France – Page 4 – Debbie Young's Writing Life

A Lay-by By Any Other Name

Posted on September 11, 2011March 9, 2013 by Debbie Young

Heading south from Fontainebleau on the N7, we settle into the mindset required to endure a long drive before we will allow ourselves to stop for the night. We sit in companionable silence, which is welcome after the non-stop background music in Disneyland the day before. Laura, exhausted by her 12-hour day there, dozes behind us.

We’ve chosen the non-motorway route for most of our French tour, not only to avoid the cost of the peage (toll road) that is the faster option to Provence. We actively enjoy driving through the quiet towns and sleepy villages that punctuate long rural roads. Passing through farmland and forest, we occasionally exchange observations about little oddities that we spot along the way. But when Laura awakes to demand a toilet stop, a longer discussion begins.

“Why are those two girls just sitting by the side of the road?” asks Gordon as we pull into one of the many convenient lay-bys.

I frown.

“Hitch-hikers, I expect.”

Knowing Gordon, he’ll want to pick them up. He’s a soft touch for hitch-hikers, having used hitch-hiking as his main means of transport in his teens. I realise that for two girls who are not much more than teenagers themselves, a family in a camper van will be preferable to a lorry. Comfy seats, lots of space, a cute child to play with and probably the offer of tea and biscuits somewhere along the way. We’ve rescued similar pairs of passengers from torrential rain when touring Scotland and I resign myself to a noisier journey from here on.

But to my surprise, the two girls barely glance in our direction. Instead, they gaze dully at the oncoming traffic. I feel rejected.

“Probably on the game,” I remark, meaning to be funny, but in a sour grapes tone of voice.

Then a small French car pulls up in front of us, driven by a lone man. Is their driver going to offer them a lift? The car obscures my view of the girls. As our van is English, Gordon has a clearer view of the kerb from the driver’s seat.

“No, I think he’s just gone for a pee,” he says, guessing my thoughts.

Laura is back in her seat by now and as we pull out to continue our journey, Gordon glances in his wing mirror.

“There’s only one girl there now.”

We continue in silence, soon passing another of this road’s generous supply of lay-bys. There’s also a girl on her own at this one, but in a small car this time, parked at right angles to the road. She’s sitting in the driving seat, on the left of the car, so that no passing motorist can fail to notice she’s on her own. I’m surprised at this: if I ever have to sit in a lay-by alone, for safety’s sake I do everything to I can to make it seem that I’m accompanied by a man. Moving over to the passenger seat is meant to be the best safety precaution. Potential muggers and rapists will then assume you’re just waiting for your husband to come back from answering a call of nature. Don’t they have any personal safety public information films in this country, I wonder?

By the time we reach the next lay-by, we’re engaged in an earnest census of the population of lone females. Here we spot not one but two white transit vans, each at right angles to the road, and each with a solitary girl in the driver’s seat. In one van, attached to the driver’s head restraint is one of those large inflatable bath pillows that you can get in the shape of a pair of red lips. With a start, I realise this may be a form of code.

“So what do you think?” asks Gordon, as we pass it by.

I hesitate, considering, not wanting to believe what is uppermost in my mind.

“I think my earlier assessment was correct,” I reply slowly. “They’re on the game.”

There’s a moment of synchronised jaw-dropping before I ask in a small voice: “I wonder what the French is for lay-by?”

Family, Travel

Always Read the Label

Posted on September 7, 2011July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

Eating local food and drinking local wine or beer is as inseparable a part of the holiday experience for me as sending postcards, without which no holiday is complete. When abroad, I steer a wide berth of any cafes offering an English style menu.

In my mission to eat local, I’m aided by a daughter with an unusual aversion to the staple foods of most eight year olds. Not for her the ubiquitous chicken nuggets, fish fingers or burgers. But give her a crepe nd she’s happy.

I’m torn the other way by a husband who equates holidays – wherever they are – with Full English Breakfasts. I still remember the look of horror on his face when presented on a Greek beachside taverna with a supposed English fry-up garnished with cucumber. “Cucumber? For breakfast!?”

On our French odyssey, I’m particular keen to eat native because one of my holiday reading books is Julia Child‘s autobiographical “My Life In France” – a highly enjoyable account of the American chef’s love affair with French cookery.

So we hit the patisserie to start each day. Croissants for Laura, pains au raisins for the grown-ups, plus the occasional chausson de pommes for good measure. For lunch, we combine the inevitable baguette with charcuterie, salad and fruit bought from local markets or local producer’s roadside stalls.

Evening meals are compromised by my desire to minimise the use of gas and water, both of which are in limited supply in our van. Quick cook pasta, never used at home, makes a frequent appearance on any camper van trip, as does bread in all its forms. Canned food and ready meals are a godsend. And here in France I must make judicious use of the tin opener, with the proviso that any product used must be of French manufacture. I don’t think Julia would approve .

