Camping in France Part 1

I’m nineteen and camping on a farm in Brittany. It’s one of those hot days where nothing asks anything of you, and you’re quite happy to give nothing back. I’m lying about, enjoying the warmth, when the farmer wanders over.

He’s wearing baggy trousers and a jacket, a cap pulled low. If you lifted him up and dropped him in Yorkshire, gave him the accent to match, no one would question it.

“Eh! Anglais.”

“Hey, Frédéric.”

He tells me he’s going to chop down a tree and asks if I want to come along. I do. Not because I’m particularly keen on trees, but because there’s nothing else to do and this seems as good a way as any to spend the afternoon.

We go to the barn and he gathers bow saws, axes, bits and pieces he thinks we might need, and loads them into his Citroën van — a 2CV, but the estate version, which feels important somehow.

We drive a few kilometres along narrow lanes, hedges close on either side, until we stop by a tree with no leaves. This, apparently, is the one. Frédéric pulls over, opens the back doors, takes out a ladder and hands me a bow saw.

“let's go.”

I prop the ladder against the tree and climb up. Frédéric stands below, pointing vaguely at where he wants me to start. I shuffle along a branch and begin sawing. The wood is dry, the saw sharp, and it’s all surprisingly easy.

I’ve only been at it a little while when a car slows and stops. The driver winds down his window.

“What are you doing?”

It’s Pierre from the next farm.

“We’re cutting down the tree.”

He considers this for a moment, then asks if we want some help.

Another bow saw appears. Pierre climbs up beside me and starts cutting branches while Frédéric works below, gathering what falls, trimming twigs with his axe. We settle into it without much talking.

Later, another car arrives. Same questions, same answers. This time it’s Gérard, who says he’ll be back shortly with more tools.

By midday there are four of us, the tree looking thinner now, though still very much there.

Another car pulls up.

“It’s my wife — Sylvie,” Gérard says.

Sylvie opens the boot and takes out a large hamper.

And that’s that. We down tools.

We sit on the grass while she pours red wine and passes round bread and cheese. The sun is high, the work forgotten. We drink, talk, do nothing in particular. Time stands still.

Eventually Frédéric stands and dusts himself off. That’s enough for today.

“But what about the tree?” I ask.

He shrugs and drinks the last of his wine

“It’ll still be there next week.”

The Romany Wedding

I arrive early, as always. Weddings run on chaos, but photography doesn’t forgive lateness. The bride is upstairs, about to come down a narrow staircase. Her white dress fills the space, embroidered red roses climbing the fabric like something alive. She wears a band of flowers in her hair, not quite a tiara, but close enough. Behind her, her sister giggles nervously, hands clasped, eyes shining.

This matters.
The moment before things begin always matters.

Downstairs the groom waits, surrounded by family, energy buzzing like static. When the bride appears, the noise softens for just a second. Then the music starts and we’re off.

The church ceremony unfolds as expected — candles, crucifix, priest murmuring calmly while the bride and groom bow their heads. It’s formal, restrained, familiar. I do what I’m paid to do: anticipate, frame, disappear.

And then it’s over.

“So what are we doing now?” I ask Sofia.

“Now we go to the registry office.”

“Wait. I was told the wedding was at two o’clock.”

“It is. But first we get the certificate. Then Toma and Natalia can get married.”

“But they’ll already be officially married.”

“It’s our way,” she says simply. “There are none of our traditions at the registry office.”

“None?”

“Well… maybe some. You’ll see.”

That intrigues me.

The registry office looks like every other one I’ve ever photographed — a block of offices with a token arch outside for photos. A million weddings, all the same pictures, just different faces. Depressing, really. But predictable. And predictable is manageable.

We park. Guests mill around in small groups. The bride and groom stay in the car. I’ve noticed couples often do that — building tension, maybe, or just keeping warm. I wander, take a few candid shots. It keeps me busy, and guests love it. Standing around doing nothing makes me itchy.

The best men begin arranging people in two lines along the path. I climb onto a low wall behind them, camera ready.

Suddenly, music.
Lively, unapologetic.

The couple walk down the path, musicians close behind. Everyone claps and cheers as they march into the building in time with the tune.

Inside, instead of quiet chairs and polite coughing, there’s dancing. The music doesn’t stop. The waiting room becomes a party. Full volume, full joy.

Then a door opens.

A man in a black suit steps out.
“We’re trying to perform a wedding here. Could you stop the music and show some respect?”

The music stops instantly. People glance around, sheepish, finding chairs, studying their fingernails.

“What noise?”

Eventually it’s our turn. We file in quietly. Chairs scrape. Someone coughs.

The celebrant looks up.
“Ah. Michael. You again?”

“Yes. Me again.”

