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A little light in my life!
Quatorze juillet approacheth again. The whole of France stops work (again!) to proudly celebrate their National Day. The 14th of July, as once any English schoolboy used to be capable of telling you, is Bastille Day. The day when the French celebrate finally shaking off the shackles of monarchy and aristocracy from their nation and making most of the aforesaid that much shorter in the process. With the help of Madame Guillotine!
Now in rural France, there still exists a very strong love and respect for social values. Family is very important here and most whole families still regularly sit around the dinner table for their meals. To eat of course but more importantly to communicate and to grow even closer and more supportive of one another. One of the main reasons my wife and I decided to move here over a decade ago but I digress.
The French appreciation of social values has resulted in some notable achievements that stands them way ahead and in sharp contrast with their cousins, ‘les ros bifs de l'autre côté de la Manche’. Neat, tidy, litter free and safe villages is one result. Every village also proudly supports a magnificent salle de fête. Literally ‘room of festival’ or village hall. A building usually designed by a leading or notable architect, light and spacious, pleasantly decorated and well appointed with proper cloakrooms and toilets. Along with fully equipped catering facilities and restaurant type kitchen capable of providing for the entire village population - in one sitting! As we ‘ros bifs’ know, this contrasts starkly with the usual British village hall. Generally a pre-war, dilapidated, grass green, corrugated iron hut standing on the edge of what was once laughingly described as the ‘recreation ground’. Assuming the local youth haven’t burned it down long ago.
One of the main annual functions served by la salle de fête is of course ‘Quatorze juillet’.
As I’ve mentioned elsewhere in these pages, an invitation to attend a communal
function here in rural France is often not an invitation at all. It is a summons. Hence when
one of our dear village elders wobbles up our driveway on her trusty Peugeot
velocipede clutching white envelope in hand, we graciously thank her, accept her kind
invitation, ply her with a couple of stiff Ricards before sending her on her way to wobble
round to her next target.
Last year though I didn’t exactly cover myself in glory. Again! Firstly it was extraordinarily hot.
Over 35°C I recall. “Je suis chaud!” I gasped at the very attractive young woman sat
opposite me across the traditional, pristine gingham check table cloth.
“Non, non NON!” she remonstrated crossly in response and then, in that delightfully cute French accented and stilted English, she continued “You to not say ‘je suis chaud’, it is very naughty. You must to say ‘J’ai chaud’, I HAVE hot.”
”Pourquoi? (why?)” I asked.
“Because when you say. “Je suis chaud!” what you are really saying is ‘I am hot',
meaning I am sexy!” she explained, blushing.
“Oh désolé (sorry), I did not know. J’ai chaud then.” I replied by way of confirmation.
"Bon, that is much better.” acknowledged the pretty young woman, appearing grateful at my restoration of decorum.
“Je suis chaud aussi! (I am hot too!)". I thought it opportunist to throw in as a parting shot. Her expression didn’t appear to endorse my claim.
Anyway, as I said. It was extraordinarily hot that day. The wine and cider were both flowing freely, as they always do at these events. So much quenching of the thirst seemed to be in order. Except red wine and cider don’t mix too well and gradually I began to feel less “Je suis chaud!” and more “Je suis fatigué”. Memsahib decided already to throw in the towel and go home. I had anticipated she might and had taken the precaution of tossing my bike in the back of the car before setting off that morning.
“OK, off you go then Dear. I’ll take my bike out of the back and ride home later.” I urged her before she set off for home.
“Don’t be late and don’t drink too much!” remonstrated Memsahib before pulling out of the tidy granite cobbled and shrub bordered car park of the salle de fête.
“Don’t worry. I won’t.” I lied by way of a reply.
The day wore on. It wore into night and there was much joviality and dancing and there was much imbibing of more cider and of even more wine. Finally even I had to concede I was no longer “Je suis chaud!” so bidding my farewells I decided to set off for home. On my bicycle.
Now please allow me to explain. We live on the top of the hill overlooking our village which nestles in the valley below about two kilometres away. When I say ‘on top of the hill’ this is an over simplification as the route generally undulates up short but steep brows and down into equally deep vales all along the way. Sheer nerve with limited use of brakes plus a little skill can generally ensure considerable reduction of pedalling effort along the two kilometre route, in either direction. In the absence of sheer nerve and skill however then copious amounts of alcohol can often be substituted to effect similar results.
Thus it was I set off and although my route this time was to be generally up hill I wasn’t so stupefied as to forget that the first part from the salle de fête to the first sharp bend was a fairly steep descent. With enough ‘knots on’ I knew from experience (application of skill and nerve) it was possible to ascend the first steep rise almost effortlessly. Or not. If one happens to miss the first sharp bend that is. And end up as I did in the ditch.
OK, so the first hundred metres or so was a failure but I determined to do better on the next descent. I lifted my bike off my chest, climbed out of the ditch, twisted the headlamp around so that it once more shone in a generally forward direction and resumed. Finally I mounted the summit and joy, another steep descent but again with a sharp bend at the bottom. I remember thinking “I must be doing forty by now” just as I turned the handle bars to the left. My bike dutifully responded and went left as bid. Except I didn’t. I went head first over where the handlebars might have been had the bike not already abandoned me and straight into another ditch. This one full of water.
“This isn’t too good!” I said to myself as I scraped the mud and pond weeds off my shirt and trousers. “She’ll kill me when I get home.” I determined to be more careful on the next descent. Except by this time and probably slightly concussed I had actually forgotten where I was. I honestly believe I would have made the next bend despite again clocking around forty kilometres an hour. At least I might have made it had I followed the route and turned right instead of left.
Third time into a water filled ditch is not funny at two in the morning, in the dark. My headlamp this time had come completely away from its bracket and now lay in bits on the bank. All the little LED’s, those funny little excuses for lamps we are now all obliged to suffer in this modern age had all fallen out too. Oddly however they were all still managing to glow in the gloom.
“Hark, a car approacheth!” I recall. It stopped, presumably its driver concerned at coming across, at two in the morning on a dark and remote country lane, a heap of twisted metal along with a prone and bloodied rider lying underneath it. The window slid down and a familiar face appeared “Memsahib!” I gleefully shouted. Then repeated mournfully after her as the window slid up again and her car sped off into the night once more.
“Ah.” I thought. “Best sleep on the settee downstairs tonight (again).” A thought constructed in my possibly addled but definitely now concussed brain.
Before picking myself up yet again, this time I first had to collect all those fearsome little LEDs
that had conspired to fall out of my headlamp. I tried poking a couple back into their respective
vacant sockets in the lamp housing but they wouldn’t comply. I guess my fingers were either too cold
or too wet. So I stuffed them all, still glowing brightly, in my shirt breast pocket. Where they
shone through the thin white cotton well enough for me to just make out the kerb. At least
to follow it providing I didn’t go too quickly. As the front wheel was now bent sufficiently to
jam it between the forks ‘quickly’ was anyway out of the question. So I resigned myself to
pushing my bike, now protesting with a loud squeak at every reluctant turn of the wheel, for
the rest of the journey.
I arrived at our driveway and walked down. I decided the settee didn’t look so inviting after all and thought she might forgive me anyway. “Je suis chaud!” you will recall. Memsahib thought otherwise and with a customary “Don’t even think about it!” rolled over and went back to sleep.
I awoke to a scream at daybreak.
“What are all these spiders doing in your shirt!?” Memsahib yelled.
Dear readers will understand. Especially the male of our species.
Glow worms can look very much like LEDs at two in the morning!
I’ve finished ‘lighting up’ now.
For the day anyway.
