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.

 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.”

The Romany Wedding

I arrive early, as always. Weddings run on chaos, but photography doesn’t forgive lateness. The bride is upstairs, about to come down a narrow staircase. Her white dress fills the space, embroidered red roses climbing the fabric like something alive. She wears a band of flowers in her hair, not quite a tiara, but close enough. Behind her, her sister giggles nervously, hands clasped, eyes shining.

This matters.
The moment before things begin always matters.

Downstairs the groom waits, surrounded by family, energy buzzing like static. When the bride appears, the noise softens for just a second. Then the music starts and we’re off.

The church ceremony unfolds as expected — candles, crucifix, priest murmuring calmly while the bride and groom bow their heads. It’s formal, restrained, familiar. I do what I’m paid to do: anticipate, frame, disappear.

And then it’s over.

“So what are we doing now?” I ask Sofia.

“Now we go to the registry office.”

“Wait. I was told the wedding was at two o’clock.”

“It is. But first we get the certificate. Then Toma and Natalia can get married.”

“But they’ll already be officially married.”

“It’s our way,” she says simply. “There are none of our traditions at the registry office.”

“None?”

“Well… maybe some. You’ll see.”

That intrigues me.

The registry office looks like every other one I’ve ever photographed — a block of offices with a token arch outside for photos. A million weddings, all the same pictures, just different faces. Depressing, really. But predictable. And predictable is manageable.

We park. Guests mill around in small groups. The bride and groom stay in the car. I’ve noticed couples often do that — building tension, maybe, or just keeping warm. I wander, take a few candid shots. It keeps me busy, and guests love it. Standing around doing nothing makes me itchy.

The best men begin arranging people in two lines along the path. I climb onto a low wall behind them, camera ready.

Suddenly, music.
Lively, unapologetic.

The couple walk down the path, musicians close behind. Everyone claps and cheers as they march into the building in time with the tune.

Inside, instead of quiet chairs and polite coughing, there’s dancing. The music doesn’t stop. The waiting room becomes a party. Full volume, full joy.

Then a door opens.

A man in a black suit steps out.
“We’re trying to perform a wedding here. Could you stop the music and show some respect?”

The music stops instantly. People glance around, sheepish, finding chairs, studying their fingernails.

“What noise?”

Eventually it’s our turn. We file in quietly. Chairs scrape. Someone coughs.

The celebrant looks up.
“Ah. Michael. You again?”

“Yes. Me again.”

“Well, you know the procedure. Take your usual place.”

I stand by a potted plant on a pedestal and remind myself not to step backwards.

The ceremony is exactly what it always is: straight-laced, predictable, efficient. I take the stock photos. It’s done. As we leave, the assistant throws open the doors and the musicians immediately strike up again, this time leading us out into the car park. The celebrant buries his face in his hands.

He never had a chance.

We do the arch photos — it’s the law — while vodka shots are handed out from the back of an estate car. A mini bar, fully stocked.

Guests for the next wedding arrive. Two prim ladies in twin sets and pearls step out of a car. One of the Romanians runs over instantly with glasses and a bottle.

“You want vodka?”

The lady in green panics, vigorously shaking her hand.
“Oh noooo, thank you, you’re very kind, but no.”

Undeterred, he turns to the other.
“You want vodka? You have vodka. Is wedding.”

I’d heard that line before.

Next stop is a hotel reception hall — the “proper” wedding. Guests are already there, those not interested in registry office formalities. I scout the room, note positions, imagine where things might happen. It rarely works out exactly like that.

“They’re coming!” Sofia shouts.

Outside again. Every arrival must be documented. That’s my brief.

Inside, there’s no altar, no crucifix. Just the priest, standing with everyone gathered around him in a loose circle. I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but it clearly matters.

Without warning, he picks up two plates and smashes them on the floor.

I jump. Everyone else stays calm.

The best men step forward. Toma is handed a dustpan. Natalia, a brush. Together they kneel and clean up the mess.

“It’s symbolic,” Sofia whispers. “From now on they carry life’s burdens together.”

Everyone cheers. The priest fades away. His job is done.