Early on in the trip, we find ourselves parked in a layby just south of Montdidier in Picardy, enjoying an unbroken view of rolling farmland hills. To reflect our position on the edge of French Flanders, a tin of that popular Flemish dish, Carbonnade Flamande is on the menu. We once enjoyed this in a restaurant in Ypres. A hearty stew, it’s more of a winter dish, but we’ve burnt off a lot of energy with an afternoon at Montdidier’s municipal pool and my appetite is keen.

With two diabetics to cater for, I’m an inveterate reader of labels. From force of habit. I’m scanning the ingredients of the tin when an unexpected animal catches my eye. “Viande de cheval.” Horsemeat. My hunger is instantly abated. I edge up to my husband, mouth silently “This is made of horse” and await his reaction.

“Mmm, great!” he replies, licking his lips.”I could eat a horse!”

My daughter – a newly converted vegetarian, due to her love of animals – must not find out. I hope she won’t notice as she tucks into her omelette that I’m having only potatoes and haricots verts while Daddy lays into the stew.

At the next hypermarket stop, I’m more cautious. I check out the fresh meat counter for a ready-prepared local dish that lacks an equestrian theme. I opt for a comforting, beefy looking package that shows some kind of tidy-looking meatball with mushrooms in a sauce Madere. They look smooth and shiny and there’s something vaguely familiar about them. There’s a clear mention of boeuf as the creature of origin, and it’s only when I’m warming the pack later that I realise what these sleek knobs of lean meat are. They are rognons. The boeuf has kindly provided its kidneys. Oh well, I suppose it could have been very much worse.

For the rest of the holiday, I’m awfully careful to make sure I always read the label. And I’m very glad that I know that the French word for tripe is tripe.

Travel

Lost in France

Posted on September 3, 2011March 31, 2014 by Debbie Young

Every time I go to France, it is my ambition to be mistaken for a French woman. This is not so much to do with my linguistic powers, but with the ability to appear effortlessly elegant. I’m not sure why I feel this compulsion, given that I’m usually such a scruff, but feel it I do. And I’m on holiday, so what the heck, I’ll self-indulge.

So I’ve planned my holiday wardrobe carefully, packing crisp, simple linen shifts (well, the two that I possess, anyway). A trilby serves as a sunhat – a regrettable necessity for my English fair skin. (I don’t suppose that French women wear sunhats unless they have to). Simple leather flats, just a couple of pieces of jewellery and a totebag complete the look for a stroll down to the market through the ancient cobbled streets of Senlis, half an hour north of Paris.

When I pause at the tourist office en route to ask whether there’s a swimming pool in the town, the helpful assistant, Raphaelle, asks me which country I come fro. I experience a fillip of triumph that my accent is not immediately identifiable. This gives me the confidence to decline her kind offer to converse in English.

Having established the pool’s whereabouts and opening hours and that it’s découverte (open air) – a welcome discovery on this hothouse of a day – I head down the hill to the market. Carefully I choose the best strawberries in the most promising barquette , hoping I’m indistinguishable from the milling French housewives. In my exchange with the stallholder, I take a different approach to my grandmother’s tried and trusted “speak English in a very loud voice”. Instead, I speak French in a very loud voice. I not only to sound more confident but feel more confident too. To my delight, the old farmer running the stall treats me just the same as his other customers.

“I think I’m getting away with it,” I smile to myself. Even so, I am filled with admiration for those war-time spies who successfully infiltrate a foreign country, passing themselves off as native. Travelling as I am with my husband and his unique approach to the French language, recollections of the English policeman’s comical Franglais in “‘Allo, ‘Allo” are never far from my mind.

On my way back to the camper van, I browse the rails outside a couple of dress shops, now selling off their summer ranges at a discount. I note contentedly that the most popular style is very similar to the dress I’m wearing.

In a little cloud of self-satisfaction, I potter back up the cobblestones. I’m reaching the outskirts of the shopping area when a white Renault Clio pulls up alongside me.

“Madame, s’il vous plait?”

A pleasant looking Frenchman leans out of the window to peer up at me, enquiringly.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” I venture, loudly.

He fires off a rapid, complex query as to how to find a particular address in Senlis. My smile disappears. He might as well be asking directions to Mars. I’m fooling no-one after all, not even myself.

“Desolee, monsieur,” I falter in a small, low voice. “Je suis une étrangère.”

I am a stranger/foreigner.

He nods and waves in sympathy before driving on. My confidence shattered, I take a wrong turn, lose my way, and for the next fifteen minutes, I am Lost In France. When the camper van with its GB sticker eventually appears on the horizon, this tiny piece of home territory is a very welcome sight indeed.

