Camping in France Part 6 (The end)

After sleeping late into the afternoon and half the night, due to alcohol-induced drowsiness, I woke up at a stupid o’clock in the morning. The sky was already lightening; the sun would rise soon. I stepped out into the crisp morning air and glanced at the horse trough. A wash didn’t seem quite as appealing at this hour. Maybe later, when it was warmer. The cows noticed me wandering around and slowly walked to the farm gate. They must have thought it was milking time. I walked away, trying not to give them false hope. But now they had their heads over the steel gate, mooing. It was time to go for a walk and deny all responsibility for getting them to the gate so early. They wouldn’t have to wait long; Frederic was usually up quite early.

I carried on walking down the lane, then onto the road to the village. The air was still and very quiet; I could hear my boots crunching on the loose gravel. The sky was clear—it was going to be another hot day. I continued through the village. One light was on: Henri’s bar. I looked through the window. Henri was sorting newspapers. He also sold newspapers, which I hadn’t noticed the other day. In a small village, it probably helped keep the money coming in.

Henri looked up and saw me. “Hey, Anglais. Come in. You want a beer?”

“Hey Henri,” I said without much enthusiasm, but I stepped inside anyway. There were already two men sitting quietly at the bar, both nursing small glasses of cognac. It 's too early for that, but this was France, what the hell. “Yes, Henri, I’ll take a beer,” hair of the dog and all that.

Henri poured me a beer, swiped the froth off, and placed it in front of me on top of the regulation beer mat. I handed him the money. He went back to his newspapers, spread out all over the floor.

The two men at the bar didn’t look up, they were talking very quietly. I just sat and matched the mood of the place: quiet and contemplative. I alternated between watching Henri and his newspapers, the two men, and out the window.

Someone walked in. “Ouest France, Henri.” But Henri already had it in hand, ready to give to the man. He knew which papers his customers wanted.

I finished my beer and walked to the door. “Merci, Henri. À bientôt.” See you soon? I wasn’t sure why I said that—I was going home.

By now the sun was up, and I felt its warmth on my back. Insects warmed up, buzzing around; the world was waking. Back at the farm, I pulled down my tent, rolled it up, and stuffed it in its bag. I packed my rucksack and was all done, ready to go.

I didn’t want to leave, but I had learned not to overstay my welcome. You should always leave while people are begging you to stay. Overstay, and they’ll be glad to see the back of you. It’s a fine line.

Frederic had promised to drive me to the nearest railway station to catch a train to Rennes, and then onto Calais. There were no tears—just a firm handshake, with both hands. I promised to return. That was fifty years ago. I haven’t made it back yet. One day I might.

 

 Camping in France – Part 5

I walked to Pierre’s farm. It was much bigger than I expected. The barns were bigger. There were more cows, and the farmhouse was three times the size of Frederic’s. But on the whole I preferred Frederic’s farm. It was more homely, less industrial.

As I walked to the front door the farmhands appeared, dusting off their overalls before entering.
“Hey Anglais,” they called, coming up to me and shaking my hand.
Pierre was waiting inside. “Ah Michael. Welcome.” At least he remembered my name instead of calling me “Hey Anglais” all the time.

We went into the dining room, which was huge, with floor-to-ceiling windows and every wall painted white. In the centre was a long Breton table made of chestnut, like Frederic’s but longer — big enough for sixteen places. In the corner of the room was a small bar with many glasses arranged on top.

Pierre’s wife, Camille, came in from the kitchen. “Apéritif?” All the men nodded. She quickly looked around the room — seven — then went to the bar, produced a bottle of whisky and poured seven generous shots. No water, no ice, just neat whisky. The workers eagerly took their glasses and started drinking. I sipped mine. It was OK.

Camille went back into the kitchen. Meanwhile Pierre instructed everyone to sit. We each had a plate in front of us. Camille returned with a pan full of yellow haricot beans. I’d never seen yellow haricot beans before, only green ones. She placed a portion on each plate, accompanied by a drizzle of melted butter. That was it. Just yellow haricot beans. Really nice, though.

