by Janine Marsh
When Annette broke her arm slipping in the snow one night as she went to feed their manic goat Heidi, Gary took her to the emergency room of the hospital in Boulogne-sur-Mer. There were only a few people there and they were processed with speed and efficiency – less than thirty minutes after they arrived, Annette was being taken to have her arm X-rayed. Gary remained in the waiting area where all was quiet until a French policewoman arrived. She surveyed the almost empty area, said ‘Bonsoir’ to Gary, and then walked around examining the corners of the room and moving the chairs about a bit. She then left.
A few minutes later, she returned. This time she was accompanied by two burly gendarmes who were attached by handcuffs to a man who was struggling like mad and shouting his head off.
‘Bonsoir,’ said each of the policemen to Gary. The man in cuffs stopped his shouting and nodded at Gary. ‘Bonsoir,’ he said politely before resuming his shouting and being dragged back out of the room. Gary didn’t know what to make of it, but at the same time this seemed so French, so politesse. Politesse doesn’t just mean politeness, but etiquette and courtesy too, and it is important at every level of French society, even in the most bizarre situations. By decree of the mayor in the little town of Lhéraule in Picardy, you can be asked to leave the town hall if you don’t conduct yourself with a minimum amount of politeness, such as saying ‘bonjour’ and ‘merci’. The rules were adopted when a taxpayer was discourteous to a civil servant in 2011.
As a thank-you for helping her look after her chickens and other animals as her arm recovered, and to take my mind off losing Gregory Peck, one of my favourite roosters whom I’d had for years, Annette gave me a furry-footed chicken. We put it in a cage in the chicken pen to start with so it could get used to our other birds – they can be mean sometimes. Fat Cat was fascinated by the fluffy brown bird and stared intently through the wire. As far as I could tell he wanted to be friends. Unlike most cats he doesn’t mind birds at all. He often lies on his back on a bench in the garden with blackbirds and robins landing next to him, and takes no notice of them whatsoever. I wonder sometimes if he has deep thoughts about the meaning of life and whether he is actually a cat at all, since he doesn’t do very catty things. He never fights with the other cats or hisses at them. He just wants to eat, follow me around or lie on his back staring into space. I, on the other hand, have no need to contemplate the meaning of life – my role as maid to the dogs, cats, ducks, geese and chickens is quite clear.
Jean-Claude thinks it is crazy that I get so upset at losing one of my birds. He’s never quite got over seeing me bawling my eyes out in the garden when Eaglet, my first-ever cockerel, croaked. Or when I cried buckets over losing Belle the Duck, or the rabbits who got sick and had to be put down. Being an animal lover isn’t always easy. ‘Oh, là là,’ he says quite kindly (though with one eye half closed as if he’s thinking, ‘Just how mad is this English woman?’). ‘You can’t get upset over a dead chicken, what’s the point? Pop him in the pot and have done with him.’ I’ve explained to him that I just can’t do it. I’ve tried and failed and I’m never trying again.
Chickens don’t appear to be much bothered by losing a team member. With Gregory Peck out of the way, Roger Moore, a young upstart cockerel, quickly took his place. His predecessor was a tough old boy who ruled the roost with a firm beak. He had the most beautiful deep crow and the other cockerels, including Brad Pitt and George Clooney, could never best him. Roger Moore was the runt of the rooster clan, doomed to roam the pen alone as he couldn’t figure a way out over the fence and Gregory Peck certainly wasn’t up for sharing the ladies. But as the other cockerels are all escapologists who spend their time in the garden with their little harems, Roger Moore inherited the pen and most of the girls, no longer unplucky in love!