“Well, you know the procedure. Take your usual place.”

I stand by a potted plant on a pedestal and remind myself not to step backwards.

The ceremony is exactly what it always is: straight-laced, predictable, efficient. I take the stock photos. It’s done. As we leave, the assistant throws open the doors and the musicians immediately strike up again, this time leading us out into the car park. The celebrant buries his face in his hands.

He never had a chance.

We do the arch photos — it’s the law — while vodka shots are handed out from the back of an estate car. A mini bar, fully stocked.

Guests for the next wedding arrive. Two prim ladies in twin sets and pearls step out of a car. One of the Romanians runs over instantly with glasses and a bottle.

“You want vodka?”

The lady in green panics, vigorously shaking her hand.
“Oh noooo, thank you, you’re very kind, but no.”

Undeterred, he turns to the other.
“You want vodka? You have vodka. Is wedding.”

I’d heard that line before.

Next stop is a hotel reception hall — the “proper” wedding. Guests are already there, those not interested in registry office formalities. I scout the room, note positions, imagine where things might happen. It rarely works out exactly like that.

“They’re coming!” Sofia shouts.

Outside again. Every arrival must be documented. That’s my brief.

Inside, there’s no altar, no crucifix. Just the priest, standing with everyone gathered around him in a loose circle. I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but it clearly matters.

Without warning, he picks up two plates and smashes them on the floor.

I jump. Everyone else stays calm.

The best men step forward. Toma is handed a dustpan. Natalia, a brush. Together they kneel and clean up the mess.

“It’s symbolic,” Sofia whispers. “From now on they carry life’s burdens together.”

Everyone cheers. The priest fades away. His job is done.

Self-appointed barmen begin circulating with vodka. Children run screaming between tables. The party has begun.

The hall looks like a school gym stripped of its equipment. A stage at one end. Musicians setting up microphones and amplifiers — somehow louder than before.

Three long rows of tables. Four people per table. Each table stocked with vodka, whiskey, red wine, white wine. I glance at the children and wonder what they’re drinking.

I photograph. The girls pout, duck faces in full force. They don’t need to. Just smile — I’m a professional. The men pose with raised vodka glasses. No duck faces there. Just confidence.

An announcement. Cheers. The band plays. Everyone turns — not toward the stage, but toward the back.

Food arrives.
A lot of food.

“Mister Fotograf,” someone says, grabbing my arm. “You eat with us. You take good foto?”

“Yes. Loads.”

“You good man. Come. We eat.”

He fills my plate until the pattern disappears. I later learn he’s Toma’s father.

“You want vodka?”
This isn’t a question.
“You are family now. You have vodka.”

The food is incredible. I try everything. My mother was right — you won’t know unless you try.

Music starts. Dancing. More vodka. Guests grab me, spin me around, demand photos. Men slap my shoulder. Pose. Click. Move on.

An hour later: another announcement.
More food.
That was just the first course.

“How long does this wedding go on?” I ask Sofia.

“We’ve just started. Two more courses. Then cake.”

“I don’t think I can keep going.”

“Ah. You need vodka.”

By evening, everyone is loosened, oiled, joyful. The band gives way to a DJ. The tempo lifts. Older guests sit and watch. The young ones whirl.

And then it happens.

A stumble. A drink knocked. A shove. A shove back.

The music plays on, but the dancing stops. A circle forms. Fists fly.

You can’t help but watch.
People have been doing this forever.

Men pull them apart. This is a wedding. Take it outside.

They sit on a low wall, breathing hard. Watched. Slowly, one stands, offers his hand. The other takes it. They hug.

Relief.

I don’t photograph this.

By now I’ve been working since seven in the morning. It’s ten at night. Fifteen hours. Enough.

I pack my kit and leave.

A hundred yards down the road I stop and turn back. The music is still there, faint now. I let the night take over.

It was a great wedding.
A lot of fun.

But I’m glad they’re not all like that.

And then it’s over.

“So what are we doing now?” I ask Sofia.

“Now we go to the registry office.”

“Wait. I was told the wedding was at two o’clock.”

“It is. But first we get the certificate. Then Toma and Natalia can get married.”

“But they’ll already be officially married.”

“It’s our way,” she says simply. “There are none of our traditions at the registry office.”

“None?”

“Well… maybe some. You’ll see.”

That intrigues me.

The registry office looks like every other one I’ve ever photographed — a block of offices with a token arch outside for photos. A million weddings, all the same pictures, just different faces. Depressing, really. But predictable. And predictable is manageable.

We park. Guests mill around in small groups. The bride and groom stay in the car. I’ve noticed couples often do that — building tension, maybe, or just keeping warm. I wander, take a few candid shots. It keeps me busy, and guests love it. Standing around doing nothing makes me itchy.