The beans eaten, Camille went back into the kitchen and Pierre followed. They came out with a tray of roast beef and bowls of potatoes, carrots and gravy — and they call us ros bifs.

But of course with the roast beef we must have wine: huge glasses of red wine. The workers tucked into their dinner, gobbling up the food and the wine, their glasses refilled whenever they were empty. I tried to keep up.

After that we had dessert: lemon tart, sweet and tangy, a palate cleanser. Except where was the meringue topping? Who cares. It was great.

Dinner over, I sat back in my chair, full up and tired. I could sleep the sleep of the dead. But no — it wasn’t over. To complete the meal we absolutely must have brandy to finish with. I didn’t know if I could take any more.

While Camille poured the seven glasses of brandy, this time in small wine glasses, I leaned over to Pierre.
“I hope this wasn’t just for me.”
“No. We do this every day for our workers. You are a worker, so you eat as well.”
“But every day?”
“Of course. My men work very hard. They need food so they can keep working very hard.”
“In England workers are lucky if they have their own sandwiches and a cup of coffee.”
“Yes, but this is France. My men won’t work if they are hungry. You know? So we give them dinner.”
“They are very lucky.”
“Lucky? This is business. You look after your men or they go somewhere else.”

I drank my brandy. By now I was distinctly wobbly. The workers looked like they’d been drinking lemonade all day. They climbed onto their tractors and headed back to the fields.

Camping in France Part 4

The next day I woke up in a sweat. With the sun already strong, it was like a sauna in my tent. I got up, threw on some clothes, and staggered to the horse trough to freshen up. There are no horses on the farm. The horse trough was kept clean solely for this purpose: washing. There was a hand pump at one end if you wanted to duck your head under it. I did. I stood in the farmyard dripping. My hands were still sore from the haymaking. There was no way I was volunteering for any work today. Yesterday had crushed me.

I decided to go for breakfast in the village. It’s a small village in Brittany, just one kilometre long, with houses and some shops either side of the road and no side streets. I found the boulangerie, bought a few croissants, and sat by a monument to the fallen, which split the road in the middle. As I ate, I began thinking: your usual tourist would never have these experiences. I’m not one for large crowds, tourist traps, entertainment parks, or sitting on a beach sunbathing. For me, this was perfect. Yes, my hands still hurt, but other than that, life here in rural France is peaceful and quiet.

“Oi! Anglais.”
The shout came from across the road. I looked around. A man was standing in the doorway of a bar, looking directly at me.
“Moi!”
“Oui! Viens ici. Come, have a drink with us.”
I walked across the road. I didn’t recognise this man.
“How did you know I’m English?”
“Everyone knows. This is a small village.”

He guided me into the bar. It’s nothing special. Tubular steel chairs, small tables with Formica tops with an aluminium trim around the edges. The bar on the left wall is clean and white, with a couple of beer taps. Behind it, on the wall, shelves of glasses and bottles of the usual spirits. There’s a cabinet full of packs of cigarettes, mostly Gitanes and Gauloise.
“What are you drinking?”
“Err… beer would be nice. Thank you.”
“Henri! Une bière pour mon ami.”
"Ah! L'Anglais."
"Oui, c'est moi." Not you as well? I thought.
Henri pours me a beer in a large glass goblet, then carefully wipes the froth off the top with a steel spatula. He puts a thin beer mat in front of me and places the glass on top of it.
“Voilà.”
“Merci bien,” I reply.
“C’est rien. Mais il est trois francs.”
I reach for my wallet. My new friend stops me and hands over a note.

In conversation I find out he already knew I’d been helping with the haymaking. He knew about the little old lady and the brandy, because that was his aunt. He was very grateful, and so today the drinks were on him. Word gets around quickly in a small village. I wasn’t complaining.

