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.