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.”