailer or take part in aqua aerobics, but the Pharmacie will sell you any number of potent potions over the counter.

You may be less than two hours from London, courtesy of Ryanair or Easyjet, but you most definitely do live abroad. Vive la France!