As March progressed the snow disappeared, followed by heavy rain, and finally blossom started to make an appearance on trees. The annual events calendar got under way, starting with the Rallye du Touquet, like a mini Le Mans but in the countryside. The racing starts from the smart town of Le Touquet-Paris-Plage and then zooms round the hills, hairpin bends and notoriously tricky roads of the Seven Valleys. The Paris-Plage add-on came from the fabulously named Hippolyte de Villemessant, the founder of Le Figaro newspaper, in the 1800s because the town was so popular with Parisians who loved its forests for hunting, shooting and fishing. The name stuck. The British upper classes soon discovered its charms and arrived in their droves, and Le Touquet (locals drop the Paris-Plage as it’s a bit of a mouthful) became one of the most popular holiday destinations in the world for the rich and famous. Noël Coward, Winston Churchill, P. G. Wodehouse, Marlene Dietrich, Edith Piaf, Cecil Beaton and Ian Fleming all holidayed here. Fleming’s iconic Bond novel Casino Royale was inspired by Le Touquet’s casino. French bad boy and lover of Brigitte Bardot, Serge Gainsbourg, got his first singing break there at Flavio restaurant (it’s still there) and Sean Connery signed his first James Bond contract in the town.
In the early 1930s, Le Touquet was home to the world’s largest hotel, with 500 rooms and 50 apartments so large they had private swimming pools, butler’s quarters, a kitchen and up to ten rooms for guests. Alas, the Second World War left most of it destroyed, its pools filled with mines. Nevertheless Le Touquet still has an air of elegance, with fabulous villas, art deco monuments, wonderful restaurants and a long esplanade where once Harry Selfridge, the obscenely rich owner of Selfridges in London, paraded the Dolly Sisters twins, both of whom he was allegedly ‘seeing’. They were vaudeville dancers who had left America to perform at the Moulin Rouge in Paris, and were nicknamed ‘The Million Dollar Dollies’ for their allure over men. They in turn paraded their pet tortoises encrusted with 4-carat diamonds and precious stones, a gift from Mr Selfridge, whom they repaid by losing £4 million of his money at the casino.
The Rallye du Touquet heralds the start of the French Rally Championship season in France and is revered by French motor-racing fans as it attracts drivers from around the world. There is huge competition between villages, all vying to be included on the circuit. The race has been going for sixty years but our little village never got a look-in thanks to the unkempt roads and lack of pedestrianized walkways.
Three years ago, however, when a new mayor was elected, the main road through the village and all the side roads were given a makeover. The road was widened, new tarmac was laid, walkways and crossings were added. As a result, we have been included on the race route for the last two years.
Inclusion is never guaranteed, and the mayor warned locals to be prepared for the village not to be selected again. A sheet of green A4 paper was popped in our post box – essentially a metal box set in the wall of the woodshed, which was once a room where bread was made. (The old brick-built bread oven remains, though it’s now a campsite for spiders.) Nothing is done by email here – the post box is chockful each week with the thrilling (to some) news of upcoming promotions and special offers at the supermarket. The post people in France have magic keys that can open all mailboxes. Occasionally the excitement reaches fever pitch when a brochure arrives announcing that the mobile tools-and-daily-basics wagon will be in the village, selling life’s essentials from the back of a large lorry. I am not sure to whom they are essential as they include some decidedly odd items: fake, lurid-coloured nails for cats; bondage-style corsets; the worst children’s dummies you ever saw – some with oversized Bug’s Bunny-style gnashers that protrude from the poor kid’s stuffed mouth, guaranteed to make old ladies gasp. There are questionable rubber posing pouches for men and even false teeth to fit all sizes. Great, said nobody ever.
The A4 notification informed us that the mayor hoped we would all play out part in presenting the village in the best possible light as the race administrators were visiting to make final checks. And would we please check to make sure there was no rubbish in the street as he and the inspectors passed, and that things looked tidy.
The day before the inspection, vigorous village gardener and
jack-of-all-trades Jean-François did his rounds with more vigour than usual. He spends his days cutting the verges, trimming the hedges, clearing the leaves from the drains and wandering around the streets making sure everything is spick and span. Mayors have a budget for this sort of thing but, before the new mayor was appointed, it was never utilized. This mayor is not leaving any stone unturned in his attempt to drag us into the twenty-first century. He’s even installed some lampposts in the village. Jean-François had been unemployed and unhappy for several years before the mayor gave him a break. He takes his job extremely seriously and everyone in the village really appreciates the change in him, as well as in the streets.
