by Janine Marsh
It occurred to me that my neighbours must have been doing this when we first came here. They probably discussed what we wore and how strange and clueless we were. The fact that we are included in the gossip about the newcomers must mean that although we are still ‘les étrangers’, the foreigners, we are accepted enough to be included in discussions about the nouveau city slickers.
I am still, even after a few years in France, in love with the fact that sometimes the most dramatic and newsworthy thing to happen in the village is the possibility of spotting inappropriately-dressed-for-middle-of-nowhere-rural-France-with-a-poodle-maybe city slickers from Paris.
MARCH
Party like it’s spring
THE HUNTING SEASON is a way of life in France. Whether you love it or hate it, that’s how it is. We rarely walk the dogs at the weekends between September and March as that’s when most hunting goes on, and being surrounded by the sound of the guns popping off isn’t exactly relaxing. When we do go out, we see far less of the deer, rabbits, hares, pheasants and boars that are a common sight.
On the way home from a shopping expedition to Brico Depot to buy yet more building supplies (it’s never-ending), Mark and I drove up and down the steep hills that run through the forests on the outskirts of the town. The woodland covers a huge area, with pine and oak trees towering above scrubland that is covered with wild garlic, bluebells and primroses in late spring. In early March, however, it’s still largely leafless and you can clearly see animal paths running through the trees. We were chatting away about our next job when I spotted, just inside the bushes on the outskirts of the forest, a pair of wild pigs.
‘Pull over slowly,’ I said to Mark. ‘I’ll see if I can get a photo.’
As we stopped, I saw the pigs creep gingerly to the edge of the road, squealing and grunting, as their darting eyes, full of fear, stared at the cars whizzing by. I got out of the car and called, ‘Hello pigs.’ They stayed where they were, just a few feet away, staring at me. They were young pigs, bigger than a fully grown Labrador, with bristly brown hair, long pointed noses, and ears that twirled like small satellite dishes searching for a signal. A few more cars whistled by at speed, which made the pigs squeal even more, but they stood their ground. I got the impression they wanted to cross to the other side of the road, so I walked out to the middle of the road and stuck my arms out to stop the traffic, praying that the drivers would notice me. I’m pretty sure I must have looked like a crazy person but my plan worked. Drivers put on their hazard lights and cars stopped on both sides. After a couple of minutes, the pigs darted across the road to the safety of the forest on the other side. I so wish I could tell you they lifted a trotter in gratitude but, no, they bolted off into the undergrowth. I also wish I could tell you that the other car drivers applauded my actions, but mostly they just looked at me unsmilingly or rolled their eyes and drove off without looking back. No doubt they went home that day and told the tale of a mad woman who roams the forests ferrying pigs across the roads.
The countryside of Pas-de-Calais is a haven of nature, and I love that. Wild herbs grow at the side of the road, storks roost in the trees, and you can hardly tell their nests from the huge bundles of mistletoe that pepper the branches of trees in fields and forests. The local people really care about the countryside and when spring has almost sprung it often means towns and hamlets make time for a tidy-up. This March, when the mayor asked everyone to join a pre-spring ‘clean the streets campaign’, almost half the inhabitants of the village turned up on a chilly Sunday morning to get involved.
We were told to be there for 9.30 for a 10 a.m. start time. ‘Half an hour warm-up?’ I said to Mark. ‘I wonder why.’ Well, it turns out that it takes that long to kiss everyone hello and shake hands. We arrived with just fifteen minutes to spare, by which time the town hall salle de fêtes (party room) was full of people holding tiny plastic cups and knocking back strong black coffee, the sort that would keep you awake for a week. We walked the line of those already gathered, instinctively arranged in a sort of semi-circle, sharing pecks on the cheek. Right, left or right, left, right – to be truthful I have no idea what you’re supposed to do, and some shake hands too, so you just have to watch carefully and respond in kind. Then we got on the end of the line and those who came after shuffled their way round, mwah-mwah-mwahing until they got to the end and we were all done. It took so long for everyone to get round that we didn’t start the cleanup until well after ten o’clock.
