Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) (12 page)

Now, that's not completely true. He detests being forced by his carers at the retirement home to shower, as he admits he can't stand getting wet. Actually, I believe it's the undressing part he detests the most. I've often seen him stroll happily in the rain, soaked to the skin.

Equally, he has been known to rant and rave when faced with the prospect of running short of cigarettes or his wine allowance. Deny him that and all hell breaks loose. He'll then claim his keepers, worse than the Germans SS.

Old
Jeannôt
is always full of surprises and on one occasion had us writhing in the aisles with his pre-Christmas anecdote of
Bernadette
.
Madame le French President's wife
or
Madame
Bernadette Chirac
, as she is better known, acknowledges the older folk of the region, with her yearly, pre-Christmas visitations. Her entourage trucks into town, bearing boxes of prettily packaged, gift hampers for the residents of the regional retirement villages and hospitals.
Bernadette
, herself, hands out these delicious bundles of Christmas cheer, to the curious awaiting crowds.

Our friend
Jeannôt
, is a long standing resident at the local establishment, and has become familiar with
Bernadette's
visits over time. She chooses to visit our village, as it's a convenient ten-minute drive from her family's country enclave, or
Chateau Bitty
as it is formally known.

This Christmas past, like every other,
Jeannôt
waited patiently in queue with his elderly comrades, for his package of gourmet goodies. As
Bernadette
approached, she smiled widely, recognising her old pal
Jeannôt
and held out her hand in warm recognition.

Jeannôt
, bold as brass, grabbed her well-manicured hand and proceeded to inform her of her evident weight-gain over the last twelve months and how much older she was looking these days.
Madame Chirac
remained elegantly poised, and thanked
Jeannôt
warmly for his compliments, wishing him good health and happiness for the coming year. Well, that's what she said to his face … who knows what she mumbled beneath her presidential breath.

‘You didn't
Jeannôt
! You can't say things like that to the President's wife,' I said horrified, yet equally amused.

‘
Bien Sûr
! Of course I did, it's the truth …she looked terrible, so I told her,' he replied a matter-of-factly.

‘Oh
Jeannôt
… I'm sure she was happy with you.'

‘Why shouldn't she be? If she looks bad … she looks bad,' he declared unmoved.

We roared with laughter as we imagined the gasps of horror from her entourage and the reaction of the retirement home staff.

Jeannôt
retains a childlike innocence, regardless of his difficult life and lonely existence. His world is this village and his view on people is an egalitarian one. We are all the same and we all deserve the same treatment. In other words, President's wives are not exempt from
Jeannôt
's critiques or witty remarks.

He once offered me the use of his brand new umbrella, noting that a downpour was imminent and I had complained of leaving mine at home.

‘You can have mine,' he insisted.

‘Where is it
Jeannôt
? I've never seen you with one?' I asked.

‘Well, it's not here, but if you go to the
Collet's
farmhouse and look behind the kitchen door, it'll be there. Just take it … it's yours.'

‘That's kind of you
Jeannôt
, but I don't know the
Collets
… I can't just turn up at their house and demand your umbrella,' I laughed.

‘Oh,
t'inquiète pas
. No problem … they're all dead. The farm is abandoned but the umbrella will still be there for sure,' he replied.

‘When did you leave it there
Jeannôt
?' I asked, now extremely curious.

‘Um … err … in about 1954,' he replied.

We broke into fits of laughter, much to his annoyance. He couldn't quite grasp why we found his story so amusing and eagerly described the object to me, should I still decide to go.

‘It's a bright red umbrella and it has never been used. Good quality too, as I recall.'

‘
Merci
Jeannôt
, I'll be sure to remember that, next time I need one,' I giggled, as I opened the door, feeling the rush of wet, cold air on my cheeks. ‘A
bientôt
.'

‘
Salut!
' he replied, taking a final swig from his glass and wiping his mouth with a stained chequered handkerchief.

As I wander through the village passageways or
coupe-gorges
(cutthroats) as the locals refer to them, the stories of the past and present rush at me from within the crumbling, dry-stone walls and hidden, courtyard gardens. I envisage the swashbuckling cavaliers of ancient times riding through these narrow streets, on their way to bloody battles or perhaps, on romantic missions to save maidens in distress. I hear the sound of clomping hoofs on the cobbled ways and smell the pungent odours of earlier days. I stop to drink from blessed, miraculous fountains, where the icy, clear waters have run freely for centuries.

