1967 - THE SUMMER OF LOVE - LA BELLE BRETAGNE

EN FAMILLE

I sat rather trepidaciously on the train heading for Saint Brieuc, in Brittany, where I was to be met and taken to my next host family in Etables sur Mer, in the Cotes du Nord.  I was slightly anxious about this leg of my Grand Tour, as I was and still remain a dedicated townie, and though Boulogne was by the sea (rather like Brighton I thought), and Tours was set in beautiful countryside with tons of history and wonderful chateaux all around, both were undoubtedly towns. I knew that Etables was, as it’s name suggests, on the coast, but it was a small village almost buried in the Britanny countryside.  Very beautiful I was told, but definitely very rural.

I was met by a nephew of Monsieur and Madame Fleury, my new hosts.  He piled my stuff into a little Deux-Cheveaux, and drove off into the wilds of the beautiful French countryside.  Conversation was a little difficult; he seemed to have a bit of bother with my French accent, which I thought had been beautifully honed by several weeks in Tours, with its reputation for speaking the purest French.  And I have to say I had a bit of bother understanding his Breton accent. 

We eventually arrived at a large old farmhouse tucked away amidst woods, with, as far as I could see, just one other house in sight, across a cobbled lane where the mooing of cows could be heard. At least Moo is a pretty universal language.

Madame Fleury was a delightful lady; again I thought at the time she was quite elderly, with a longish dress and Granny style cardi, with the ubiquitous grey bun at the nape of her neck. She took me up into the attic of the house, all wooden stairs and beams, where I was to sleep.  No vanity unit here, but a truly charming china wash stand and bowl, such as even back in the 60s could be found in London antique markets. There was a large double bed, with beautiful silk covers in my favourite shade of pink, and a little window overlooking the fields.

After my long journey, I was in dire need of a visit to the bathroom. I enquired of Madame where this might be – and to my horror she pointed through said window to a little hut a short way from the house in the middle of said field. But needs must, and deed done, I ‘freshened up’ with a bowl of water heated on the surprisingly modern cooker and carried carefully up to my room in the gods.

Monsieur Fleury arrived back home from working in the fields, in time for dinner. He too seemed very old, an impression heightened by his attire; blue denim jacket and trousers, with a matching peaked cap, straight out of a Van Gogh painting.  And wooden clogs.  I had noted that Madame wore ‘sabots’ when outside, and I was duly presented with a pair of the same.

During the meal, which was a starter of Coquilles Saint Jacques, shellfish Monsieur had just gathered himself from the beach, a pastime I was to become very familiar with during the next couple of weeks. The rest of the meal was equally delicious, with freshly baked bread and butter made in the little farmhouse opposite I had spotted earlier, by Monsieur’s definitely elderly sister, who I was to call Tante Marie. In due course she showed me how to churn the butter myself, and make it into pats with a daisy design stamped on top, which she sold to passers-by (not that there were many!) and which was used very liberally in her own baking, and Madame’s daily cuisine.

Over the first couple of days, I was taken by the family for walks in the countryside, admiring wayside shrines and pre-historic mounds.  I was however astonished to be shown the ‘lavoir’. This was a pond not far from the house, surrounded by large stones, where the local ladies used to come to do their washing, beating the dirt out with small stones and laying it out on the larger stones to dry in the sunshine.  Thankfully, I was told that this was no longer done, though Monsieur could remember his own mother doing that very thing, and the singing and chatter of the women.

The house itself was quite small; half of it was a large barn, and the rest was a very basically and charmingly furnished living cum dining room, with what I suppose we would now call a rustic kitchen.  Madame had been very proud to announce when I arrived that they had recently been connected not only to electricity but also to a water main, so now had a running water tap in the kitchen.  On the huge stone mantlepiece over the fireplace filled with logs ready for Winter were several lovely old ornaments, various candle holders and some sepia photos, one of them of an elderly gentleman dressed much the same as Monsieur, and a lady with a long skirt and headscarf tied behind her head. This was Monsieurs’ parents.  There was also a picture of a little girl in a pretty dress, sitting down in a doll-like position, aged I guessed about four. Madame explained this was a picture of their only child, taken just before her burial. You can imagine the shivers down my spine at that news.

LA VIE BRETONNE

The small, sheltered beach was a short hop from the house. To me it seemed quite a long walk! I was often accompanied there by the Fleurys’ young nephew Gilbert, who was about 15, and anxious to be of use. Gilbert worked in the fields with the family, He very soon found me my own ancient wooden-handled penknife with which to eat the lovely picnics provided by Madame or Tante Marie for our outings.