Then the mayor made a speech, thanking us for turning up, told us to make sure we were wearing our hi-vis jackets (on account of the fact that a car might pass by), issued us each with a plastic sack and gave us instructions as to which roads to clean. We split into groups of four or six and off we went roaming the little rues and alleys to collect every shred of rubbish we could possibly find. Mark and I were in the non-French contingent, joined by a Dutch couple who live near the church. The sun shone, birds were singing in the hedge, and even Thierry’s sheepdog, an old and remarkably shaggy collie with arthritic legs and a loud bark, came out to stare at the unusual level of activity on a Sunday morning.
I have to say, our clean-up outing didn’t take long due to the fact that there are very few roads and they were already very clean. As we wandered, searching under hedgerows for something to throw in our bags, wild birds flew up in protest. We passed other groups of neighbours straying from their allotted routes, desperate to find some rubbish as if not doing so was a failure in citizenship. I am pretty sure that Jean-Claude went home and emptied a bin into his sack as he was the only person with a full load, which got him a cheer when we got back to the town hall.
The mayor then made another speech. I think there must be a French law about mayors making speeches if there are more than five people in a room. Afterwards, he offered us a choice of drinks – a glass of sparkling wine with a hint of cassis (blackcurrant liqueur) or a gut warming genièvre, a sort of gin that’s made locally from juniper berries – definitely not for the faint-hearted. It made for a cheerful bunch at eleven o’clock in the morning.
This is a very jolly region, despite or perhaps because of the amount of rain that falls, and nothing illustrates this better than the Carnival of Dunkirk, right on the tip of northern France. It’s not like other carnivals in France. In Nice and Menton, for instance, you’ll find people throwing flowers, heralding the arrival of spring. In Annecy, people dress in Venetian costumes and wear masks, looking very sophisticated and gorgeous. In Dunkirk, they throw smoked herring and dress like pantomime dames. And, while the weather might not be as warm as the south when the winter months start to recede, you can definitely be sure of a warm welcome in the north. In its own way, the Carnival of Dunkirk is just as flamboyant and fabulous as the sunny southern festivities – just very different.
On a chilly Friday evening in Arnaud’s bar, we sat at a long table in the centre alongside some of the locals, including a couple we chatted to regularly called Chantal and Charles. We’ll often stop at a bar on a Friday night, a tradition from our London lives where we referred to Friday as POET’s day (Piss Off Early Tomorrow’s Saturday) and a visit to the pub on the way home was normal.
‘What do you have planned for this weekend?’ asked Arnaud as he carried over a small beer for Mark and a kir Pétillant (sparkling wine with a blackcurrant liqueur) for me. The usual, we replied: working on the house, and preparing the garden for vegetables if it’s not too wet.
‘You do know it’s carnival weekend, don’t you?’ said Arnaud’s mum, who was sitting in the corner knitting and listening in on everyone’s conversations, which she would then repeat to her friends later, embellished with her take on whatever was said. I don’t ever say anything in the bar that I don’t want the whole of northern France to know about.
‘We’ve been before,’ said Mark. ‘It was cold, and mad.’
‘Bah oui,’ said Chantal, which is pretty much what every conversation starts with, though nobody knows what bah means. ‘B
ah oui, it is crazy – but have you been as a Ch’ti?’
‘Bah non,’ I said, which got me a funny look.
Ch’ti is a term used to describe northerners who speak a sort of patois and have a strong accent. To be a Ch’ti is to be proud of your roots and your heritage – and to accept that no one knows what you’re talking about. Often words are similar but different enough not to make a jot of sense, not just to non-natives but to the rest of France. For instance, yeux (eyes) is yux, vache (cow) is vaque. Some letters are dropped so je becomes j’, and the s sound become sch. So when someone speaks full-on Ch’ti you’ll probably think either you are not in France any more or you have lost your mind. Or they have. A neighbour from Lille, just over an hour’s drive away, who has a holiday home in our village, once told us he can’t understand a word of Ch’ti and finds the locals impossible to comprehend. It was only when he saw a film called Bienvenue Chez les Ch’tis (France’s biggest grossing film of all time and well worth seeking out) that he realized that all local speakers didn’t have a speech impediment.