Self-appointed barmen begin circulating with vodka. Children run screaming between tables. The party has begun.

The hall looks like a school gym stripped of its equipment. A stage at one end. Musicians setting up microphones and amplifiers — somehow louder than before.

Three long rows of tables. Four people per table. Each table stocked with vodka, whiskey, red wine, white wine. I glance at the children and wonder what they’re drinking.

I photograph. The girls pout, duck faces in full force. They don’t need to. Just smile — I’m a professional. The men pose with raised vodka glasses. No duck faces there. Just confidence.

An announcement. Cheers. The band plays. Everyone turns — not toward the stage, but toward the back.

Food arrives.
A lot of food.

“Mister Fotograf,” someone says, grabbing my arm. “You eat with us. You take good foto?”

“Yes. Loads.”

“You good man. Come. We eat.”

He fills my plate until the pattern disappears. I later learn he’s Toma’s father.

“You want vodka?”
This isn’t a question.
“You are family now. You have vodka.”

The food is incredible. I try everything. My mother was right — you won’t know unless you try.

Music starts. Dancing. More vodka. Guests grab me, spin me around, demand photos. Men slap my shoulder. Pose. Click. Move on.

An hour later: another announcement.
More food.
That was just the first course.

“How long does this wedding go on?” I ask Sofia.

“We’ve just started. Two more courses. Then cake.”

“I don’t think I can keep going.”

“Ah. You need vodka.”

By evening, everyone is loosened, oiled, joyful. The band gives way to a DJ. The tempo lifts. Older guests sit and watch. The young ones whirl.

And then it happens.

A stumble. A drink knocked. A shove. A shove back.

The music plays on, but the dancing stops. A circle forms. Fists fly.

You can’t help but watch.
People have been doing this forever.

Men pull them apart. This is a wedding. Take it outside.

They sit on a low wall, breathing hard. Watched. Slowly, one stands, offers his hand. The other takes it. They hug.

Relief.

I don’t photograph this.

By now I’ve been working since seven in the morning. It’s ten at night. Fifteen hours. Enough.

I pack my kit and leave.

A hundred yards down the road I stop and turn back. The music is still there, faint now. I let the night take over.

It was a great wedding.
A lot of fun.

But I’m glad they’re not all like that.

And then it’s over.

“So what are we doing now?” I ask Sofia.

“Now we go to the registry office.”

“Wait. I was told the wedding was at two o’clock.”

“It is. But first we get the certificate. Then Toma and Natalia can get married.”

“But they’ll already be officially married.”

“It’s our way,” she says simply. “There are none of our traditions at the registry office.”

“None?”

“Well… maybe some. You’ll see.”

That intrigues me.

The registry office looks like every other one I’ve ever photographed — a block of offices with a token arch outside for photos. A million weddings, all the same pictures, just different faces. Depressing, really. But predictable. And predictable is manageable.

We park. Guests mill around in small groups. The bride and groom stay in the car. I’ve noticed couples often do that — building tension, maybe, or just keeping warm. I wander, take a few candid shots. It keeps me busy, and guests love it. Standing around doing nothing makes me itchy.

The best men begin arranging people in two lines along the path. I climb onto a low wall behind them, camera ready.

Suddenly, music.
Lively, unapologetic.

The couple walk down the path, musicians close behind. Everyone claps and cheers as they march into the building in time with the tune.

Inside, instead of quiet chairs and polite coughing, there’s dancing. The music doesn’t stop. The waiting room becomes a party. Full volume, full joy.

Then a door opens.

A man in a black suit steps out.
“We’re trying to perform a wedding here. Could you stop the music and show some respect?”

The music stops instantly. People glance around, sheepish, finding chairs, studying their fingernails.

“What noise?”

Eventually it’s our turn. We file in quietly. Chairs scrape. Someone coughs.

The celebrant looks up.
“Ah. Michael. You again?”

“Yes. Me again.”

“Well, you know the procedure. Take your usual place.”

I stand by a potted plant on a pedestal and remind myself not to step backwards.