And then, I'll bump into a smiling face and realise that life continues in much the same way as it did back then. The 21st century has brought change and alteration, for the best in many respects but it hasn't broken the heart of the place. The soul of the medieval township presides in the preciously guarded traditions and the pure, relentless patriotism of the French people.

I thank God for their unfaltering faith and passion for their country and know how blessed I am to be here, sharing it with them.

Our favourite summer salad

SALADE DE CHEVRE CHAUD AUX NOIX
Warm goat's cheese and walnut salad

Ingredients

2
Cabecous
(as fresh as possible) per person. If unable to obtain, use a log of goat's cheese cut into centimetre thick slices.

Salad of choice: Frisé, Oak leaf, Mesclun or other green salad.

2 slices of good, country style bread if possible.

A handful of walnuts per person, broken into small pieces.

Preparation

Place the mixed salad on the serving plate or bowl. Add vinaigrette dressing made with either olive oil or walnut oil.

Toss the walnuts through the salad.

Grill the
Cabecous
or goat's cheese slices on the bread until toasted and cheese is very runny. YUM!

Place toasts on top of the salad
et Voilà!

You can also add other items such as
lardons
(fried cubes of spec or similar), crispy bacon or other salad ingredients.

C'est trop bon!

There's nothing like a National Holiday or regional,
Jour de Fête
to bring a smile to even the most recalcitrant of citizens and the French calendar is laden to bursting point with these halcyon days.

Not a week seems to pass, that I'm sweetly reminded by one storekeeper or another, of an upcoming
Jour de Fete
.

‘
N'oubliez pas, Madame
Raoul
. C'est un
Jour de Fête
. We will be closed that day,' they kindly inform me.

‘Another one. Good heavens,' I declare in continued amazement.

It's never-ending and as one day of merriment rolls into another, it becomes crystal clear to me, why the French economy is booming and productivity is at an all record high. Between short working weeks and an abundance of reasons to celebrate, it's easily explained. Outside of regular, school holiday periods, the French spend more time having official days off work, than any other nation on the planet. That is statistically official.

Not only do they celebrate more religious holidays than the Roman Catholic population of Italy, but they also embrace every significant date or event of the two World Wars, pagan celebrations, sporting events, wine harvests and culminate with a number of obscure, regional
fêtes
, ensuring a final dose of calendrical equilibrium.

The French know how to party. The terms
bon vivant
and
savoir
vivre
didn't just conjure themselves out of thin air. And don't think for one moment that high-spirited celebrations are restricted to the major cities or population centres. Even the smallest of French villages, relishes in the preparation, of yet another, kick-your-heels-up country-dance and general booze-fest.

Personally, I'd always thought the 14th July to be the most celebrated date of the calendar year, having watched the annual parades along the
Champs Elysée
in
Paris
, on television in Australia. However, as much as the fervent patriot is eager to celebrate this important day of Liberation, they are equally as pleased to light fireworks and make merry, on numerous other occasions throughout the year.

My first official
Jour de
Fête was the annual
Feu de Saint Jean
or ‘Saint
Jean
's fire'. Obviously, as it bears my husband's name, I was keen to see what all the fuss was about and join in the evening's revelry. Held on the 24th of June each year, it celebrates the Summer solstice or the symbolic start of summer and is always celebrated by a massive bonfire on the largest village square. The preparation takes weeks of cutting and gathering large logs and tree-limbs then building a monumental bonfire, which can reach up to ten metres in height. This ancient pagan ceremony was adopted by Christians in modern times and is practised in many countries around the world. It is a unique celebration, which draws upon ancient pagan ways and early Christian beliefs.

The vast size of the fire ensures that it burns well into the summer's night, warming its spectators and thrilling the village children with its massive flames. It's also an occasion, which is historically regarded as the perfect opportunity for the village youth to leap into manhood, by bravely hurling themselves over the final glowing embers. Thankfully, most of today's youth are far too interested in their appearance to be involved in such a might-singe-my-JPG-Jeans sort of sport. However, there's always at least one, highly inebriated, village twit on hand, to entertain the masses by falling into the fire and making a total nuisance of themselves to the awaiting fire brigade and ambulance attendants alike.

It's all good fun, unless you're the one waking up with a monumental hangover in a hospital bed the following morning and third degree burns to your bottom and your now sober ego.