‘You must come with us to the carnival on Sunday,’ announced Chantal. ‘We will make you Ch’ti it through our eyes. Mark can be Sam and drive us there in your English tank.’
Sam is the name given to a designated sober driver as it’s the name of a character in a TV advertising campaign against drink driving in France. And the tank is the name our French friends have for our right-hand-drive 4 x 4. They are allegedly fascinated by the different driving position and like to experience it, though I suspect that they just want Mark to be Sam.
‘Pick us up at ten in the morning,’ were the instructions, and Chantal gave us her address.
We spent Saturday morning cleaning out our car, which serves as a cross between a builder’s van and a tractor. It pulls the trailer with ease, the roof rack takes a load of weight and the roomy interior is always full of tools and DIY paraphernalia.
On Sunday morning we arrived at Chantal and Charles’s farm on the outskirts of the little village of Zoteux, where we were met by the unlikely sight of Charles and two other men dressed like Aunt Sally dolls. They grinned at us, revealing teeth painted black. They tossed back the long blonde hair of their wigs and flounced across the muddy courtyard gingerly in their manly boots so as not to get splashes onto their torn stockings, meanwhile holding their miniskirts aloft and adjusting balloons under their tops. These were quite the weirdest pantomime dames I’d ever seen. I’ve no idea what the cows thought of them as they peered over the top of the railings of their barn.
Inside, Chantal tut-tutted at our lack of preparation. She herself was dressed in a teddy-bear suit. Bright feather boas were produced, Christmas hats were dug out and Chantal offered to do our makeup.
‘Erm, no it’s all right,’ said Mark as we stared at Charles and his mates, who had come in from the cold. The temperature had left their faces white so the bright pink freckles stood out, contrasting curiously with their Abba-ish blue eye shadow and lurid red lipstick. Charles introduced his farmer mates who would make their own way to Dunkirk – Denis and Louis, two strapping brothers with square jaws and muscles on muscles.
Dunkirk can seem industrial and grey. Of course, most of us know it for Operation Dynamo, the mass evacuation of allied soldiers in May 1940, or for its ferry port. But the centre is charming, the people are friendly and at carnival time there is absolutely nothing drab about it. Thousands upon thousands of locals turn out, as they have done for years, in the weirdest and brightest clothes that they can fit into. The carnival dates back to the seventeenth century when fishermen would leave for Iceland and the town held a send-off with a band, men dressed as women (to illustrate the point that there were no men left), and much beer drinking and singing. Nothing has changed. They love their heritage and patrimony here and hold on to traditions with fervour.
Despite thousands of people crowding the streets, we still managed to find free parking in the centre and joined the masses of revellers making their way to bars and restaurants before the carnival proper started after lunch.
Charles led the way to a small bar where we joined Denis and Louis. It was heaving with men dressed as pantomime dames and women dressed as animals, Bart Simpson, clowns and various other guises known locally as cle’tche, a Ch’ti word. They all brandished bright-coloured parasols on tall poles and were draped in feather boas, as were we, though we were the centre of attention because we were still wearing normal clothes.
Everyone had a glass of wine except for poor Mark, the designated driver. The noise was unbelievable – people were singing and talking at the top of their voices, and the anticipation in the air was palpable. When drinks were finished, we were herded to the next bar and then the next. By now everyone except Mark was very merry and Chantal declared we must eat to make sure we didn’t peak too soon. She had already organized a table in a restaurant, though there was plenty of tempting street food. When we entered the brasserie the barman kissed us all on both cheeks and led us through a restaurant brimming with diners to a courtyard, which was also full. As he carried out a table and chairs the whole courtyard burst into song. Before they could finish, from inside the restaurant came another song, completely different and even louder.
