15
I have decided to say yes to everything. Even to getting back on Alistair’s beloved Supermoto 690.
‘The nuttiest bastard motorbike that KTM care to make,’ is how he fondly describes it, which isn’t exactly selling it to me. But I resolve to embrace and participate in Alistair’s need for speed — along with every other opportunity that comes my way.
Saying yes to everything may seem like a perilous premise, or even a slightly ovine one. But it’s not about being a sheep, or a doormat, or becoming a pathetic adherent of Yes Dear-ism. It’s about doing what I came here to do: to get out of my comfort zone. Because my fight for personal sovereignty, during that first seven months with Alistair, did me no good whatsoever. Rather than allowing me to preserve my independence, it only led me to become defensive. To become smaller. I’d become a hostile and suspicious island nation, with Alistair bobbing around in the harbour, increasingly frustrated at not being let in. I don’t want a repeat, for my sake or his. Like Sheryl Sandberg and the Tower of Pisa, therefore, I am going to ‘lean in’.
I apply this philosophy on my first week back. When Alistair suggests we go for a ‘potter’ around the locality on the motorbike, I say ‘good idea’. Whether I think this or not is irrelevant. Alistair loves the bike, and so I am going to give it another go. If the terror persists, if I feel that with every lurching acceleration I am going to be tossed into the air like a sad little crêpe, I simply won’t get on the thing again. You see, I’m not entirely compliant. This ‘Let’s do it’ philosophy comes with a get-out clause. ‘Yes’ can be readily exchanged for ‘hell no’ following a full and fair audit of each experience.
So in the mounting heat of this June morning, I don a pair of too-big black jeans, canvas boots, leather jacket and black helmet, which Alistair has me pull on and off so I get the hang of unclipping and clipping it. It’s extremely tight, and every time I yank the metallic bulb up past my ears, I sense what a bottle of Dom Pérignon must feel like being uncorked. Alistair has gone for a ‘badass-on-holiday-in-Hawaii’ look — black biker pants, black Gore-Tex jacket, black helmet and a loud floral shirt. I climb on the back, wrap my arms around his girth and hope for the best.
We judder up the driveway to the road, and I brace myself for the ordeal with a little internal pep talk: You can do this. Yes, motorbikes are exceedingly dangerous but Alistair is a fantastic rider and knows what he is doing. Yes, he came off the bike last time and could barely walk for two weeks, but to be fair that was on a racetrack. Yes, we have seen a number of tourists driving on the wrong side of the road, and the locals are partial to a lunchtime tipple or three even when they’re driving, but really you’re safe as houses …
This internal wittering is redundant. Because we are well on our way now, the speed of the bike turning the landscape from fine-detail artwork to blurry impressionism. And I am surprisingly okay. Terror-free. Whether that is because Alistair is going at a mere 100 kilometres per hour when I peep at the clock (as opposed to practically the speed of sound on the previous occasion), or whether my very anticipation of fear has made me resilient to it, I don’t know. As we weave through skinny village streets and roar past yellow fields dotted with neatly coiffed haystacks, I’m aware of a new sensation. Could this be, surely not … enjoyment? Well, I’ll be damned. Insects splatter the visor, which I have to keep nudging up to itch my nose, but apart from this minor discomfort I may just be having fun.
We stop off at the boulangerie to buy bread, which I stuff into my backpack. Just a side note here: the mairie (town hall) might always be the most imposing building in any French village or town, alongside the church, but the boulangerie is arguably the most important one. It is a veritable shrine to the carb where, among the array of baked delights — the glossy flans, fruit-bejewelled tarts, feather-light eclairs and plump croissants — the baguette is king.
The baguette isn’t just a stick of bread; it’s a way of life. So revered is this culinary staple that in 2022 it was awarded special protection by the UN, with UNESCO granting it Intangible Cultural Heritage status. I’m not exactly sure what this means — whether you might be fined for whacking someone across the head with one, for instance. Or whether it means a baguette a day is a basic human right. But I suspect ‘protection’ means you can’t mess too much with the recipe (though I did once see chocolate-flavoured baguettes at a Christmas market).
Among the most popular of the myriad varieties on offer are the baguettes de tradition. Often made with only flour, water, salt and yeast or leavening, according to tradition they must be baked on site.
I’ve gone off on a tangent; excusez-moi. I blame the baguettes. Next stop is a second-hand clothing market, in full swing in the backyard of a family-run bar. I purchase a black cotton skirt with a lacy hem, a pair of floral shorts (they may be PJ bottoms), two dresses (one a black flapper-style affair with fringey bits) and a striped singlet. All for 2.50 euros. Alistair mistakes the bar proprietor’s washing drying on the balcony as another clothing stall and I only just manage to stop him from riffling through a stranger’s undies.
We head home for a change of clothes, then stop to eat. It’s the seventh birthday of La Boutique d’à Côté, and they’ve invited customers to a ‘little lunch party’ on the premises to celebrate. La Boutique d’à Côté (literally ‘the shop next door’) is open only on a Saturday until around 1 p.m., selling wine and food crafted by some 40 local producers. Alistair insists we get there early, before the ‘little French ladies with sharp elbows’ get all the best stuff. But it’s not at all feral really; if anything the atmosphere is genteel and convivial.