The best men begin arranging people in two lines along the path. I climb onto a low wall behind them, camera ready.

Suddenly, music.
Lively, unapologetic.

The couple walk down the path, musicians close behind. Everyone claps and cheers as they march into the building in time with the tune.

Inside, instead of quiet chairs and polite coughing, there’s dancing. The music doesn’t stop. The waiting room becomes a party. Full volume, full joy.

Then a door opens.

A man in a black suit steps out.
“We’re trying to perform a wedding here. Could you stop the music and show some respect?”

The music stops instantly. People glance around, sheepish, finding chairs, studying their fingernails.

“What noise?”

Eventually it’s our turn. We file in quietly. Chairs scrape. Someone coughs.

The celebrant looks up.
“Ah. Michael. You again?”

“Yes. Me again.”

“Well, you know the procedure. Take your usual place.”

I stand by a potted plant on a pedestal and remind myself not to step backwards.

The ceremony is exactly what it always is: straight-laced, predictable, efficient. I take the stock photos. It’s done. As we leave, the assistant throws open the doors and the musicians immediately strike up again, this time leading us out into the car park. The celebrant buries his face in his hands.

He never had a chance.

We do the arch photos — it’s the law — while vodka shots are handed out from the back of an estate car. A mini bar, fully stocked.

Guests for the next wedding arrive. Two prim ladies in twin sets and pearls step out of a car. One of the Romanians runs over instantly with glasses and a bottle.

“You want vodka?”

The lady in green panics, vigorously shaking her hand.
“Oh noooo, thank you, you’re very kind, but no.”

Undeterred, he turns to the other.
“You want vodka? You have vodka. Is wedding.”

I’d heard that line before.

Next stop is a hotel reception hall — the “proper” wedding. Guests are already there, those not interested in registry office formalities. I scout the room, note positions, imagine where things might happen. It rarely works out exactly like that.

“They’re coming!” Sofia shouts.

Outside again. Every arrival must be documented. That’s my brief.

Inside, there’s no altar, no crucifix. Just the priest, standing with everyone gathered around him in a loose circle. I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but it clearly matters.

Without warning, he picks up two plates and smashes them on the floor.

I jump. Everyone else stays calm.

The best men step forward. Toma is handed a dustpan. Natalia, a brush. Together they kneel and clean up the mess.

“It’s symbolic,” Sofia whispers. “From now on they carry life’s burdens together.”

Everyone cheers. The priest fades away. His job is done.

Self-appointed barmen begin circulating with vodka. Children run screaming between tables. The party has begun.

The hall looks like a school gym stripped of its equipment. A stage at one end. Musicians setting up microphones and amplifiers — somehow louder than before.

Three long rows of tables. Four people per table. Each table stocked with vodka, whiskey, red wine, white wine. I glance at the children and wonder what they’re drinking.

I photograph. The girls pout, duck faces in full force. They don’t need to. Just smile — I’m a professional. The men pose with raised vodka glasses. No duck faces there. Just confidence.

An announcement. Cheers. The band plays. Everyone turns — not toward the stage, but toward the back.

Food arrives.
A lot of food.

“Mister Fotograf,” someone says, grabbing my arm. “You eat with us. You take good foto?”

“Yes. Loads.”

“You good man. Come. We eat.”

He fills my plate until the pattern disappears. I later learn he’s Toma’s father.

“You want vodka?”
This isn’t a question.
“You are family now. You have vodka.”

The food is incredible. I try everything. My mother was right — you won’t know unless you try.

Music starts. Dancing. More vodka. Guests grab me, spin me around, demand photos. Men slap my shoulder. Pose. Click. Move on.

An hour later: another announcement.
More food.
That was just the first course.

“How long does this wedding go on?” I ask Sofia.

“We’ve just started. Two more courses. Then cake.”

“I don’t think I can keep going.”

“Ah. You need vodka.”

By evening, everyone is loosened, oiled, joyful. The band gives way to a DJ. The tempo lifts. Older guests sit and watch. The young ones whirl.

And then it happens.

A stumble. A drink knocked. A shove. A shove back.

The music plays on, but the dancing stops. A circle forms. Fists fly.

You can’t help but watch.
People have been doing this forever.

Men pull them apart. This is a wedding. Take it outside.

They sit on a low wall, breathing hard. Watched. Slowly, one stands, offers his hand. The other takes it. They hug.

Relief.

I don’t photograph this.

By now I’ve been working since seven in the morning. It’s ten at night. Fifteen hours. Enough.

I pack my kit and leave.

A hundred yards down the road I stop and turn back. The music is still there, faint now. I let the night take over.

It was a great wedding.
A lot of fun.

But I’m glad they’re not all like that.