It's an age-old enigma, but why do self-respecting adults turn into blithering, idiots on public holidays? Is it the sheer pleasure experienced by having a paid day off or could it be due to an overindulgence of wine and spirits? When you reside in a land famous for its Champagne and other fine beverages, over consumption is never considered as overindulgence, rather an avid and enthusiastic appreciation for the finer things in life.

Such is the excuse of our friendly, neighbourhood Vet,
Laurent
. A jovial, young man with a sensational sense of the ridiculous. Forever playing tricks on unsuspecting friends and clients and quickly gaining himself the reputation of village comedian in residence.

We've started socializing with
Docteur Laurent
and his wife,
Stephanie
, on a fairly regular basis and enjoy his unhinged wit and her delicious cooking immensely.
Laurent
works long, tiresome hours, often travelling vast distances over wild country lanes, for the pleasure of finding himself elbow-deep up a horse's arse. Being a rural Vet isn't all ‘coochy-coo' with primped and pampered pooches or thirty-second worm injections of forced-fed felines. More commonly, he finds himself knee deep in
merde de vache
(cow shit) or saving
Monsieur's
prize merino ram at some God forsaken hour. He's a hard working young man whose favourite escape is a good night out or in, as long as it includes good food and plenty of liquid refreshments. He never declines a social invitation, even if that means carrying his beeper in his pocket, in case
Madame
's pussycat has an epileptic fit or
Monsieur's
cow goes into premature labour. He enjoys nothing more than a
soirée
of thirst-quenching buffoonery and no creature great or small, will impede his emphatic pursuit of merrymaking. Of course, he rarely recalls half of the previous night's antics and as loyal, duty-bound friends we take great pleasure in reminding him.

On the 15th August,
La Fête des Eaux
, or ‘Festival of the Waters' is held. This festival takes place on the religious occasion of the ‘Assumption', therefore making this late summer's day, a doubly significant motivation for mass celebration. I don't see the correlation between celebrating water and the Virgin Mary but who am I to question French logic. Over the years,
Treignac
has placed itself high on the list of must-visit villages for this long weekend, by creating an annual Lakeside festival, to rival all others. This year, the spectacular ‘
Spectacular
' is to include laser light shows, fireworks displays, floating islands with dazzling water nymphs and very loud, live music. Knowing that it attracts up to fifteen thousand visitors each year, we've made plans to arrive early and take up prime viewing positions on the beach. Everyone has made tracks to
Laurent
and
Stephanie
's house for pre-festival cocktails and char-grill steaks. It's a balmy evening and thankfully, there's not a flea-riddled dog or mangy cat in sight.
Laurent
is his usual jocular self and with every chilled
Stella Artois
he consumes, his unbridled conviviality grows.

By the time we're ready to hit the road,
Laurent
is well and truly ‘off with the pixies'. Incapable of driving, we shoehorn him into our little
Renault Twingo
with three other friends.
Thibault
is also here, in the company of his new girlfriend and witty, twin brothers.

After the short drive to
Lac des Bariousses
, we take deliberate measures to ensure the cars are parked in ‘departure mode', ready for a quick exit at the close of the ‘spectacular'. We don't intend on driving home behind the other fifteen thousand or so holidaymakers who are expected to attend, so parking in the correct place and correct direction, is vital,
Thibault
instructs us.

Laurent
manages to slither off the back seat onto the grassy verge then staggers clumsily towards the beach perimeter. We laugh and tease him as we follow his maladroit swagger down the bank.

‘You can't go down there
Laurent
. It's out of bounds.'

‘
Putaing … c'est la plage, non? Je suis un citoyen libre et je vais nager
! (Bloody hell … it's the beach, isn't it? I'm a free citizen and I'm going swimming!)' Then awkwardly proceeds to pull off his clothes.

‘Nooooooo,' we scream, the gathering masses taking great amusement from the antics of our inebriated, half-naked friend.

‘Get back here
Laurent. T'es complètement cinglé
! (You're screaming mad!)'
Jean
yells, jumping the orange boundary ropes, dragging the heavily intoxicated
Laurent
by the belt and up the slope out of public view.

‘
Putaing
… you bloody Australians, you're no fun,' he giggles, landing in a heap by our feet.

‘
Tais-toi!
(Shut up!) Please behave
Laurent
. Everyone will know it's you,'
Stephanie
pleads, half smiling, half humiliated.