At the village crossroads, outside the town hall, which was formerly the local school, Jean-François could be seen directing two ruddy-faced drivers in their tractors, equipped with huge cylindrical brushes. ‘I want this whole village cleaned,’ he was yelling above the loud engines. He followed first one of them, pointing out a clump of mud that had been missed, and then the other, gesticulating wildly. ‘We’ll have to go around again if you keep missing bits,’ he was shouting to the crestfallen tractor drivers who were making faces of exasperation to each other when his back was turned. But they know by now that they will only be allowed to return to farming duties once Jean-François is satisfied with the state of the roads – and woe betide any farmer who drags mud in from a field after the clean-up. The road will have to be cleaned again.
The officials from the Rallye council arrived to be greeted by the mayor as they parked their cars in the new spaces in front of the town hall. Wearing his ceremonial sash, he guided them around the village. Despite the fact that they had already visited several times in previous years, formalities must be observed. The inspectors and the mayor, followed of course by Jean-François, wandered the course before returning to the town hall for a glass of wine.
Later, we saw Jean-François trudging up the hill to his home, sporting his usual mournful expression. ‘How did it go?’ Mark asked. Jean-François pushed back his cap, sighed deeply and said, ‘Who knows? There was some dirt on the road by the chapel.’
Soon after the visit we received another A4 sheet of paper informing us that our village had been selected for the rally. And now the planning began in earnest. A meeting was held at the town hall, and the position of safety barriers and obstructions for the cars to navigate were discussed at length. A map of the village was pinned on the wall of the town hall office showing the proposed route and the spots where straw bales could go. Everyone had an opinion. Surely we should have hay bales outside Madame Bernadette’s house? said one. No, they should go by the field where the water runs across the road when it rains, argued someone else, and another was adamant they must go in front of the school bus shelter. Jean-François tried sticking pins on the map to reflect suggestions until the map was so full you couldn’t see the name of the roads.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the meeting was over, the placing of the hay bales and jobs for marshals on the day agreed. We walked home accompanied by Thierry, one of the farmers conscripted to clean the roads.
‘Isn’t that the same route as last year?’ I said.
‘Oui, it’s the same route,’ Thierry confirmed.
‘So why did we have to go through such a long meeting to agree a route for this year?’
‘Democracy,’ he replied in the same tone, as if I’d asked why there are clouds in the sky.
The week before the weekend rally saw the closing of some footpaths and a noticeable increase in traffic as rally drivers, both professional and amateur as well as a few wannabes, sought to familiarize themselves with the route.
The day before race day was the official testing day and the roads were closed for several hours except to rally drivers. In between, there was a mad dash to the shops, as everyone knew there would be no deliveries to the village for three days. It was packed in the boulangerie and they were doing a roaring trade, with people buying several loaves to last the rally. I read somewhere that 320 baguettes are eaten every second in France – that’s a stonking 10 billion a year. Eating bread is a national obsession and when people can’t get it, such as when the baker goes on holiday, it is the cause of much moaning. The Tour de France once went through a town nearby and the thing that people remember most was that the boulangerie ran out of bread by three o’clock. With the rally coming, no one was taking any chances.
A marquee was erected at the back of the town hall, and the whole village echoed to the sound of industrious preparation. Straw bales were put in position, warning signs were hammered along hedges and verges, and red tape was strung outside gates as a warning not to come out.
Around a quarter of a million spectators arrive for the race – not in our village, of course, they would never all fit, but along the route and in the towns. Competition to lure crowds is intense and towns hold hog roasts and barbecues to tempt those who would be spending a long day watching speeding cars whizz by. One village held a moules and frites lunch, promoted like crazy on a Facebook page that most people in the area can’t see as the internet is so slow and there is no mobile phone signal.