We chatted over several more beers. I told him I was a student studying biology. He worked for a telecom company, married with two children. Two hours later he said he had to go back to work. That was a long dinner break, but he said it wasn’t important as long as he did his job. He was very relaxed about it all.

We left the bar and shook hands. He went one way and I walked back towards the farm. On the way, a car pulled up beside me. It was Pierre from the next farm. Did I want a lift? I told him I preferred to walk. Then he said, “You must come to dinner with us tomorrow at my farm. One o’clock.”
“OK. I’ll be there.”

I seemed to be in demand, and I’m not even famous. I was just a biology student.

Camping in France part 3

With the brandy still burning my throat, I staggered back to Frédéric’s tractor. He had already unhitched the trailer, so I stood on the back axle and clung onto the rear mudguard as we trundled down the lane back to the farm.

The farmer’s wife came out to welcome us home. She saw me and gave me a look of sympathy, then saw my hands.

“Oh Michael, your ’ands.”
“Yeah. Bit of a mess, huh?”
“Come in kitchen. I ’ave something for that.”
I followed her into the kitchen and she opened a cupboard and brought out a small bottle. She unscrewed the cap; a small brush was attached to the inside. She painted some liquid onto one of my blisters. It was cool and soothing for one second, then...
I snatched my hand away.
It stung like hell.
“What is it?”
“Iodine,” she laughed. “It’s good for you.”
“I think I’ll live without it, thanks.”
“Well, you must come to dinner with us at eight.”
"OK,” I said, relieved I didn’t have to use my Primus stove to heat up some dried-out emergency rations that you “just add water” to.

At eight I presented myself at the farmhouse. I had a new pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. I’d washed up as best I could in the horse trough. I was clean enough, despite being broken.

Inside the farmhouse I was led into a room I’d never seen them use. It was the dining room, only used for special occasions. There was a large sideboard pushed against one wall and, in the centre of the room, a long Breton dining table made of chestnut. It sat twelve people.

The twelve people were Frédéric, his wife, Pierre, his wife, and the farm workers. They sat me at the far end of the table; Frédéric sat at the opposite end. Each person had a large white bowl, and there were wine glasses and several bottles of wine on the table.

Frédéric’s wife came in carrying a huge pan. It was rabbit stew. She put it in the middle of the table, went out, and came back with a large shallow basket of bread piled high. In turn, each person held out their bowl while Frédéric’s wife ladled generous helpings of rabbit stew into them. Everyone grabbed their own bread as the basket was passed around.

Frédéric poured the wine, then announced that from then on everyone should pour their own.

Everyone was chatting. I speak French, but not well enough to keep up when everyone is talking so fast. I ate my rabbit stew and bread and drank my wine. Then I heard something I recognised.
“À votre santé.”
Automatically I raised my glass.
“À l’Anglais.”
They all pointed their glasses at me, drank, then cheered. I was confused. Why were they toasting me?
I replied with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
“Vive la France!”
Everyone cheered again and drank some more. I think I got away with it.

After the rabbit stew came dessert. I don’t know what it was, but it looked like a quiche, only sweet and sticky. It was very nice. Then came the brandy and the Gauloises.

Finally the workers got up and each one shook hands with Frédéric and his wife, thanking them for a fine meal. Then they shook my hand.

I crawled into my tent. I don’t remember getting into my sleeping bag. I went out like a light.

Camping in France part 2

The next day, Frederic announced, “We are making hay today. Did I want to help? Of course I did. I was camping free on his farm, so why not? But it occurred to me—why didn’t we do the haymaking yesterday? Why not tomorrow? Is there a special saint’s day in France when everyone takes in the hay? After all, we have St. Patrick’s Day when it’s time to plant potatoes. So why not a saint’s day for haymaking? I decided I think too much and said nothing.

