Eric the Wood Man. French Life Remembered.

I’ve just been back to France for a short visit and, by way of ‘singing for my supper’ helped a friend stack his firewood. It reminded me of my early days as a resident in this wonderful country, renovating an old country house in the Loire valley.

 

A good friend had mentioned a neighbour of his who had supplied him with some splendid firewood, well aged and at a very reasonable price.  We had recently purchased some firewood, which, on delivery we discovered to have been freshly cut and, therefore, as green as ourselves.  This timber required drying out for a couple of years, obviously a problem if the weather turned cold and the only fuel is suitable for little else than sending smoke signals, a variation on “water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink”.

I expressed an interest, but then forgot all about it, until I received a telephone call about three weeks later.   The caller, in rapid French, told me that his name was Eric and that he had my firewood ready for delivery.   I confirmed the price, gave him my address, and asked if it would be possible for the logs to be cut to about half a metre in length, rather than the usual metre, as our stove would not take the large logs, and I did not own a chain saw.  I am not a suitable person to be in control, or otherwise, of a chain saw being accident-prone and “unlucky” with machinery.  No problem at all, said Eric, promising to call on the following day.

Three days later a tractor and enormous trailer pulled into our drive.  The trailer contained not a single log, but the tractor driver, soon confirmed as Eric, explained that this was a “dry run” to sort out his best route, and that he would call tomorrow with the firewood.  My impression of Eric, gained from our telephone conversation, was very different from the actuality.  He was at least 70 years of age; despite the best efforts of his cowboy boots no more than 5ft in height, with creased mahogany features and a handshake sufficiently fierce to bring tears to the eyes.  He had the capacity to speak at five hundred words a minute, and it was with some difficulty that I managed to slow him, by way of a constant barrage of “ lentement”, to a level of speech that I could understand.  Eric reiterated that he would deliver the firewood on the following day, and that it was already cut to length, but that he would bring with him his chainsaw to cut up any logs that were deemed too large.

The asthmatic tractor and fully laden trailer arrived the following morning.  Following a delay of at least ten minutes, while Eric discussed la chasse with the postman, he unblocked the road and pulled into the drive, allowing a small impatient convoy of cars to go about their business.  A forest of logs was piled about 5ft high along the length of the enormous trailer.  They varied in length from one metre to entire tree trunks, not a single log being small enough for our stove.  Observing my consternation, Eric tapped the side of his nose, and, from the back of the tractor, released from its mounting the largest chain saw in Europe!  Standing upright it was as tall as me and I am over 6ft.   Needless to say it absolutely dwarfed Eric!

We established a routine whereby I unloaded and stacked the wood while Eric cut each log to a manageable length.  It was a hot sticky day, hardly ideal for manual labour. The dust from the logs, and the flying wood-chips and sawdust emanating from the screaming chainsaw made frequent refreshment breaks a necessity. Eric produced a plastic water bottle containing red wine, the quality of which can be imagined by the vigorous shaking he gave it before taking a generous swallow and passing it over to me.  The liquid was warm, cloudy, fiercely sharp with tannin, and, by a good distance, the worst wine I have ever tasted.

“C’est bon ça?” Eric snorted, after another violent shake and swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oui”, I nodded, through watering eyes “  “C’est bon”. He had been drinking this stuff for most of his life and was considerably fitter than me, so what did I know?

Following a picnic lunch, accompanied by a bottle of our own wine, this time with a label, we continued with the work, Eric cutting like a man possessed and me unloading and stacking.  By mid afternoon it was just about possible to see some signs of progress.  The pile of newly cut logs by now rivalled the considerable stack remaining on the trailer.

We paused for breath as a battered Citröen van spluttered into the drive, a very large lady at the wheel and a younger replica of Eric in the back.  This formidable lady had apparently, driven 15 kms, accompanied by her grandson, for the express purpose of engaging her husband in a furious argument.  Towering over her spouse she gesticulated furiously, the inevitable floral pinafore stretched to bursting point with the vehemence of her gestures.  It transpired that the tractor was required for another job on the farm, and she had brought their grandson to collect it. Eric junior, remained mute throughout, but had brought another plastic bottle of wine, which he managed to smuggle across while Madame’s back was turned.  Fellow sufferers, they shared a conspiratorial wink.

In an attempt to bring an end to the argument I said that I would manage the rest of the, still enormous pile, with a handsaw and axe.  Eric used this offer as fresh ammunition in the battle, and to such effect that his wife departed on the tractor with the still-silent grandson, leaving the trailer and van behind, contenting herself with a baleful glare at her husband as the tractor wheezed down the road.  Eric preened like a fighting bantam cock, shook the wine until it fizzed, then drained half the bottle in a single huge swallow.  He offered me the remains with a cackle of delight over his victory with the old enemy.  Our conversation, as we resumed, now centred exclusively on marriage and its detrimental effect on the male of the species.

“I would never marry again”, he thundered, “Jamais”, adding with a sly leer “but I would have many mistresses”.

We cut the last log as darkness fell. I was exhausted, virtually to the point of collapse, but this remarkable old man remained as sprightly as ever.

I settled the account. The extra cutting, a whole day’s hard work, amounted to 100 francs, just over a tenner!

Eric departed in high spirits, thumping me between the shoulder blades as he praised my hard work and good companionship.  He insisted, as a special treat, on presenting me with the last couple of mouthfuls of his appalling wine, and promised, when he returned on the following day to collect his trailer, to bring with him a fresh bottle of wine,  “Pour votre femme, un petit cadeau”.  This would surely be the least appreciated gift my wife would ever receive.  His parting shout, in the deepening gloom, “a mistress, as many as you can manage, but never a wife” echoed across the sunflower fields, the stillness of evening disturbed only by the diminishing racket of grinding gears and an inadequately repaired exhaust system.