Family, Travel

La Lingua Franca

Posted on August 29, 2011July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

If my daughter ran the world, it would be a much simpler place.

“Why do people have different languages in other countries?” she asks as we drive past French roadside hoardings.

I explain that languages evolved before man developed the means or desire to travel abroad. Once we started travelling, I add, we imported words from other languages. (I often worry whether my improved explanations are academically sound; I wonder how any parent can have the confidence to home-educate a child.)

I try to think of a few French words that migrated into English after the Norman Conquest. Oh, “language” – that will be one of them (as in la langue Francaise) – and “conquest” (la conquete). She doesn’t look convinced (or even convaincu).

Her skepticism is catching and I find myself looking out for bizarre examples of this alien lingo. As we cycle round the city walls of Montreuil, I espy a poster advertising an event. In large type, the name “BIGOT” stands out. Riding shotgun after Laura, I don’t have time to check the details, but I am disappointed to realise that it can’t be a political poster. It lacks the dreadful photo that seems indispensible in mainland European electioneering.

I’m always astonished that any politician is elected on the basis of these huge, insipid mugshots. They’re usually posed against a bland studio backdrop, showing over-groomed and coiffed men and women smiling straight at the camera. All the politicians look phoney. This approach certainly wouldn’t work in Britain, where most MPs are elected in spite of their hairstyles rather than because of them. I’m amazed that it works abroad.

Food advertising here seems to follow the same pattern. We pass a giant poster displaying nothing but a tin of sweetcorn, the face of a woman looking vaguely startled, and the price. It does not for a moment make me want to buy a tin of sweetcorn. Yet presumably to the French shopper it is persuasive, as there are similar advertisements everywhere we go.

Driving in the camper van later that afternoon, we pass a shop under the name of “COFFIN”. I’m not sure I’d want to take advantage of the sign inviting me to fill my house with its products – until I realise that it’s not an undertakers, but a furniture store.

Soon afterwards, our van’s cooking gas cylinder runs out. Seeking a replacement, we spot one marked “MALICE” on the service station forecourt. I do a double take. Is this a special brand aimed at the terrorist market? “Malice – le gaz ideal pour ceux qui preparent les bombes chez eux”? Might be hard to get that one through customs on the way home. (We settle instead for “Le Cube” – a square brand of cylinders, which seems rather a contradiction in terms).

Later, searching in one of the van’s cupboards for a spanner, I rediscover a handy translating gadget that Gordon has tucked away and forgotten about. Laura is intrigued by the concept and he shows her how it works. You input a word in one language and choose the language into which you’d like it translated. Et voila!

But for Laura, two languages are not enough. She inputs her own name in English, then translates it into another language, then translates the translation into a third language, and so on until she runs out of languages. Eventually it emerges in German as “Kopfsalat” – which I am pretty sure means “lettuce” (literally “head salad”). We are all quite tickled by this Chinese Whispers effect, and she spends much of the rest of the day speaking aloud in a language she has made up all by herself.

And to think they say the English aren’t good at foreign languages…

Personal life

East, West, Our Village Show’s Best

Posted on August 28, 2011July 18, 2016 by Debbie Young

2,300 miles in 4 weeks: that’s one way of summing our family holiday in France this year. For the first time in my life, I am in the fortunate position of being able to take 4 weeks off work. To make the most of it, we hit the road in our camper van.

Normally it’s a fortnight’s tour of Scotland, but as Laura always says “You don’t go to Scotland for the weather”. I’ve never been further south in France than Paris, so armed with a French atlas and a satnav, we hit the road.

We are not disappointed. Our scenic route from takes us through Picardy and Paris before trickling south alongside the Loire and the Rhone. A week’s tour of Provence includes extraordinary ancient Roman remains and UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Then it’s back up north via the Ardeche mountains and the Auvergne’s volcanoes. Sometimes things get surreal. Canoeing under an ancient Roman aqueduct, we find ourselves surrounded by French holidaymakers who have turned the riverbank into a beach. At Avignon, our campervan floor fills with Italian children contentedly drawing and colouring, while Laura goes off to play with her new French friend Sybillia. For a writer, the trip is a rich resource, and all the way I’m scribbling away in my notebook, banking ideas for withdrawal at home.

By the time we’re driving north, I’m saturated with new experiences – but for Laura, there’s just one thing on her mind. She shares it from the back seat.

“How many days till the Village Show, Mummy?”

“I’m just SO excited about the Village Show.”

“I can’t wait for it to be Show Day on Saturday.”

“I’m so glad we’re going to be home in time for the Show.”

And do you know what? I think she’s right. No matter how far we travel, I’m sure we’ll never find another sight to match the Hawkesbury Village Show. UNESCO, please take note.

(This post was originally written for the Hawkesbury Parish Magazine – September 2011 Village Show Special Edition!)