1967 - THE SUMMER OF LOVE - TOURING TOURAINE

THE LOIRE VALLEY

Eventually the Cours de vacances drew to an exhausting
close, and It was with a certain amount of trepidation that I set off with a
few other companions to catch the train to my first hosts, a Monsieur et Madame
Chevallier, who lived in the central France town of Tours.

Even then at the tender age of seventeen I was hopeless at
getting anywhere unaided, and my sense of direction has not improved at all
over more than half a century.  Still, I
stood with other friends, all clutching tickets and instructions, and
exchanging various addresses in case we managed to meet up later in our
travels.

However, even then the best laid plans were inclined to go
wrong; the train I was due to board failed to arrive, and hours later I found
myself on the platform at Le Mans waiting for the train to Tours.  I was very worried, as my hosts were supposed
to be meeting me hours ago; and in those days hardly anyone had a home phone and
mobiles had not yet been invented. I boarded the train with my tons of luggage,
and sat down. It was just as the guard raised his flag to wave the train away
that I realised – I was on the wrong train! I leaped out, and helpful
passengers chucked my luggage out of the window as the train pulled away! Phew!
What a narrow escape!

But that was not the end of the strangenesses. With the help
of a kindly railway worker, I got on to the correct train heading for Tours. I
settled myself into a compartment – in those days there were no large open
carriages, only compartments seating about eight – and looked idly out of the
window. Just before departure time, a chap jumped on, and came and sat in my
compartment.  ‘Too close’, I thought,
even then, before ‘personal space’ had been invented.  There was no escape, hemmed into a corner as
I was. ‘Excusez-moi’ said I, moving to the opposite bench. He smiled and came
to sit beside me. ‘Blimey’ I thought, in French of course, as the whistle went
and the train started moving. Romeo kept on leering, and I sent up a little
‘God help me’ also in French as I prepared to clout him. Not for nothing was I
brought up in a rough part of SE London. I felt he was just about to pounce,
when a guard appeared in the doorway of the corridor, ushering in three or four
fully robed Catholic priests, who had obviously had to run to catch the train.
‘There is a God!’ I thought, making a mental note to light a candle for them
when I reached Notre Dame de Paris later in my roamings.

The offending man, probably scared off by the good Monseigneurs,
alighted at the next stop, and we all continued our journey to Tours in quiet
contemplation of the mysteries of the universe.

On arrival, several hours late, I was met by Madame
Chevallier. ‘She’s going to hate me now’, I thought, but the chic little  bird-like lady with grey hair caught up in a
very French bun, and immaculate make-up, was all smiles and jewellery, and
greeted me warmly, apologising for Monsieur’s absence as he had to get back to
work. At the time I thought both she and Monsieur were very old, but on
reflection I realise now they must have only been about 50.

The Chevallier’s apartment was on the fourth floor of a very
smart block in one of the main streets of Tours, the Avenue de Grammont. It was
a pre First World War building, probably even older than that, judging by the
number and size of the rooms.  Even the
furniture was elegant and looked antique. I was allocated a nice room
overlooking the street, and was fascinated to discover that what I thought
initially was a large wardrobe, was revealed to be a vanity unit complete with
a large wash basin with hot and cold water! I had never seen anything like it,
coming from hurriedly built post- war London flats surrounded by bomb sites,
with no hot water and an indoor toilet considered a luxury. Madame actually
apologised that she could not give me the larger guest room, as she had another
lodger for the Summer, an Italienne called Anna Minguzzi who I would meet later
at dinner. A dinner which I could already imagine would be delicious judging by
the aroma wafting through the apartment. And little did I know that Anna would
continue to play an important role in my life even after we parted. ‘Yes’, I
thought, ‘I’m going to like it here!’.

LIFE AND CULTURE IN TOURS

One of the very first things Madame said after I had settled
in and met the equally pleasant Monsieur, was to inform me that this town was a
good choice for a language student as the purest French is spoken in
Touraine.  This was a sort of
oft-repeated mantra of hers, but judging by the clarity and precision of her
own and her husband’s speech, was no doubt true.

Anna and I got on well, and our first dinner together as a
family was a real eye-opener; I scarcely knew what to do with three courses,
plus a salad – the first course usually sliced tomatoes and cucumber alternated
in a dish and covered with Madame’s own recipe French dressing full of herbs
and garlic. But I soon got the hang of it all, with everyone’s help, and
thoroughly enjoyed my first meal with the family, even had my first watered
down glass of good French wine from the Loire valley of course.

Monsieur informed us that he would be off work for a couple
of days, and would take us Mesdemoiselles and Madame to visit some of the
chateaux for which the Loire Valley is famous. I could hardly wait.  On Saturday off we trundled in his little
rather old even then French car, and visited first of all the pretty little
chateau of Azay-le-Rideau, a fairy-tale jewel of a place place set in the
middle of a sparkling lake. Even now I would so love to visit it again. 

On the Sunday they announced we would all be going to visit
their own ‘chateau’ in the country.  This
proved to be a large old farmhouse that their whole family, consisting of 2
married and one unmarried son, and several grandchildren, were gradually
transforming into their weekend home. Apparently it was then quite normal for
French folk to rent a city apartment but own their own weekend residence. Hmm.
Us Anglais (in London anyway) were lucky to have any home at all!  Still it was great fun, a huge place set in
the rolling Touraine fields, with the grandchildren to amuse us, some little
ones running about as well as a girl about my own age, who was fascinated by
both Anna from elegant Milan with her stylish clothes, and me from Swinging
London in my mini skirts and Mary Quant haircut. And of course there was the
unmarried younger son, a good looking chap a couple of years older than me.
We’ll draw a veil over that I think.

There seemed to be endless rooms in the Chateau Chevallier,
and an enormous shower-cum laundry room, all stone floors, which presumably had
been a barn at one time. You had to clear everyone out if you wanted a shower as
everyone seemed to congregate there, especially when lunch (eaten outdoors on a
long trestle table) was being prepared. So much good food! So much wine! After
we had eaten some of the family would take a nap; us teenagers went upstairs to
the granddaughter’s allocated room (even that had its own wash basin), and
listen to records.

It was there I first heard  ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’.
‘Twas indeed like a psychedelic dream, listening to the magic of the Beatles in
an upper room of a French chateau with the warm sunshine streaming in and a
(watered down) glass of vino in hand.

This proved to be the pattern of weekends, visiting the
royal chateaux on Saturdays and Chateau Chevallier on Sundays. A particular
high spot was a visit to one of the chateau in the late evening, for a ‘Son et
Lumiere’ demonstration of the history of the place. Unforgettable. Esxcept I
forget which chateau it was, there were so many… Chenonceaux, Blois..etc etc.
All fantastic. I visited many on my own during the week; there were coach tours
to try, and sometimes Anna, who had her own’ ‘cours de vacances’ to attend,
joined me.

And it was in Tours, sitting on my bed in my little room in
the apartment, that I said a sad goodbye to Radio London (the pirate one on the
ship, not the legit one now broadcasting). It had been my constant companion
and reminder of home throughout my stay in France, listening on the little
transistor radio my Dad had bought me. Many famous singers sent the station
messages of thanks and sympathy, I remember my favourite Cliff, and Dusty and
Lulu and even Mick Jagger and Ringo saying how sorry they were at the end of an
era. I still feel the sadness of those last broadcast words ‘Radio London is now
closing down’.

However, I didn’t have too much time to mourn Big L’s
passing, as I was soon due to continue my peregrination. So three or four days
later, dear Madame Chevallier and Anna, having made sure I was on the right
train, waved me off to my next destination.

Au Revoir Touraine, Salut Bretagne!