The ceremony is exactly what it always is: straight-laced, predictable, efficient. I take the stock photos. It’s done. As we leave, the assistant throws open the doors and the musicians immediately strike up again, this time leading us out into the car park. The celebrant buries his face in his hands.

He never had a chance.

We do the arch photos — it’s the law — while vodka shots are handed out from the back of an estate car. A mini bar, fully stocked.

Guests for the next wedding arrive. Two prim ladies in twin sets and pearls step out of a car. One of the Romanians runs over instantly with glasses and a bottle.

“You want vodka?”

The lady in green panics, vigorously shaking her hand.
“Oh noooo, thank you, you’re very kind, but no.”

Undeterred, he turns to the other.
“You want vodka? You have vodka. Is wedding.”

I’d heard that line before.

Next stop is a hotel reception hall — the “proper” wedding. Guests are already there, those not interested in registry office formalities. I scout the room, note positions, imagine where things might happen. It rarely works out exactly like that.

“They’re coming!” Sofia shouts.

Outside again. Every arrival must be documented. That’s my brief.

Inside, there’s no altar, no crucifix. Just the priest, standing with everyone gathered around him in a loose circle. I don’t understand a word he’s saying, but it clearly matters.

Without warning, he picks up two plates and smashes them on the floor.

I jump. Everyone else stays calm.

The best men step forward. Toma is handed a dustpan. Natalia, a brush. Together they kneel and clean up the mess.

“It’s symbolic,” Sofia whispers. “From now on they carry life’s burdens together.”

Everyone cheers. The priest fades away. His job is done.

Self-appointed barmen begin circulating with vodka. Children run screaming between tables. The party has begun.

The hall looks like a school gym stripped of its equipment. A stage at one end. Musicians setting up microphones and amplifiers — somehow louder than before.

Three long rows of tables. Four people per table. Each table stocked with vodka, whiskey, red wine, white wine. I glance at the children and wonder what they’re drinking.

I photograph. The girls pout, duck faces in full force. They don’t need to. Just smile — I’m a professional. The men pose with raised vodka glasses. No duck faces there. Just confidence.

An announcement. Cheers. The band plays. Everyone turns — not toward the stage, but toward the back.

Food arrives.
A lot of food.

“Mister Fotograf,” someone says, grabbing my arm. “You eat with us. You take good foto?”

“Yes. Loads.”

“You good man. Come. We eat.”

He fills my plate until the pattern disappears. I later learn he’s Toma’s father.

“You want vodka?”
This isn’t a question.
“You are family now. You have vodka.”

The food is incredible. I try everything. My mother was right — you won’t know unless you try.

Music starts. Dancing. More vodka. Guests grab me, spin me around, demand photos. Men slap my shoulder. Pose. Click. Move on.

An hour later: another announcement.
More food.
That was just the first course.

“How long does this wedding go on?” I ask Sofia.

“We’ve just started. Two more courses. Then cake.”

“I don’t think I can keep going.”

“Ah. You need vodka.”

By evening, everyone is loosened, oiled, joyful. The band gives way to a DJ. The tempo lifts. Older guests sit and watch. The young ones whirl.

And then it happens.

A stumble. A drink knocked. A shove. A shove back.

The music plays on, but the dancing stops. A circle forms. Fists fly.

You can’t help but watch.
People have been doing this forever.

Men pull them apart. This is a wedding. Take it outside.

They sit on a low wall, breathing hard. Watched. Slowly, one stands, offers his hand. The other takes it. They hug.

Relief.

I don’t photograph this.

By now I’ve been working since seven in the morning. It’s ten at night. Fifteen hours. Enough.

I pack my kit and leave.

A hundred yards down the road I stop and turn back. The music is still there, faint now. I let the night take over.

It was a great wedding.
A lot of fun.

But I’m glad they’re not all like that.

 

 Captain Leonard Roswell (Eastfield Road 2009)

Back in the day I lived in Eastfield Road. It was a great place to live. It was like a little Bohemian village that just happened to be walking distance from the city centre. It’s not like that now. One colourful character in the cast of thousands that made up Eastfield Road was Mr Roswell.

