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.