Once you got there, the flat was
spacious, and having recovered from the climb, it was always a pleasure to be
greeted by Madame, who seemed to view me as a figure of much amusement. I guess
I was, with my protruding ears, ‘short back and sides’ haircut, my plumpness
and always being out of breath. Every day she went to the local market, and
tried to find things that might interest me, and seemed to scale the four
flights of stairs with consummate ease; she was never out of breath.
So, I was introduced to French Onion
Soup, and came to actually like thin slivers of horsemeat steak (without even
knowing their origin). I came to like a cross between cheese and yoghurt called
‘Petit Suisse’ which duly appeared at the end of every meal, with a fresh fruit
of some variety. The process of the meal, of course, was totally different with
courses spread across an hour. Initially this was a bit alien, but I later came
to enjoy the discussions (even if things had to be repeated or relayed for
translation via Jacques). I must have listened carefully to the accent, and
changed my own pronunciation, because in later years, when travelling through
France, I was accused of being from Paris (a mammoth compliment of course). I
also began a journey of appreciation of food with pauses and conversation between
courses to allay indigestion.
Monsieur Veyssiere was a city policeman,
and his beat seemed to be permanent night shift, and some naughty place with
lots of petty crime called Place Pigalle (now famous from the film ‘Moulin
Rouge’). The most exciting thing was the fact that he carried a revolver, the
first thing to be shed when he got home. When emptied, I got to hold it on one
occasion - a surprisingly heavy small object. I was intrigued, and slightly
overawed. We were promised a tour of his beat at some later stage.
Jacques and I were to become firm
friends. He was a year older, but keen to learn English, keen to teach me
French words and pronunciation, and even happy to share his bedroom and his
parents. He helped with my attempts at reading French, and would also translate
bits from the black and white television, if something took my attention. He
introduced me to Goscinny’s wonderful books about ‘Asterix the Gaul’ and, again,
was happy to translate when I got stuck.
The flat was midway between the Metro
stations of Porte de la Chapelle and Marx Dormoy, so it was easy to get around
Paris and see a range of sights, and renew my acquaintance with dispensing
machines.
We roamed. We went to markets (Les
Halles) and to cafés where the scent of Gitanes was almost as thick as the
coffee.
Jacques later came to England for a
week, and an extra bed was put into my room. I think he struggled with the
language even though his English was probably better than my French. But he
settled in well, and we explored the delights of a Westgate that was in the
full flood of the holiday season - which meant beach, and ogling as many girls
in bikinis as possible. The small two storey semi-detached house must have been
strange, as must the food and its presentation of course. But he was adaptable,
friendly, never complained. We did picnics, and then a trip into Canterbury to
visit Roman Pavement remains, and the Cathedral with its history reaching back
to Thomas a Beckett. We visited Dreamland Amusement Park and tried out as many
‘shilling sickers’ as we could pack into a day.
I think overall it was fun. Certainly
his parents seemed pleased with the whole process, and invited me back the
following summer for the whole summer holiday to be spent on their small farm
in Correze, in the Massif Centrale. Again, this was too good an opportunity to
miss, and was to become a highlight of my young life.
My parents took me down to Dover, to
board a ferry, but from there I travelled alone, which is a great achievement
for a 15 year old. The train took me to Gare du Nord in Paris where Jacques and
his mother met me. And then overnight in Rue de la Chapelle, that now familiar
environment. The next morning, on a bright sunny day, we drove south out of
Paris, stopping only for a loo stop along the road (slightly behind a tree), a
common practice in those times, and something you cannot imagine in rule bound
Britain or Australia.
We were not tourists, so Monsieur et
Madame did not stop to show off the sights, or visit Chateaux or wineries. From
memory the only stop was for baguette and jambon and cheese, accompanied by
some vin ordinaire (a bit watered down for me). I think we tried conversation,
but there were longish silences and occasional sleeps. Nonards, south of Tulle,
is the kind of village you can miss, if you blink. It is more of an area than
anything, covering 11square kilometres and with a mainly farming population of
less than 400 souls, even these days. The Veyssiere property, a small walnut
grove with an old house and attached barn, stretched back from a main route going
south (D940). There was one farm with an enormous black barn almost across the
road, but little else between us and Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne about 6Kms to the
south. It was summer, so my memory is of long languid sunny days with
temperatures in the 20s.
Jacques was a cycling wannabe with
aspirations to do the Tour de France, so he had a setup in a cool corridor
which allowed him to fix the frame of his new drop handlebar racing bike, the
wheels rotating on rollers – all very cool. Understandably he was loath to let
me try his fairly new machine, but the family had retained his previous bike,
somewhat older, slightly beaten up with fewer gears, but serviceable for a
tubby English boy.
We roamed the backroads, with me
trailing way behind, much to Jacque’s delight. But I gradually improved over
the weeks with rides to various towns, down to the river Dordogne, and races
along the long flat shimmering, and almost always empty, main road. Towards the
end of the stay we cycled to Rocamadour, a hilltop walled town, some 45 Kms
away. Fabulous old place, and rich in its history with links back to the
Knights Templar. Sadly, I am not sure this meant very much to a hot tired and
out of breath 15 year old trying to keep up with his mad French pen friend. We
toured the streets, admired the view, ate some lunch and headed for home
relishing the steep downhill run. Sadly, relish turned to regret as I tried
once more to keep up with proto-champ. Going round a curve at speed, even with
the brakes partially on, I slid on accumulated gravel right across the road in
front of a large tractor huffing up the hill. Lucky for me it was a tractor and
not a fast car. The driver stopped to pick me up and investigate the damage – a
grazed knee and quite severely grazed right elbow, but no broken bones. The
bike had survived.
Jacques parents were contacted, and I
was picked up by car and taken to the local doctor’s surgery, where the nurse
cleaned up the wounds of competition and applied antiseptic and dressings. The doctor
then decided I needed a preventative antibiotic. No, not an injection, or a
tablet to be taken three times a day – a suppository inserted into my rectum
with no ‘by your leave’. I was embarrassed in the extreme, but fascinated at
the same time. “Why would you do that?” I thought. Presumably because it
worked. Welcome to the world of French medicine, pauvre petit Anglais.
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