Mr Roswell was completely mad. He was convinced invisible rays were penetrating his house from passing spaceships. He noticed that if he lit a candle it flickered, it was conclusive proof of the existence of aliens. Their rays making the candles flicker. OBVIOUSLY. But to Mr Roswell this was cutting edge ufology. The next day he lined up eight candles on his kitchen table. He spent hours watching them until they burnt down. Then set up eight more. Eventually he came to me to with the revelation that electromagnetic radiation from Aliens were causing the candles to flicker. He explained all this to me with complete authority. If only he could record the flickers of the candle and play it back half speed, he could count the flickers. There must be a pattern he could decode. The aliens were definitely trying to tell him something. But is it a warning or a message that could save the Earth? Then answer is in the flickering candles. I didn’t dare tell him it’s the draught from his wonky window making them flicker. I didn’t want to burst his bubble.

Leonard Roswell strides down Eastfield Road, a pair of beady eyes peering out from a filthy baseball cap and a mass of beard and hair. He seems to have a telescopic radio aerial sticking out the bottom of his cap. He doesn't break step or even look at me as he says "they're watching you".

I dramatically look about, left and right "Me? Why me? What have I done?”

But he's gone in more ways than one. He shout’s back without turning round “No one is safe.” The aliens are creeping into Eastfield Road. Should I be afraid? Sometimes Mr Roswell looks quite normal, apart from the bacofoil and the radio antenna, which poke suspiciously out from under his baseball cap. It's the little things that give him away, that and talking to lamp posts of course.

Pegden Part 5

 

The door opened a crack. “Good it’s you.” Says Pegden peering through the crack, he opened the door to let me in. There was a bed in the corner, unmade. The duvet crumpled up. In the corner a flat screen TV. Next to it a small table with a plant in a pot on it. The plant had long since given up any hope of living. A few dog ends in the pot, kept the dead plant company in the afterlife. A wardrobe stood with a door hanging from one hinge. Opposite the TV was an armchair. The arms worn through to the lining, with cigarette burns all over the ends. In front of that, a coffee table strewn with empty beer cans, a full ashtray and a tobacco tin and papers. A wooden ski held a joss stick slowly burning away. The room smelt of Sandalwood and weed. I’d smelt worse. “Welcome to my abode.” Say Pegden. “It’s not much, but you know, this is just temporary, better things are on the horizon.”

At that moment I knew better things were never going to be on his horizon. For all his tall tales and adventure. This was it. “Nice.” I said. “Seems cosy.”

“It’s great here." he was trying to sound enthusiastic, but failing. "Close to town. But far enough away from trouble. It’s quiet down this street. Then I’ve got Skyla downstairs…”

“I think I met her on the way in.”

“She’s lovely. Heart of gold, that girl. Very intelligent. Had a good education. Not like me. University of life me.”

“She seemed nice enough. Only spoke to her briefly. She was on the way out.”

“oh yeah it’s that time. She usually goes out about now. Looking for work.” He gives me a knowing nod. “Anyway you’re looking for a quarter.” He stresses the word ‘quarter' and laughs

“OK don’t rub it in.”

“Have a seat, you’re not in a hurry are you?”

“Actually I am. I’ve got to get the gear to that friend of mine.”

“The guy with cancer yeah. Sorry. Give me a minute.” He rustles through the top drawer of a chest of drawers. On top of which was stored various aftershaves and spray cans of lynx.” Here we go.” He pulls out a tin, opens it carefully and after sweeping aside some cans lays it down on his coffee table. “Now then 10 grammes is it?”

“Yes about that.”

“Then about that, you’ll get.” He carefully transfers a portion of his stash into a small plastic bag. “That’ll be about right. What do you think? Enough?” He holds it up for me to see. I haven’t a clue. It looks OK. What does ten grammes of weed look like? I’d never thought about it.

“Looks good to me Pegden.”

“I think so too.”

“How much?”

“Well it’s eighteen pounds for ten grammes.”

“Eighteen? It was Eighteen a quarter when I was at Uni.”

“There you go. What a bargain. AND you’re getting more. Go on, give me fifteen and we’ll call it a deal.”

