Vive La France Rurale

It has flown by at an incredible rate and it is hard to believe that we are now five months into our French adventure. So much has happened in that period, what with moving into our permanent home and getting three (yes three!) different property related businesses off the ground.

Mist rising during an autumn evening in Busserolles

As we move gently into the golden glow of a Dordogne autumn, I thought it would be worth reflecting on some of the idiosyncrasies of life in rural France. I don’t approach this from the perspective of having a moan about the French, I’ll happily leave that to some of the incensed ex-pats we have encountered who just can’t understand why everything is not the same as it is in their beloved England. These are inevitably the same people who make no effort to speak any French and sit in the bars with like-minded characters reading their Daily Mail and wondering where the fish and chip van is going to be parked up next Friday.

We moved to France because we were attracted to the French way of life, to the civility of the people and the opportunity to find our own tranquil corner in which we could watch the sun set cradling a glass of Bordeaux Superieur.

To make the most of it all, learning the language is essential and I am now making decent progress with the help of my French teacher, Isabelle. I walk down to the village for an hour once a week and we mix sessions covering some of the grammatical building blocks with gentle conversation about family and French life. It is an old adage, but it is true, that the French people are really helpful and sympathetic if you are prepared to have a go with their language; they really do appreciate the effort and respond in kind. They don’t get upset if you confuse masculine and feminine, avoir and etre or put an adjective in the wrong place.

It doesn’t matter who I meet in the village, I always offer up a ‘Bonjour’ and engage in a brief chat if they seem willing. I learn so much from them about what is going on around the village and they are always so patient with me as I try to explain something or struggle to understand what they have said. This week I learnt from a spritely 90 year old called Margarite that I should not miss the annual draining of the lake on the 1^st November because all the large fish are caught and offered to the locals for their dinner table – now that has to beat the fish and chip van!

The Mairie in Busserolles

Village life and administration is centred around the Mairie and I was keen to follow up on everyone’s advice to get to know the mayor. Our mayor in Busserolles is a local Christmas Tree farmer called Guy and I duly requested a meeting with him to introduce myself. I was also keen to make sure that he would be happy with our plans to put a fence around our field to make sure that Rolo and Tess would not stray too far. What came as a shock was that when we arrived for the meeting, it was not just Guy that we were asked to present our plans to but the whole council assembly – none of whom spoke any English!

With the aid of a few drawings however, I managed to get my plans across to them although they were not happy with my plan to put a gate across our driveway. It turns out that our driveway is actually classed as “Chemin Rurale” (a bit like a bridleway) and is the responsibility of the Mairie. I could have argued that it only went to our house and no one ever came up it apart from us but I clearly won brownie points by thanking them for pointing it out and instantly changing the fencing plan. The meeting ended with handshakes all round, particularly when I expressed my support for the “Chasse”.

The “Chasse” is a big thing in rural France and encapsulates the Frenchman’s right to roam the countryside and hunt creatures such as deer, wild boar and pheasants. It is highly organized and Sunday mornings during the hunting season resonate to the sound of barking dogs, shotguns and hunting horns. I support it because it is a traditional part of country life and is enjoyed by people from all walks of life. It is not at all like the organized shoots in England where super rich merchant bankers pay thousands of pounds to shoot tame, reared birds that are driven to their death by beaters who earn a pittance.

A sanglier (wild boar)

The hunters of Busserolles all seem to drive battered little old vans that chug their way around the hills and valleys on a Sunday morning. They love to tell tales of their hunt and are generous to a fault in sharing the results of their day. We have received packages of roughly butchered meat that could be anything from wild boar to venison, we often don’t know exactly what it is (or was) but cook it up slowly in a rich wed wine and it all tastes quite delicious!