Alistair’s favourite product is Jerusalem artichoke purée, which he’s taken to adding to everything, including beef bourguignon (he’s a ‘wing-it’ kind of cook and swears this gives the sauce extra oomph). He proudly passes this culinary tip onto the chap at the checkout, who smiles but leans forward to say: ‘Perhaps don’t try that in Burgundy (the home of bourguignon).’
A repository of bonhomie and community spirit, the store is everything you’d hope to find in a French village. Here among the celeriac and the pestos, the bottles of golden saffron and craft beers, the organic wines and artisan cheeses, you’ll bump into the lady from the post office, the local librarian, the neighbours, other store owners, the mayor, the plumber. People stop to chat in the rather restricted space, something we found annoying at first then realised that this happy chitter-chatter only goes to show the venue is meeting its original brief as a ‘community glue’.
Founded and run by volunteers, the store was the brainchild of a group of locals who wanted to give a hand-up to the region’s producers, showcase local art and culture, and foster a little social cohesion. A former upholsterer’s workshop that had lain empty for years, the dilapidated property was virtually rebuilt from scratch by this enthusiastic team. They exposed the beautiful stonework, replaced the floor and roof, put in new electricity and plumbing and turned it into the quaint little store–social hub it is today.
Another side note (and honestly, feel free to shimmy right on past it into the courtyard, where they’re now serving apéritifs. I’ll be along in a minute).
When I first encountered the shop, I was almost disappointed. We’d been told there was an amazing artisan produce store and in my mind it would be something bigger, brighter, more picturesque. I’d expected chintzy interior-design flourishes, more products, chirpy staff in crisp aprons and perhaps a jauntily placed hay bale or two. So accustomed had I become to the fake rustic vibe of many an urban deli, I was underwhelmed by the real thing. I read the nonchalance of the store attendants as a lack of commitment or even boredom. Now that I know a little of the shop’s origins, I see it all for what it really is. A collection of quality products that don’t need to shout to be appreciated. And a gathering of generous and humble local producers and volunteers whose low-key delivery isn’t indifference — it’s humility and a quiet pride in what has been achieved here.
In the courtyard next to the store, a long table is laden with what I take to be our lunch. But it’s just the warm-up act. A white tablecloth is the canvas for a culinary artwork of breads, pestos made with fennel and sunflower seeds, slices of spicy chorizo, prosciutto-style hams, goat’s cheese, olives, pork rillettes and more. One of the shop’s founders, Claude, serves us big plastic cups of knock-your-socks-off punch that tastes of lollies but sets my head on a fast spin cycle.
I chat to a diminutive elderly lady called Camille who has short silver hair and a face that radiates warmth and benevolence like a good fairy. Camille also deserves a Pulitzer Prize in Journalism for ‘Extracting the Most Information from an Interviewee in the Shortest Time’.
Her manner is so gently inquisitive, however, that I’m flattered rather than offended. What might have felt like an interrogation is softened by empathetic nods and interjections — and the fact she is genuinely curious and not trying to meet a newspaper deadline. ‘How long have you been here? Where are you living? Oh, a moulin! How charming! Oh, that’s Alistair? He has a nice face. Does he own the moulin? I love to be by a river. Where did you meet? How did you meet? Ah, online dating. It’s the only way these days, isn’t it — how else are you meant to find someone? Will you stay? Ah yes, it’s hard to be away from family. What do your daughters think? What do they do? You must be so proud … Will they come and visit you?’
When I try to explain to her what it is I love about France, I find myself unable to distil the sentiment so instead gesture to everything around me. ‘Oh yes,’ she replies. ‘The French have mastered l’art de vivre.’ Precisely.
Lovely as Camille is, I need to stop talking. My brain is putting up a ‘closed for lunch’ sign. Because even ten minutes is a hell of a long time to chat in a language that’s not your own. And the glass of rocket-fuel punch hasn’t helped. Searching for vocabulary and noun endings, I’m like a drunk trying to find his keys. So I make my excuses and bury myself in the crowd, eager to lose myself for a few minutes, to be a mere unit of humanity rather than a person with a long and complicated back story.
The understatement of the store isn’t echoed here. This is a birthday party with bells on. There’s an accordion player, and a couple of clowns, and a sensational trio of mature gentlemen in bowler hats playing jazz and swing and generally bringing the celebratory vibe. Later on there will be an open mic for poetry, singing or whatever people feel brave enough (or have had enough punch, beer and wine) to attempt.
Unsurprisingly, the lunch menu consists only of meat and I find myself nonsensically wondering which is the most vegetarian out of ‘pork, lamb or beef ’. ‘Well just eat the coleslaw and potatoes,’ says Alistair, with maddening logic. I shoot him a look that (I hope) says ‘Would you be happy with coleslaw and potatoes?’ and order the beef. After all, it would be rude to spurn the regional produce.
We sit at a table with a local performer who runs clown courses, his girlfriend who works at the village retirement home and another young couple whom we never get to know because we can’t hear each other above the music. Our relationship is limited to smiling and raising glasses.