“You sure?” I guessed it was not the whole ten grammes.

“Positive. What are mates for?”

I thought to myself "Mates mug you but with gentleness and finesse, so you don't mind." I took the bag and put in my inside coat pocket. “Thanks Pegden. You’re helping a good friend out.”

“I hope so.”

“I’d better get going.”

We shook hands and I went out the door, clattered down the stairs and into the night air.

“See you down the pub sometime.” I looked up Pegden was leaning out his window.

“Sure.” I said. “See you there.”

I walked back to my car. It was still there. I stood and listened a moment. The road was silent. Pegden was right about one thing, this is a quiet road.

TBC

Pegden part 4

 

After the Beer Festival, Pegden disappeared again. It wasn’t unusual. I never knew exactly what he did or where he was. He would just show up when he was good and ready. I never chased him. He is what he is. Flighty.

I get a call from Pete. He’d been diagnosed with cancer and he was in a bad way.

“Mike I need a favour.”

“What’s that? Anything I can do… you know.”

“I need some weed, grass. I’m having a really bad time right now.”

“I don‘t have any.”

”But you’ve got contacts. You know people. What do you reckon? Can you get some? I’m desperate.”

“OK Pete. For you’ll I’ll try and sort something.”

It’s not something I deal in, but I can’t have a friend suffering for the sake of some weed. I make a call.

“Pegden?”

“Mike. How are you?”

“I need your help.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I need to get hold of some weed.”

“What you?” He laughed.

“No not for me. For a friend. He has cancer. He’s in a bad way. I’ve got to try and help him out.”

“OK.” He thought for a minute, “I can probably help you out.”

“Great.”

“How much you looking for.”

“A quarter?”

Hysterical laughter came down the line. “When was the last time you bought weed?”

“I haven’t. But at Uni that’s what they bought and sold it in.”

“Mike, you’re precious mate. Un-fucking-believable.”

“Come on Pegden, don’t take the piss. Help me out here.”

“OK it’s sold in grammes now. How many grammes do you want?”

“I don’t fucking know. What do you think? You’re the expert. How many grammes is closest to a quarter?”

“It’s 10 grammes, but that’s a little more than a quarter I think.”

“OK have you got any?”

“Yes mate. For you I’ve got ten grammes.”

“Can I come and get it?”

“Now?”

“Yes this is an emergency.”

“OK. OK. Come on down I’ll sort it out for you.”

“Where are you?”

Pegden was in a bedsit in Woodston down a back street. A long row of terraced houses with cars either side of the road bumper to bumper. I parked up where I could and walked the rest of the way. The house had a low wall out front, enclosing three feet of front garden. Except it wasn’t a garden just a pile of black bin bags and cardboard boxes. I knocked on the door. I waited. Knocked again. The door opened. A girl stepped out. She was thin. Wearing skinny black jeans held up with a leather belt, round what should have been her hips. She had none. Her legs and arms, just sticks. A short black leather jacket draped her tiny shoulders. She looked at me, and, without words, apologised for existing. I smiled at her, friendly like. Nervously she looked up, down and into her hand bag. “Sorry do I know you?” she eyed me sideways, suspiciously.

“I’m looking for Pegden.”

“Oh he’s… I don’t suppose you’ve got a couple of quid.. I’m a bit short right now.”

I fetched some change out of my pocket, it was about two pounds maybe a few pence more. I gave it her.

“Thank you so much. You didn’t have to. Pegden’s upstairs on the left.” She turned aound to count the change. “Come back anytime.” She called back at me. “Maybe we could get a drink.” She didn’t sound like she needed another drink.

I went through the open door and up the stairs. The air was stale and the walls dirty. The stair carpets long since gone and my footsteps echoed round the hallway.

At the top of the stairs were two doors one had a Yale lock. I guessed that was Pegdens gaff. I knocked on the door.

 

Pegden Part 3

 

It was a few weeks before I saw Pegden again. We called him Pegden but that was his surname. He never revealed his first name. I guessed it was because it was a terrible first name for a man of mystery and adventure. After he insisted, “It’s Pegden. Just Pegden.” I never asked again.