‘Which is best?’ yelled the barman. ‘Let the Anglais judge.’
Where could we start? We couldn’t understand a word – it was like being at the loudest football match in the world. We conferred. ‘We have to be careful,’ said Mark. ‘We don’t want to upset anyone.’ So, I voted for the restaurant, Mark for the courtyard. It was a tie. It was a somewhat cowardly abstention, but this diplomatic approach got a loud shout of approval and we were given a cheer as our moules arrived in big steaming bowls accompanied by copious amounts of frites. Over lunch, Chantal, who came from Dunkirk but had moved to the Seven Valleys when she married Charles, explained that there are fifty-seven carnival songs and everyone knows them. Everyone, that is, except me and Mark. Some public buildings and even private homes open their doors and welcome carnival-goers in. These places are called Chapelles, which indicates ‘friendly houses where you can get a drink’. But, however much you drink, you must always be respectful and well-behaved.
Watching Charles, Denis and Louis wiping their lips with their cuffs after lunch, and reapplying lipstick with a hand mirror passed from one to the other, is one of the most surreal sights I’ve ever seen.
Back outside, we could hardly move. The boisterous crowd had grown even bigger and noisier: it was now a colourful sea of nuns, sea captains, polar bears, spotty dogs and ladybirds, Amazonian tribespeople (despite the bitter temperature) and pantomime dames of all ages. Even some giants walked among them – there was one dressed as a Roman general who, with his wife, towered over the crowds (giants are a common sight at public events in these parts and the tradition dates back centuries). There was singing and the sound of a drumbeat could be heard, the noise rippling through the crowd as it made its way closer.
‘Link arms quickly,’ shouted Chantal, ‘and don’t let go!’
We did as we were told, as a smartly dressed, kilt-wearing drum major lurched into view, followed by a dancing crowd. Then suddenly everyone started to move forward with arms linked, forming a circle around the drummer, going in and out like the maddest hokey-cokey ever seen. People were yelling ‘Enchanté’ (‘Pleased to meet you’) as we were pressed up closely together. The afternoon passed in a blur of dancing, singing, drinking in bars, laughing and kissing. I have never in my life been kissed as much as I was at this carnival. It certainly makes your cheeks rosy!
At five o’clock, just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any odder, Chantal led us dancing to the town hall, where the mayor stood above us on the balcony and revellers lined the windows of the majestic building. Whistles blew, horns beeped and the crowd chanted ‘Give us the herring we deserve,’ after which the mayor and the revellers at the windows threw hundreds of packets of smoked herring, an astonishing 450 kilos of them, t
o the waiting crowd below, who cheered loudly.
Sober Mark persuaded me to stay put in case I got lost in the crowds trying to catch the flying fish. The singing, drinking and dancing goes on all night, but our friends declared they were exhausted and, besides, they had to get up early the next morning to feed the cows.
‘So, how did you like your carnival, Ch’ti style?’ asked Chantal as we made our way back to the car.
‘I can honestly say, I’ve never experienced anything quite like it,’ I said, and I wasn’t exaggerating. We might not have the early sun of the south, but the glow of goodwill blows the winter cobwebs far away, helped by an icy gale coming off the English Channel.
On the way home we slept, everyone snoring except thankfully for Mark at the wheel of the tank, happy that Charles had offered to drive the next year. We knew that this was going to be a tradition for us from now on. We were Ch’tis. And that is not something to be taken lightly as an outsider.
In a hamlet nearby live my friends Gary and Annette, a bonkers but lovely couple from the UK. There is a surprising number of British expats in the north. Like many who move to this part of France, they were first drawn here by the ease of travel offered by frequent ferries and trains to the UK, meaning you can get from one side of the Channel to the other in just over thirty minutes and experience a whole different lifestyle. Like many, they then fell for the charms of northern France: the friendly locals, the local cheeses, street markets and boulangeries, banks where you get to speak to a real person instead of a chatbot, towns with bookstores and shops that close at lunchtime and on Sundays, and are not open all night ... the list is long.
