I became a convinced and unshakeable
Francophile with my first visit to that country in 1952. It might have had
something to do with the method of locomotion. I had just emerged from seven
months of unemployment, followed by three months of low-paid factory work, so
we couldn’t afford anything fancy. We decided why not go by the only means we
could afford, a tandem bicycle. So off we went to Petticoat Lane in the east of
London, where we found a pre-war tandem that looked in working order, for
fifteen pounds. We rode it home fairly successfully, considering our lack of
experience with the two seats and four pedals, but when later we took it on the
road it quickly became evident that the gears weren’t working. Not to worry, we
could get them repaired.
Hold your horses: we went all around
London, looking for a bike mechanic who could make he needed part, but they all
jibbed at this one: it was obsolete, they told us, years and years out of date,
and they didn’t have anything suitable, and thought it unlikely we could ever find
anything that would make it work.
We persisted until we found a guy
with a shop under Hammersmith bridge who said he would make us a part for the
defective gear. He did so, and it worked like a dream.
We bought the tiniest tent we could
find that we could both fit into, strapped on to the front handlebars, sleeping
bags to match, strapped on to the back handlebars, and an extremely small stove
reduced to a tiny square package, run on gasoline. Unwise in the ways of
pannier bags, we had a big oblong sort of package made from a rough plastic,
into which we piled our change of clothes, our books, and everything else we
might need. One day we set out for Newhaven, for the direct ferry to Dieppe, which
would take us directly into Normandy to begin our journey south.
Once we got started, the riding was
tougher than we expected. Our legs were by no means up to climbing each dip and
soar of the undulating countryside of Normandy, although the downs were a piece
of cake. I remember we passed through a
village called Yvetot, and it was somewhere around here that we were betrayed
by sloppy English workmanship, for our immense carrier bag almost immediately
split at the seams. That first night, in a spot of distress, we asked the wife
of a local peasant farmer if we could sleep in the yard of their house, and if
she by any chance had some thread with which we could mend our ripped bag. She
provided us with water, gave us some eggs, and after we had our tent pitched,
she arrived with needle and thread and insisted on doing the job for us
herself. How kind was that?
We were away early the next morning;
we crossed he Seine, following roads that on the map were hardly more than tiny
lines, yet each one was paved, and every 100 metres, every kilometre was marked by a little roadside marker, so
one always knew exactly where one was. I remember sleeping at Elbeuf, going
through villages called Conches and
Breteuil, until finally coming upon the amazing spectacle of Chartres, whose
cathedral at first loomed ahead of us across the plain, then totally
disappeared, and only reappeared, surrounded by small, ancient houses, as we
got closer. This was one of the most impressive spectacles I had ever seen in
my life to that point, ranking with India’s Taj Mahal. The only other
experience that was half as memorable was when we cycled past two huge fields
of flowering clover, one on each side of the road, overpowering us with their
glorious scent.
As the days went on and we headed
further south, our young bodies quickly became accustomed to the strenuous
exercise, until I remember the day, between two small towns called Bellac and
Confolens, heading south towards Angouleme, we caught the wind behind us, and at
last had the impression we were sailing across the landscape. That was the
turning point in our trip: henceforth, it was easy. We stopped that night in
another farmer’s field, and were rewarded by the mistress of the house with two
pieces of the immense apple pie her family was gathered around for dinner. After
passing through Bordeaux, at the end of a lonely road through the southern
forests, we came upon the town of Mont de Marsan in the early foothills of the
Pyrenees. Camping that night in a
woodyard, we decided to treat ourselves to a restaurant meal. We were the most
ragged-looking couple one could imagine, brown as berries by this time, dressed
only in shorts and tee-shirts, when we presented ourselves at the rather
tonky-looking Hotel Richelieu, half expecting to be turned away. Not a bit of
it: we were greeted as if we were royalty, ceremoniously ushered to a good table,
and served with the grace of
champions. I think that is the night I
became, as I have remained, a hopeless Francophile.
Every morning we arose early, cycled
to the nearest village, followed the smell of new-baked bread to the village
boulangerie, and headed off to eat our bread-and-cheese breakfast sitting on
the side of the road. In the evenings we ate the many delicious berries we were
able to gather along the roadside during the day.
Compared with Britain, which was
dark, rationed and still sort of traumatized
by the experience of the war, France seemed to be glowing with rude good
health, every village shining with patisseries and charcuteries and
boulangeries groaning with delicious-looking and wonderfully-tasty foods. In a
town called Beziers we had to pause to have a puncture fixed. In the late
afternoon, when in England all eating places would be firmly closed, we poked
our heads into a café where the owner and his wife were eating their meal. We
asked if they had anything to eat. She shook her head doubtfully, said, “I will
have a look,” and returned with a tureen of the most superb soup either of us
had ever tasted. That’s France.
We rode on gloriously rain-free days
into the low Pyrennes, through Pau and the bizarrely religious Lourdes, and in
a village called Bagneres-de-Bigorre our big bag , monument to poor English
workmanship, finally gave out, and we invested in a superbly made pair of
French panier bags that lasted us for many, many years.
Then we set off for the Mediterranean,
where we slept on the wind-blown Cape de Sete, and watched the fishermen along
the wharf at Sete itself mending their nets. We continued north on beautiful
days along the valley of the Rhone, through Montelimar (“the nougat capital of
the world,”) until one day to our amazement the rain fell.
So, only a hop and a jump from Paris,
we took the train for that last stage, and in Paris were able to camp right in
the middle of the city in the Bois de Boulogne. We cycled round the Place de la
Concorde, defying the traffic to do its worst, and even had enough money to
take in some shows in Pigalle. We were
star-struck by Paris, never had any experience to confirm the rumours of how
rude Parisians were. Then headed north for Dieppe on the way home.
Waiting for the ferry there, we had
time to order for the first time in our lives, a glorious dish of moules
marinieres, marinated mussels. The perfect send-off from this home of great
gastronomy.
We returned to France many times in later
years, the next time on a Lambretta
scooter, thereafter in a car, with children, taking full advantage of the fact
that every tiny community in France has its own camping ground, many of them
not much more than open fields surrounded by other fields, offering only
washing and toilet facilities. When in
the 1960s, the beaches became too crowded, we would camp ten kilometres inland
on one of these charming fields, and drive down during the day to the beach. I
know the French can be insular, but I admire the way they live, each in his neighbourhood,
and don’t seem to care much what the outside world thinks about them. The
neighbourhood café with its little boxes behind the cash, in which are kept the
napkins of each customer, to me is the symbol of French life.
Every year nowadays, I watch the Tour
de France on TV, just for the superb helicopter shots showing the medieval
villages, the well-ordered countryside, the beautiful forests and landscape of
a country which, to me, is exceptional in every way.
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