I was at the Peterborough Beer festival 2007 lining up a group shot of drunken happy smiling faces, when Pegden leaps in front of my camera like a circus clown. A big smile on his face.

I took the last photo and “For fucks sake Pegden. How are you? Where’ve you been?”

“I’m good mate. Been here and there. Mostly there, know what I mean? ha ha.”

“But your trouble. You know the deal?”

He looked at me blankly, “What?”

“The Welland, Stanground. The money you owed.”

“Oh that. Yeah man, that was sweet, did the deal. My man in the Welland got what he wanted, paid off the guy. Slapped that fucker right in his hand. Dosh! ‘take that bastard, we’re square.’ Jus’ like that. And I got a bit of spending money left over for myself. As I say, sweet as.”

“Well I was a bit worried.”

“Jeez you know me. Always land on my feet me. Come on have a beer. I’m buying.”

“I can’t take photos and hold a pint at the same time.”

“Well don’t take photos then. Ya fuckin’ eejit. Just drink.”

“Oh OK.”

Pegden wanders off to the bar. He didn’t bother which section of the bar. To him it was just a bar, beer is beer. He comes back with two pints.

“Whatcha got Pegden?”

“Beer, whaddya think? Get it down ya.”

“..and errr where did the glass come from?”

“You ask a lot of questions for someone getting a free beer. I found it alright? Anything else you wanna know?” I did, but I didn't

“The deal. What happened?”

“It was a one off deal, to get me out the shit is all. So I got to Stanground, met up with the guy. He looked over the product. Decided it was kosher and handed over the money. Nice guy actually, you wouldn't think he was a major dealer. He lived in a nice house, not too big. Regular car in the drive. He's got kids. but, you know, I’m not making a habit of it. I made the deal, it worked, it all went smoothly, end of.”

I knew not to press him any further on the subject “So whatcha been up to then?”

"Well then. Funny you should ask. I've got to tell you about..." Pegden, now in his element, and over the space of more beers, treated me to more of his tales of drink, debauchery and adventure, before I staggered off home to Eastfield Road.

TBC

 

 Pegden Part 2

I’m bored. My thumbs are discos dancing, I work my index fingers into the routine. Denise had taught me this one day when we were bored in the pub. She was 19, 5 foot four, brown hair in a bob, brown eyes… and with such a cute innocence, you wished the devil would corrupt her. We sat in the pub, on the bench seats, music came out of the speakers and suddenly her fingers start dancing. I was mesmerised. How can a girl make finger dancing so sensual? Patiently she slowed down her moves so I could see what she was doing. I still do finger disco to this day when I’m bored, but forty years later I still haven’t got the hang of it, it looks kind of dorky.

I sometimes think of Denise. Last I heard she was living in Leeds. She went there after her brother blew his own brains out with a 9mm pistol. Our relationship took a dive after that. It's not something you just brush off and carry on. She couldn’t cope with anything let alone a relationship. Her parents split up and her father died of a broken heart, still sitting in the same armchair he’d been sitting in since the Police came round to inform him and his wife, of their sons suicide.

I look at the news; Tony Blair is resigning as Prime Minister. Good. Prince Harry is going to do a tour in Afghanistan. I wonder if his body guards will go with him. I imagine men in black, with ear pieces and talking into their cuffs, walking behind him whilst everyone else is in camouflage combat gear. The idea makes me smile. But who needs body guards when you have a whole regiment, armed to the teeth, watching your back?

The doorbell rang, Pegden was back. He swings his rucksack, it lands heavily on my desk. “Stage one complete. Mission accomplished.”

“Mission? What’s in the bag?”

“Wanna peak?” a mischevious grin sweeps across his face..

“OK.”

He pulls the toggled rope holding the top of his rucksack closed. Then slowly and gently, like a father lifting a new born baby he lifts something out, but only half way. It’s a big black slab, about an inch thick, with a circular gold sticker on it.

“This, my son, is pure Primo Afghan Black. There’s a lot more in the bag.” He does a quick glance at the door, quickly returns it and pulls the cord tight again.

