The Charms and Challenges of France

There’s a man banging furiously at the door. He has a gun. I’m not sure the fact he’s a gendarme makes it better or worse.

This is not necessarily the strangest thing to happen to us in Burgundy but it’s in the top three. The other two occurrences to make the list are, in no particular order: the day that, without warning, our water supply is cut off; and the day Melanya has an argument with a neighbour. The latter would be upsetting rather than than odd, except that it involves photographic evidence. And an axe.

We have rented a house in Tannay, a small village in rural France. The house turns out to be exactly as advertised. A former cafe, parts of it date to the 17th century. It has a spiral staircase hidden behind a door. Swallows nest in the beams of its porch. It’s everything we’d hoped for and we love it.

Tannay

There are a few things, though.

The building’s owner, an artist, splits his time between France and Holland. This becomes important when one day a guy pulls up and starts doing something workmanlike on the footpath outside the house, which, we soon discover, leaves us without running water. We presume the council is fixing something or other but six hours later we’re still without water. It turns out the owner has not paid the bill. After some frantic ringing around and various conversations in a language not our own and about things we wouldn’t understand even if we spoke better French, we are revisited by the chap who cut us off many hours earlier. We discover, perhaps to our surprise but definitely to our relief, that the person we have mentally characterised as an evil water company representative is actually lovely. Quite clearly playing fast and loose with the rules, he reconnects us so that we have water before the owner sorts things – from Holland – the following day.

Our neighbour is a bit of a problem, too. In our welcome pack the house owner has made a special note that no wood chopping can occur between 5pm and 11am. The house is lovely but the living room is cold, so Melanya cuts some wood. It’s 1pm, well within the stipulated time. Nevertheless, she’s only a couple of chops into her task when a fizzing ball of fury appears at the fence, armed with a camera, and screaming in incomprehensibly rapid – but utterly incandescent – French. Melanya tries to engage but he is having none of it, and continues his stream of consciousness ranting, before thrusting the camera triumphantly skyward – Melanya’s guilt now captured for posterity – turning on his heel and striding away, a gleam of victory in his eye.

Melanya pictured of an evening. Note transgressive woodpile in the background

Apparently, we’ve landed in the middle of a dispute.

This is confirmed when it transpires that the gun-wielding gendarmes (there are three of them) are knocking on our door in search of our house owner. His car has been left in the town square and its insurance has expired. We are told that this is Against the Rules. Well, yes. Except no one has been fussed until now, even though the car’s been there for months. The neighbour, it seems, has made a phone call.

These three things all take place within the space of four days and we learn to roll with the punches. And besides, we love our time in Tannay. We take long walks in the countryside and eat picnics by the canal. We visit lakes and chateaux, and other charming villages in the region. We buy fresh bread from the boulangerie every morning, eat more cheese than our clothes can bear and drink wine until it seeps from our pores. We are visited from London by a dear friend and together we sit until 11pm watching the bats flit around us, while owls glide above.

In other words, we discover the France we were looking for. Who cares if we went without water for a few hours?
RICHARD

The canal just outside of Tannay

STRAY OBSERVATIONS

• We chose Burgundy as a destination in part for its exotic wines. Turns out 60% of Burgundy’s wine is chardonnay
• We also chose Burgundy because it would be less busy than, for example, the Dordogne. It was; there was hardly anybody around, and virtually no tourists at all
• Burgundians are excellent drivers but they go everywhere with foot flat to the floor. Do not try to keep up with them
• If you’re taking a cruise on a lake, make sure you do so with a group of drunk retiree trampers. It’s great fun

Inaction Stations

I was adamant that we would not write a travel blog. Who needs more mediocre travel writing? Travel writing requires drama to make it interesting. Our holiday was planned with precision; there was no room for drama, let alone interest.

I underestimated two things: first, the need to document for the sake of my own failing memory; second, the French capacity for industrial action.

And so it is that we arrive at Barcelona’s Sants train station for our connection to Dijon, only to discover French rail workers are on strike and that our train is cancelled. At last, the drama our blog has been craving.

A train, not moving

There is one train to France; it’s going to Paris and it leaves in eight hours. Oh, and the only available tickets are in first class.

We really need to be in France. We have precisely planned bookings. We take a deep breath, and the tickets. Once we’re in Paris, we’ll go to the place that has rented us a car, explain the situation, and pick up a rental, which we will then drive to Burgundy. They must deal with this sort of thing all the time. And hey, a first-class, cross-border train trip – it’ll be a luxurious adventure.

Our first class carriage turns out to be no flasher than the other carriages, just a whole lot more expensive. We’re not fussed, we made it to France. Just not the part of France we’re supposed to be. Still, we’re in Paris – Paris! – and we’ll sort it out in the morning.

In the morning we get more French disdain than is strictly necessary. Our car rental agency in Dijon has cancelled our booking and given our car away, because they didn’t hear from us. It wasn’t for lack of effort. We tried calling the previous day, but it turns out the number we were given – in fact the number on the website – works only from within France. We were ringing from Barcelona. We also tried emailing, except that the website doesn’t give the email addresses of individual branches. The chap at the rental agency in the Barcelona branch gave us Dijon’s email address (and with it a shake of the head and a regretful sigh of, “I’m sorry, your problem is with the French”) but no one received a thing. Allegedly. So they didn’t hear from us and gave our booking away.

To compound the problem, the car rental person on the end of the line doesn’t speak English. This is fair enough. She’s French, she’s in France, we should speak her language. Melanya does, very well, but explaining our situation is complex. Even so, “I understand what you’re saying,” the person from the rental company says, encouragingly. Then, less encouragingly, “So?”

So we are now in Paris, in an eye-wateringly expensive hotel. We’re supposed to be in Dijon, several hundred kilometres away. Even if we can get to Dijon, no car is awaiting us. That’s moot, because the train strike means that almost every rental car in Paris is accounted for anyway. Tears are shed.

We start going through all the rental agencies. We’re not having much luck.

Eventually, we meet Antoine. Antoine is a trainee at Avis/Budget in Paris Gare du Lyon railway station, and he is a marvel. He is friendly. He speaks English. And, crucially, he has a car, even though it’s a 4WD and we (we being Melanya) have to drive it out of Paris (if you think that’s no big deal, you’ve never been in a car in Paris).

Antoine, if you ever come to New Zealand, I will buy you a beer. You can stay in our spare room. You can stay in our room. If I had a daughter or son, I would promise them to you. I will adopt a daughter or son, and promise them to you.

Lacking the requisite offspring, on our return to Gare du Lyon some three weeks later, we instead leave Antoine a bottle of good Burgundy. We hope he enjoyed it. He saved our holiday.
RICHARD

STRAY OBSERVATIONS

• Everyone – everyone – in Barcelona speaks perfect English. Everyone, that is, except for the people working at Barcelona train station
• Spanish SIM cards stop working exactly at the border
• Even when you’re under stress, it’s amazing how much Paris looks like Paris

This blog entry is dedicated to my cousin Tracey, who died while the events outlined above were unfolding, and whose passing puts everything into perspective.