France - a jewel of land so close to us that on a clear day we can see each other across the water. It is the ever present neighbour who opens the door to continental Europe. Our age old enemy and trusted friend. A piece of land whose history is intermingled with our own.
My first taste of France was as a teenager when I did a French exchange trip and was sent over to spend a week living with a French family. In return later on in the year their daughter Clare would come and live with my family in England for a week.This exchange was quite a brave thing to do now I reflect on it. I was a young teenager. I can't remember any of my brothers or sisters doing a similar thing.
I remember the long coach drive of that initial visit. Leaving behind Dover, the sea sickness of the ferry ride over. The hours sitting uncomfortably on the coach watching the French countryside slide by. Rolling up to an unknown French village, climbing out of the coach frazzled and dirty. Lining up while the teachers exchanged words. Student names and host names were called out. Being introduced to the host family. The initial embarrassed hello. Waving good bye to our colleagues and bracing ourselves to face the week alone. Watching the others leave, wondering who got the best deal, the biggest house, the kindest family. The most difficult family? What lay before us in this week of unknowns, how would we have changed by the time we next saw our class mates?
During my week in Clare's home we spoke more English than French and we even watched English history unfold on the TV, sitting to observe the Royal wedding of Sarah to Prince Andrew. Clare's English was getting better and better, my French was stumbling along. But despite this diminished growth in my spoken French I was learning so much about France and the French. I loved to hear Clare call 'Mamon et Papa.' I loved the kissing on the cheek every time we met a new person. I admired the refinement of the culture. I was immersed in something new.
We visited Fountainbleau and Paris. I took photo's on old film, 36 exposures and a long wait to get them developed in Boots when I got home! The Eiffel tower was a monstrous, huge piece of twisting metal. I don't remember much about Fontainebleau but the hot sunshine. French picnics were different. There were glass bottles of Orangina. We ate huge crusty baguettes with ham and cheese wrapped carefully by Clare's Mum in greaseproof paper. There were ripe peaches dripping in sweetness for dessert. In the evenings dinner was later than my English routine expected. We had multiple courses to the meal. The vegetables came separately and were eaten alone and not mixed on the same plate as the meat. Breakfast was a bowl of hot chocolate which we dipped our croissants into! We had wine with dinner and Grand Marnier liquor drizzled over the ice-cream. It felt very grown up and sophisticated.
And then much later on when all was quiet in the house and I was alone in my bedroom preparing for sleep. There came a knock of pebbles being thrown at my window. An invitation to sneak out of the window and hang out with Clare's friends by the village fountain, smoking and chatting.
After our exchange trips were a fast fading memory, Clare and I would still write to each other for a couple of years. In the days before mobile phones and text messaging, we were pen pals. Clare's handwriting flowing with ease and a particular flair that didn't seem encouraged in English classrooms. Our handwriting was curled and contained. Hers was flowing and loose. She wrote in English, my French was still too bad to attempt a full letter.
I lost touch with Clare decades ago but I still have a few handwritten notes, the odd photo. My memories of the first taste of France.
I have returned to France many times over the years. Now we have a tunnel joining our two countries together it is easier and faster. There are now multiple cheap flights to be snatched up. It can be cheaper to fly to Toulouse (£25) than to get a train in to London (£27 return!)
A few years ago I read reference in a novel I was devouring, to a tiny island off the West coast of France and the port city of La Rochelle, named Ile De Re. It was described as a hip little place that Parisians go to escape the heat and humidity of the summer. I decided that I needed to experience this little island for myself.
So one Easy Jet flight later .....
It was a beautiful place of little harbour towns and lots of cycling pathways around the island. We visited the 'Boulangerie' every day to buy ham croissants &lemon tarts. In the afternoons sitting in the harbour we ate salted caramel ice-cream. It was heaven.
But what I will always remember it for is the brass band that kept popping up and playing at unexpected intervals in the day. Outside the 'Boulangerie!' In the streets. In the town square. One afternoon we watched them practising on the beach. A day later they were there on the sand again at dusk, huge trombones and horns in hand. They followed us around, trumpeting and laughing.
Our short week came to an end and we didn't want to leave.
Sunburnt and fatter then when we arrived, we nearly missed our flight home. To our dismay, as we stood at the bus stop anticipating the arrival of the longed awaited bus, it came hurtling down the road and drove straight past. We jumped and waved but to no avail. It was already full and the driver felt no need to slow down and explain the situation to us. We watched in dismay as our hope of a ride to the airport disappeared on the horizon. We were not alone, 2 locals stood with us. After a certain amount of conversation one of them decided to return home and fetch his car. He drove us all the way over to La Rochelle and we caught a city bus to the airport. What a kind man and what a great little island.
