Charging Bulls and French Drivers

Last year you may recall that the tramps were invited to a magnificent 25th wedding anniversary black tie party in the foothills of the Pyrenees in France. It was a stunning affair – a multi generation party (indeed tramp 3 and GF joined in with gusto, GF having tucked into her back pack a few suitably glamourous cocktail dresses – as apparently the young now do). This year the invitation was extended again – this time the excuse was number 1 daughter’s 21st birthday, but really there is always an excuse if one looks hard enough). We decided to arrive early (our dear friends were happy to have us anytime and the tramp preferred to arrive ahead of the hoards and leave before them). One of the enticements was the fact that we could break the journey there with two stops along the way in Provence. Having reconfirmed that the invitations were for real we headed southwest.

First stop Egalieres. The village located on the grand override map and the address more or less accepted into the GPS system, the trampess felt reasonably confident of arrival comfortably (but not inhospitably) before lunch time. All was going according to plan, and the only possible, small snag was suggested by the last email from our hostess, suggesting that we might not be able to park where she thought owing to the fair that had come to town along with the bulls. The Bulls??? I have heard of, and always managed to avoid, the driving of the bulls in Pamplona but here, in sleepy Provence, raging bulls being chased through town??? With luck the chase would not last long, and since it was a morning affair, your trampess decided not to worry the tramp unnecessarily. After all it might be enough to put him off the journey and we were nearly there. More worrying was the fact that the GPS was taking us off the main road the trampess assumed would lead us to town and instead had the WLW cruising along farm roads through the countryside – picturesque but not necessarily auspicious, but given we were within 10km max of the village, the only thing to do was breathe deeply and hope for the best. I was not yet ready to challenge the voice. With no street signs but the fair ground in sight, we knew we were close. The voice wanted us to make a right turn to “reach our destination” but there were two small problems: 1. We were far too big to make a right turn in the best of circumstances and 2. There was a largish sign telling everyone to stay out of the street because of the bulls! Going straight ahead would have been the equivalent of entering a lobster trap (not something the tramp ever does unless he has personally surveyed the exit) and turning left led us out of town. We chose left and phoned. With no street signs, and only the GPS route number, I did my best to explain where we were. Imagine your trampess walking up and down the street (avoiding bulls, of course) looking for signs, cafes, anything that would help our host to locate us. Total blank. But he is a clever and enterprising man and nothing was going to stand in the way for very long. Stay put he said and I will find you and lead you back. We do that well and within a few minutes a familiar and smiling face appeared alongside the WLW>

After a few obligatory “wow’s” he decided to lead us the long way back to home. Very sensible. He also went slowly and made sure we were with him and that we could always move in tandem. Very sensible. We did at one point have to go through a bit of the village (unavoidable no doubt but not very sensible). We got separated by the church with our friend going ahead to clear the way. We had to wait until he’d finished his sweep. Many cars turned around faced with the choice of colliding with us or the church. Some pulled to the side and hoped for the best. But, dear reader, one magnificent French woman, in a car considerably larger than a deux chevaux stopped in the middle (!) of the road and held her ground, waving to us in a manner which said – there is plenty of room for you, pass me! Now, had we been in the Smart car, this would not have been a problem; we could have, even with her exquisite hogging of the road, shimmied through but in the WLW??? Where was her brain – five other cars had given way but she was insisting we had plenty of room. The tramp smiled. This was, he said, a job for the trampess. I exited the vehicle (given that the door is on the side, and steps have to extend first, you might have been excused for thinking that she would have realised even before I reached her that there was only one solution to the impasse and it wasn’t the WLW reversing). In my best French I told her it was impossible for us to pass. She insisted we could. I pointed out that we had a “longeur de 15m” which made passing quite impossible (I exaggerated our length by mistake, but clearly God wanted me to win this argument and was no doubt fuelling my speech with hyperbole). At this point, furious, she said we shouldn’t be here. I could only concur but pointed out that reversing was not an option. I suppose that it didn’t help that we had German licence plates and I spoke perfect French (at least in a dose that size). And perhaps, to be fair, she might have already been inconvenienced by the bulls. But later, when we were safely in the castle in the Pyrenees, I read, for the first time Peter Mayle’s book, and discovered that not moving in such a situation is a French blood sport – and I, a mere foreigner disinterested in the game, but interested in progress, had won against an obviously determined veteran! Of course, I had size on my side (and perhaps she suffered from a Napoleon complex).

After that, our arrival at a most beautiful villa with sumptuous lunch, swimming pool and tranquil gardens was the perfect antidote to the tramp’s visceral reaction to French encounters of the wrong sort.

The next day was remarkably without incident and totally delicious. St Remy being a nearby town, our host there decided it would be easier to come and collect us that have us try and find the way. At this point, the tramp was not inclined to do anything than accept graciously. And so we drove the short distance to one of Provence’s most charming villages – except that we did not go through the village: our destination was a villa on the outskirts. 600 year old olive trees from Spain had been added to the existing stock (carefully positioned to replicate the precise direction they faced in the old grove – apparently olive trees are hardy and can be transplanted at such a ripe old age but only if they are not rotated from their original solar position – i.e. the north facing side must remain north facing). While no taller than their younger neighbours, they were easy to pick out by their relatively enormous trunks. Vineyards, olive groves, a kitchen garden full of summer vegetables , ripe tomatoes and herbs – what more could one wish for? Lunch was as exquisite as one could imagine and came after either lolling in the sun (the tramp) or a vigourous swim (the trampess – who is only too aware of her inability to resist good food and therefore takes proactive measures to counter the excess calories she anticipated consuming). While expecting to be speaking French the entire time, the trampess was proved wrong: the sister of the French hostess lives in Scotland and all the children (of university age) and their friends were born and raised there. Lunch finished just about in tie for the tramps to be whisked back to the WLW in time for supper. It seems that the French do still take their meals very seriously, the competitive decline of French restaurants notwithstanding. The tramp could become a Francophile (at least at the micro level) and if that happens, who knows, perhaps Angela will even allow Nicholas to give her a hug.

The next day would bring the start of a culinary experience of quite a different kind and one that would see the trampess’s involvement at a much more active, if no less committed, level.