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.