After a hectic three-and-a-half hours I’m done. We’ve eaten, drunk, talked, laughed, drunk and eaten some more, and even danced.
I also appear to have signed up for a clown workshop.
It’s taken me most of a lifetime to understand what being an introvert really means. It may manifest differently in some individuals, but for me it means I can love people, be energised by their company and do a passable impersonation of bubbliness. But when I’m over it, I’m over it.
Drained of battery, I’m irretrievable, and no amount of yelling into me works. I’m unmoved by exhortations like ‘We can’t go now! We’re having so much fun!!’ I just want to go home, and preferably be left alone with a cup of tea. However sometimes, so as not to cramp my companions’ style, I agree to hang around a bit longer. I get through by nodding and smiling enthusiastically so people don’t notice that I’ve emotionally checked out. Though they really shouldn’t fail to notice, because this version of me is vastly inferior to my fully charged self, due to far fewer working features and patchy reception.
Today is a perfect example of my introversion kicking in. After hours of chatting and eating and smiling — much of it in French (the chatting, not the smiling) — my jaws hurt, my brain hurts, my personality hurts, my feet hurt and I want to go home. Luckily so does Alistair. And luckily he shares my opinion that after a day of heat and hedonism, what’s needed first is a siesta (we sleep on the sofa for over two hours), then an evening jaunt on the e-bikes. Fresh air, no alcohol, and only scenery on the menu.
It’s around 8.30 p.m. when we set off on the bikes and, as we clock up the kilometres, I start to feel at peace. The honeyed evening light, the faint breeze, my conscientious legs pedalling away all the excesses of the boozy lunch … I’m renewed, refreshed. And, if my body is still more liquor store than temple, the seedy feeling is giving way to a great sense of wellbeing. I don’t care that I am wearing my 50-centime stripey top with no bra, some teensy-tiny hand-me-down shorts, that my hair is plastered to my sweaty face, my eyeliner smeared, my legs bristly and pasty from months of New Zealand rain. I’m okay with all of it.
Until we enter the town square.
There are people everywhere. The village square is usually dead at night, something I’ve often lamented but think longingly of right now. It’s as if all the people from lunch have simply swayed across the street, bought beer, sat down and then phoned all our neighbours to join them.
There are food trucks and beverage trucks and the air smells of candy floss and cooking oil. There are people on chairs and sitting at the base of statues, there are clusters of friends laughing and smoking and talking, and children running everywhere. There is a man with long grey hair with a dirty growl of a voice singing into a mic under a gazebo. He seems oddly out of place at this family event, like Serge Gainsbourg at a four-year-old’s birthday party.
Having not been reunited with friends since I returned, I don’t want to see them while I’m like this. I’m tired, sweaty and, minus the big floppy hat, dressed like Jodie Foster in Taxi Driver (teen prostitute, if you haven’t seen it). I remain steadfastly straddled across my bike as Alistair dismounts and heads over to a gaggle of familiar faces in the distance. If I keep staring at my handlebars, Alistair will get the message, we will cycle home and nobody will ever know I am capable of looking like this.
But no. After some five minutes I look up and he is gesturing wildly. People are waving so I wave back and wonder how long this waving can continue without me actually making a move in their direction. Eventually I schlepp over, prop up the bike and go to greet them. There are many kisses, hugs, expressions of delight and some gentle back-slapping. Our next-door-neighbour Gabriel is there in an instant, offering to shout us a beer. I glare at Alistair in an ‘Erm, please no,’ way but instantly feel cruel as he’s clearly delighted to be here. Remembering my vow to just say yes, I tell Gabriel, ‘Sure, thank you.’
Alistair looks relieved. He leans towards me and whispers reassuringly, ‘It’s fine. You’re fine. Besides, nobody here cares. They’re not like that. They’re just really genuine people and they’re not going to judge you.’
The long-haired singer isn’t quitting. His lyrics contain a lot of swearing and now he’s in the middle of a gritty ditty about the ‘HLM’ — social housing. It’s bizarre and anachronistic, especially when a couple start slow-dancing to it. Gabriel says, ‘That guy is famous. Or wait, no … maybe he just looks like someone famous.’
The thing is, Alistair is right. Nobody cares. They don’t care whether this guy once had a Top 40 hit or is just an obscure lookalike. They don’t care about my tiny orange shorts, or that the only food is burgers and hot dogs, or that the kids will be cranky in the morning after too much sugar and too little sleep. They don’t care that not a vegetable has passed their lips all day, that they haven’t drunk their recommended quota of water, that they’re not wearing their best frocks, or that they are due for a haircut. They are here for a good time, to celebrate being together with family and friends on this glorious Saturday evening, and that’s all there is to it. Perhaps they instinctively know something I am only just realising. That things don’t have to be flawless to be perfect.
So I get out of my own way, take a deep breath of the fried food-infused night air, and settle in. We spend two hours with our friends then cycle home in the darkness.
As we arrive at the mill, I gaze up at the moon: a perfectly round, shimmering full stop to a perfectly wonderful day.