And for a while, the beast lies dormant.

The surround-sound music kicks off to giant applause and instantly the usually placid lake is transformed into a kaleidoscope of coloured lasers, exploding fireworks and flashing lights. It truly is ‘spectacular' just like the promotional posters had solemnly promised. We ‘Ooooh' and ‘Aaaaah' in unison, with the other fourteen thousand-plus spectators, who have surrounded the lake. Colourful picnic rugs smother every, square centimetre of shoreline with surging and swaying humanity.

With our attention drawn skywards, hypnotised by psychedelic eruptions and holographic images,
Laurent
takes this opportunity to sneak on all fours onto the otherwise deserted beach and in true delirium-induced, artistic fashion, performs a unique rendition of the dying swan solo from the ballet, ‘Swan Lake'. A raucous applause explodes from the surrounding crowds, full of woof whistles and howls of encouragement.

‘
Bravo! Encore! Vas-y
! (Go for it!) Regardez, c'est le Veto! (Look, it's the vet)' they scream, whilst we in turn fall about in a state of complete hysteria and
Stephanie
cowers at the sight of her semi-naked, toe-pointing spouse.

‘Thank God he left his pants on!' She winces, burying her head in her hands.

Regardless of threats from officials and the local
Gendarmes, Laurent
completes his solo act to a standing ovation. It is only then, that the boys manage to drag him kicking and screaming from his admiring audience and into the arms of his mildly mortified wife.

‘Quick, let's make a dash for the cars,'
Thibault
announces; as the final clash of symbols vibrates across the lake's surface. ‘If we don't move now, we're “scood”.'

‘The word is screwed
Thibault
, but we get your drift, so to speak,' I call.

‘
Quoi?
(What?) My drift? Never mind… Jean, grab
Laurent
. I'll take
Stephanie
in my car.'

‘Thanks a lot
Thibault
. I suppose that's just in case he decides to lose his dinner on the way home,' I joke.

‘
Très
bien
Marisa. You know you are more beautiful and more intelligent every time I see you,' he proclaims cheekily.

The men manage to hoist
Laurent
and his soggy, sand-laden trousers up the shore and back to the cars. At this stage, we are well ahead of the general throng and after our well-planned exit and drive back to the village, we find the café terraces still full to brimming and envisage the festivities continuing well into the wee hours.

Unfortunately, for our dying swan
Laurent
, his fifteen minutes of fame and glory have passed into oblivion and we drop him home in a drunken stupor. He achieves a slurred ‘
Bon Nuit, les copains
' (Goodnight mates) and waves precariously as he staggers indoors, his lanky weight pressing on the slender yet solid shoulder of a sniggering
Stephanie
.

‘What a night. That was sensational,
Jean
.
Treignac
did itself proud.'

‘Wasn't bad for a little village full of peasants,' he jests. ‘We French can really put on a show, take
Laurent
for example. What a performance.'

‘What a lunatic. It's a blessing he won't remember much of it tomorrow. I suppose we'll have to remind him as usual?'

‘I think
Stephanie
might have something to say to him, before we get a chance,' says
Jean
grinning.

‘I think you might be right. She was so embarrassed, poor thing. She's so reserved and proper in comparison. Anyway, I had a great time and I can't wait for the next
jour de fête
.'

‘Well, you won't have to wait long
Marisa
. There's always another
fête
just around the corner.'

He was right, no sooner did late summer days fade into autumn and the much-awaited mushroom and truffle season, grape harvests and
foie gras
periods commenced. Of course, these events neither warranted a public holiday nor a long weekend, but tell any average, hot-blooded French citizen that they may not celebrate the arrival of the new
Beaujolais
or they should not take the day off to go mushroom hunting and chances are, you might just launch a second revolution.

Beaujolais nouveau
is a young wine made from the grapes of the same year's harvest. Its arrival on the market shelves and into the awaiting glasses of its connoisseurs is anticipated with thirsty fervour. There is a standing tradition that no merchant or barman, may sell or serve a glass of this much anticipated drop until 0.00hours of the third Thursday of November, no matter where in the world they might be. Therefore, if you're absolutely desperate, your best bet is to fly to New Zealand, sit in a wine-bar and wait for the first official bottle to open. It's almost unfair that someone rather than a Frenchman on French soil doesn't savour the first drop, but that is the time honoured tradition dating back to 1951 and there is no sign of it altering.