Frederic climbed onto his tractor, started the engine with a low rumble, and pulled away. He waved for me to follow on foot. Slowly, he chugged out of the farm gate, a few hundred yards up the lane, and turned into a field.

The hay had already been cut and lay in neat rows up and down the field. A few farm workers were waiting next to a trailer, open at the sides, with wooden frames at the front and back to hold the hay. They looked at me curiously: who are you?

“I’m Michael.”

“Ah, Anglais, huh?” They smiled, wondering why an Englishman would be helping. I wondered the same. I was an unpaid worker. Still smiling, they handed me a pitchfork, almost as if it were a challenge. Meanwhile, Frederic hitched the trailer to the back of his tractor, climbed back on, and shouted, “On y va.”

We started picking up the hay with our pitchforks and lifting it onto the trailer as it moved along the rows.. It was easy work at first—hay is light.

At the end of the first row, someone jumped onto the trailer to arrange the hay we’d thrown on. We carried on up and down the rows. With each row, we had to throw the hay higher. It was beginning to be less easy. My arms were aching. I wasn’t used to this sort of work. I shook them out and carried on. The French workers grinned at me. “Come on, it’s easy!”

I spotted a woman’s head coming up the hill, then her shoulders, then I saw she was carrying a basket. A small girl was beside her, also carrying a basket. It must be dinner time.

Like before, there was plenty of red wine, bread, and cheese. I took mine and leaned against the back wheel of the trailer to get out of the blazing hot sun for a while. With a tin mug of red wine in one hand and a generous helping of bread and cheese in the other, life was good. At that moment, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. Red wine, simple food, and pleasant company—what more could you want?

Dinner over, it was back to work, throwing the hay higher and higher. The guy on top arranged it and trampled it down like a thatched roof. Eventually, we were tossing hay high into the air, hoping it would land on top. Bits of it flew everywhere, some falling on my head. I didn’t care.

Then we were finished and watched Frederic drive back across the field and out the gate. We followed slowly behind, happy we’d done a good day’s work.

As we got to the gate, Frederic was already there with another empty trailer.

“Pierre’s field next,” he said.

“What?” I said.

Pierre has the farm next to Frederic’s. Some of the workers work for Pierre, some for Frederic. They pool their resources. It made sense.

The workers, seeing my dismay, came over. One of them put his arm around my shoulder. “Come on, Anglais. Show us.”

Well, it was easy at first. Now I wasn’t so sure.

We hopped onto the trailer, and Frederic drove us to the next field, where we started all over again. Same routine. The afternoon dragged on, my body ached, my hands hurt, and looking at my jeans, I saw they were getting ripped to shreds by the hay. But we finished the job. I slumped to the ground. Pierre handed out more mugs of red wine to fortify us. I would have preferred several pints of cold water, but I drank the wine. At least we were finished.

I heard a voice: “Come on, Anglais, the next field.”

“No?” I said. There can’t be more surely. I was near dead, on my knees.

The next field belonged to a little old lady who owned it but was too old to do any work herself. Thankfully, her field was much smaller than the last two. So again, we set to work. The sun was low on the horizon, and we were still throwing hay. My hands were blistered—smooth hands, not calloused, but now dotted with blisters.

We walked to the little old lady’s house. It was an old farmhouse, painted white, with a stone wall around her front garden. She must have seen us coming because she was already at the front door, coming down the path with a tray of drinks. Not red wine this time, but brandy. I didn’t know whether I should drink it or pour it over my blistered hands.

“À votre santé,” she said. Glasses were raised, and we drank.

 

Thought experiment

 

Keep your pity. You can distill it, put in little bottles and wear it as perfume.

As you walk, you can spread you can leave it lingering on everyone you meet. I'm sure they'll appreciate it.

Me? I don't need it. I have enough problems. You know, ones like building IKEA furniture without the instructions. Choosing a shirt that doesn't make me look like I've given up, and of course, you. 

You with your pity.

I don't need pity. I just need you out of my way.