“That’s a lot of dope. Where did it come from?”

“I have a mate in the artillary, just come back from Afghanistan. S’all I can tell you, without ‘aving to kill ya.”

“What’s stage two then?” I’m intrigued and I want to know everything. My curiousity will get me into trouble one day. Hopefully not today.

“Stage two my old mate, awaits me in Stanground. I know a dealer who’ll take this lot off my hands off my hands. Right smartish. For the right money as well.”

“Presumably he knows you’re coming then?”

“Too right. He won’t want to miss this deal. He’ll wait. Right, I’d better get going it’s a long way to Stanground.”

“I don’t suppose you want a lift?” I can see it now, Mike Da Hat, drug runner. Crashing county lines, Barrelling down Perkins Parkway, Cruising over the town Bridge in my Renault Scenic with thousands of pounds worth of dope stashed in the back.

“Errrr NO! I’m good. Besides we need at least one half decent person left in this town who hasn’t been corrupted.”

"Who? Me?"

"Yes Mr Innocent. When did you last run a red light?"

"I don't."

"Exactly. Mr Clean always has been." He playfully slapped my face and he was gone again. Marching towards the city centre. My career as a drug runner finished, before it had even started.

"I can be bad, " I thought to myself. "I once got the wrong change on the London underground and didn't say anything. Just took the change, thanked the guy and walked. How bad do you have to be to be a drug runner? As bad as Pegden? Except I've never seen him do anything bad. Until today. How bad is bad?"

To be continued

 Pegden Part 1

This particular Wednesday, in the summer of 2007, was quiet, the phone wasn’t ringing and I had time on my hands. I wasn’t bothered, who needs another customer when the sun is shining? The doorbell rang and in walks Pegden. “Aye up!” he says

“Pegden, my man. How’s it going?”

Pegden looks at me sideways head slightly bowed “Not good mate, not good.”

I’ve known Pegden for years, originally from Wakefield, but now in Peterborough. He’s tall and thin, but deceptively strong. He knows how to get out of a scrape. I can’t say he’s the most law abiding friend I’ve ever had, but he’s trustworthy and straight with those who are straight with him. He puts a hand up and musses his short brown hair, it makes no difference, his hair is always a mess. His clothes fit where they touch, hanging on him like they don’t want to be there. “To tell you the truth Mike, I’ve got myself into a bit of a situation.” He nervously rearranges a rucksack on his shoulder.

“Oh mate! What’s happened?” I’m concerned, but nothing about Pegden surprises me, I don’t recall him ever having a decent job, but he always had money for a pint down the pub. I never asked. It’s best not to know; you just chat bollocks over a beer, and don’t get involved. Pegden knows how to tell a story. You just suspend belief and listen to his wild tales of adventure, debauchery, drunken nights and scrapes. You know it’s mostly fantasy, but he does tell a good story, and you have to listen.

“I find I owe a few grand to some guy.” He looks down at his trainers, white with purple stripes, they were doing a little dance all by themselves. A shuffle.

“What guy?” I ask, breaking my own rule.

“Just some guy who wants his money back tomorrow or the situation could escalate into something I’d rather it didn’t.”

“Shit! I wish I could help you out but…” I tailed off, hoping he wasn’t going to ask for money I didn’t have.

“It’s OK I don’t want any money or owt. I’ve got a deal going down on The Welland. I was just passing. Thought I’d stick my head in the door, say ‘Hello’ like.”

“You wanna lift? My car’s just outside. I can take you to Welland.”

“Best not eh? You don’t want to be anywhere near me for this one. I’ll walk. Thanks anyway.”

He slings his rucksack over his shoulder and walks out. I watch him as he walks up Eastfield Road. In five minutes he’ll be at the Regional College, in ten, Eastfield cemetery. Welland, another ten or fifteen minutes. A warm gust of wind and pollen from the conifers across the road, blew like smoke. Pegden had already got past Jacqui’s house and still walking. I went back inside to shuffle a few papers on my desk and rearrange my pen jar. It was a quiet day.

TBC