Jean-Claude, no fan of the mayor, though he can’t remember why, decided to host a barbecue on the flat roof of his big garage overlooking the crossroads, opposite the town hall – a prime position to watch the race. His barbecues are legendary, so everyone accepted their invitation with astonishing alacrity. ‘How on earth will you get everyone on the roof?’ I asked Bernadette. ‘Don’t ask me,’ she replied, casting a look of displeasure at her excitable husband. ‘I think it’s a crazy idea. We’re all likely to fall through onto the van, the amount of people he’s asked.’
‘Can everyone get up the ladder to the garage roof?’ I asked Jean-Claude nervously, conscious that the average age in the village is certainly in the high double figures. ‘Madame Bernadette is coming bien sur, Monsieur and Madame Jupe from down the road, Petit Frère …’ He stopped as it suddenly dawned on him that of course there was no way, all being over seventy, they would ever get up a ladder. Come to think of it, I don’t think Jean-Claude would have an easy time of it either, though he is only sixty-two. ‘We’ll have the barbecue in the garden,’ said Bernadette in a tone that did not invite discussion.
The next day the rally kicked off, heralded first by Jean-François, who walked the course, holding on to his hat as he went past us, checking that there was no debris on the road. Bent over against a gale, bits of twig hitting him on the head from trees thrashing about, bushy eyebrows threatening to blow away and eyes watering, he muttered, ‘Bit windy out,’ making everyone laugh.
Then a BMW with flashing lights came hurtling along with someone shouting incomprehensible gibberish through a loudspeaker in between loud wailing horns. It swept round the course and, shortly after, the souped-up novice drivers came speeding by. After a break, the serious drivers and professionals came roaring through, tyres squealing, to the delight of the cheering crowds who lined the road and hung out of windows to watch. My little office, which was once a pigsty, shook.
At noon silence fell: it was lunchtime. Even the rally stops for lunch. Jean-Claude fired up the barbecue, steaks and sausages sizzled, chicken charred and baguettes were buttered. The smell wafted across to the town hall and drew admiring glances from the crowds who were tucking into burgers and chips from a food truck. The afternoon passed peacefully and then the night-time rally began. The idea of being up on the roof to watch the cars race round in the dark had begun to appeal to some. Buoyed by wine and beer, Jean-Claude and Petit Frère (he’s been called Little Brother all his life as he was the lastborn of ten children, even though he’s now fifty-four) hauled out a ladder and leaned it against the wall. They grunted with the strain of climbing the steep wall, the rest of us holding our breath until they reached the top. They leaned over to take two chairs and enjoy the grandstand views, grinning at those of us left at ground level to watch the headlamps coming through the dark. But it was
n’t long until we could hear the sound of snoring. The two of them had fallen asleep, wrapped up in blankets, oblivious to the sound of racing cars, faces lit gently by the light of one of the new lampposts. Mark climbed up to wake them, despite Bernadette’s advice that ‘They’ll wake up when they’re hungry.’ They clambered down the ladder gingerly with stiff legs and got the loudest cheer of the day when they finally reached the ground. Not all challenges go at high speed!
APRIL
Never quit your dream
APRIL IS AN unpredictable month in northern France. ‘Avril fait la fleur, mai en a l’honneur,’ (April makes the flowers, May has the honours) say the French, an indication that it’s time to get going on the garden. The French word for spring, printemps, comes from the old French prins, meaning first, and temps meaning weather. Buds appear on trees, hedgerows get a green fuzz and cherry blossom bursts into colour against a sky that isn’t always covered in cloud. With almost an acre of garden, we always have plenty to do, not least thanks to the moles who dig holes, and the chickens who examine everything to see if it tastes good (except for weeds – they are discerning diners). Even the cats like to get involved, lying in the wheelbarrows watching me work or ‘fertilizing’ the bits I’ve just planted.
In this rainy region, and with a garden that was once two fields, one of which was inhabited by sheep, the growing conditions are perfect for two clueless gardeners who want to be self-sufficient.