 His party piece was walking in different modes, which he was quite proud of for some reason. He did teach me some unusual French phrases this way, for example: walking with eyes closed; or on one leg, or with arms behind the back etc; and his favourite ‘Marcher en retroussant’ – walking backwards, a phrase which I still remember to this day but can’t say I used much in all my career. My knowledge of the Breton dialect improved by leaps and bounds too. He was a pleasant enough lad, and introduced me to friends of my own age from the next village, Plourhan, mostly boys; there didn’t seem to be many people living there anyway.  Gilbert even obtained a bicycle for me to use; I reckon that was at least 50 years old, but was in working order and did me a good turn. That is until Gilberts’ friends turned up on their Solex bikes, with petrol engines on the front.  I did enjoy careering down country lanes perched on the crossbars, and even riding one myself.

My particular friend amongst this group was one Pierre-Albert Corbel, who was evidently the heartthrob of the group. He was indeed rather good looking, and bought me several ice creams during my stay. They used to hang out in the back room of the one garage I ever saw in that area. I often wonder what Plourhan is like now, and if Pierre Albert is still strutting his stuff.

With them, I got to see quite a lot of the countryside, and daily trips to the beach, which was littered with huge rocks, pretty much like parts of South-West England.  We would do all the usual sporty things, football, cricket, just mucking about and throwing balls around.  Some weekends there would be a dance in the village.  I remember wearing a short yellow dress with trumpet sleeves, and a butterfly necklace and hairslide.  The music was a local band, and records, whilst we danced on a roughly constructed wooden platform, the older folk sitting round drinking the local cider and chatting amicably.

One late Summer weekend there was a ‘Fair’ in one of the fields.  This consisted of an old merry-go-round (Carousel), hand cranked I think, and many games of skill such as who could hit the hammer hardest and ring the bell – you know the sort of thing.  I was puzzled at one game :  there were long strings tied up high from tree to tree, with things hanging down. I was told this was the high spot of the Fair, with prizes to be won.  Imagine my townie horror when I realised the ‘things’ hanging down were live ducks and geese.  The aim was to ride across the field either on bikes or donkeys, under the strings, stand up and grab a bird to break its neck. You then won the bird. The person with the most wins also got a flagon of cider, though I didn’t wait to find out who had won it.

This was towards the end of my stay in Brittany. One day I was out for a walk, on my own this time, and was on my way back for the evening meal when a car stopped by me in the lane. It was Madame’s older nephew. He offered me a lift back, which I accepted, but it was soon obvious what sort of lift he was actually after.  I landed him a good old Henry Cooper type punch (Henry lived near us in London) and cursed him with all the old and new curses I had learned in my French adventure.  I cursed him, all his car and all his progeny, then jumped out and walked back home.  Didn’t say a word to Madame but it was a narrow escape.

A day or two later Madame told me we were going to church.  Strange I thought, she had never mentioned church before, though I had visited the ancient building, with its paved French style graveyard and many old and new gravestones. But Madame explained as we walked through the wood that we were going to a funeral.  It was the funeral of her nephew’s young son who had died unexpectedly and suddenly a couple of days earlier.  Yes, that nephew. As I sat through the mass, still in the traditional Latin, my blood ran cold, and I have shivers down my spine even now thinking about it.

But the next week was to be a busy one. Firstly I had to go into ‘town’ to collect my allowance from the mobile bank which arrived every second week or so.  The London authority had arranged to send my money which included Madame’s agreed fee for looking after me, and I knew she would be glad to receive her due – bless her, not that she mentioned it at all.  Arriving at the van which served as said bank, I was dismayed to find nothing for me.  The bank employee said he would investigate and telephone the mayor (the only phone in the village) as soon as possible. He was as good as his word and it turned out the Bank had sent my money to ETAPLES, quite a different place.  It all got sorted and Madame eventually got her due, though we were all a bit skint for a while.

It was harvest time, and not only was I introduced to the workings of the cider press in the barn, but I was able to sample last years vintage of the locally (and quite illegally) made Calvados.  Delicious I must say, very strong, and helped the harvest along.

A huge threshing machine arrived – la machine a la battage – and everyone in the area came to deal with the crop and pile up the straw.  Long trestle tables were put out and the local ladies brought every delicious dish you could think of, from the previously mentioned coquilles Saint Jacques and other sea food, to various sorts of charcuterie, cheese and meats, some of which I suspected may have included a few of the unfortunate birds I had seen at the fair. As the day drew to a close, various instruments were produced, recorder type things, and ‘musettes’ which were a sort of accordion. The stuff impressionist masterpieces and dreams are made of, seen through the rosy glow of local beverages.

All too soon it was time to pack my bags yet again, and say goodbye to these wonderful people and beautiful countryside. Back to somewhere which would no doubt be more like my usual habitat.

Au revoir, Etables-sur-mer. Bonjour Paris!