We were based in the south of France for a week or so, taking the opportunity to visit old friends. Many years ago we’d lived here, become part of the community, but now we were merely travellers. Passing through.
The nomadic life, with only those meagre creature comforts which can be contained within the boundaries of a (relatively small) camper van boasts many virtues, but a short spell in a fixed base, among friends, with easy access to a proper bath, comfortable armchairs and protection from the elements is a real treat. Claude and Marie are generous hosts; Marie refusing absolutely our suggestion of parking our van in the courtyard and sleeping there. “Poof,’ she exclaimed. ‘Non, non, non, c’est impossible.’ When she’s roused, Marie can be rather intimidating.
We shook our heads in resignation and trooped up the narrow staircase to view the guest bedroom. We’d stayed overnight here in the past on many occasions following meals where alcohol played a significant role. The panelled walls and the massive sleigh bed were familiar enough, but the faded pink door at the side of the bed now revealed a secret. Claude, a born show-off, nudged it open and we stared in amazement at the newly installed en suite bathroom. The freestanding bath was large enough for three people while the rest of the fittings were equally magnificent.
‘Cest, bon, oui?’ Claude chortled, digging me in the ribs with a sharp elbow. We agreed it was indeed ‘bon’ and the matter was settled. My wife loves life on the road as much as myself, but the prospect of wallowing in that bath after three months of campsite showers was too much temptation to resist.
Dinner that night was one of those occasions that I’ll remember for ever. I lost count of the courses, the wine flowed endlessly and a spectacular time was had by all. Claude had invited several of his neighbours for the grand reunion with ‘Les Anglais’ and the festivities had continued until the early hours. It had been a dozen years since we’d left the village – moving down to Spain for fresh vistas and the challenge of a ruined finca overlooking the Mediterranean to renovate – but the years of absence were washed away on a sea of conviviality.
The next day being Sunday, we watched the village hunters assemble for la chasse, essential equipment being a dog, a hat, a gun and enough ammunition to fight a war. Headgear varied from cowboy-style stetsons to leather helmets with dangling ear flaps, no two being the same. This was even more the case with the astonishing variety of canine magnificence on display. We noted a few ‘proper’ hounds, a feisty and cantankerous Jack Russell Terrier, but also a pampered-looking poodle and many others sans race whose only common feature was their complete unsuitability as hunting animals. Complete bedlam reigned as the dogs barked, urinated and fornicated with impunity, their proud owners engrossed in hand-shaking, back-slapping, smoking and, inevitably, taking frequent pulls on the essential flasks and bottles. I’d already managed to avoid participation by pleading urgent repair work to the van. As an animal lover, hunting holds no appeal for me, but having lived in the countryside, both in England and elsewhere, I’ll defend its continued existence stoutly.
A single thrush attracted a colossal fusillade of ragged gunfire, the noise was deafening, accompanied by clouds of smoke, all to no avail as the terrified creature winged its way to safety through the trees. Great excitement ensued with much boasting and hearty camaraderie. The inability to hit the target appeared immaterial and would set the tone for the rest of the day.
When we met up with them again at lunchtime, taken precisely at noon, a single rabbit was the only evidence of success. Many of the dogs had failed to return with their owners, their excited yelps being heard in the distance as they chased shadows and fought imaginary enemies.
Lunch was the second great pleasure of the day. A good hunt obviously called for a special picnic. A Frenchman adores le picnic. The French version bears no relation to the cucumber sandwich and thermos flask variety so familiar to the British. Le picnic is a feast, each person trying to outdo his friends in the variety and scope of his provisions.
Prior to 1789, hunting in France, as in England, was reserved for the nobility. The owners of the grand Chateaux arranged their lands for the pleasures of la chasse. Most had pigeonniers or dovecotes, providing homes for thousands of pigeons, all destined for eventual extermination in the great hunts, and, eventually, for the immense kitchens of the chateau. In the aftermath of the French Revolution, la chasse became a classless sport, albeit with the proviso that only the edible are at serious risk. This seems to cover most species, as far as I can see, but unlike fox hunting back in England, here at least most of the resultant bag goes in the pot.
Game is scarce around here in recent years, but wild boar are becoming a menace and there remain enough reasons to justify the excitement as hunting season arrives in the autumn. Claude, our host and the most prominent viticulteur in the area is president of the hunt and very proud of their combined skills. Last season they shot several wild boar, two deer and half a dozen foxes. I made the mistake, cursed once again by my British politeness, of admiring the stuffed and mounted fox which took pride of place in his lounge. Apparently, I was a little too fulsome in my admiration, as he promised me a similar trophy next time I’m passing through. The stuffing and mounting will amount to a mere 450 euros, très résonable, non? I’m sure it’s the bargain of the century, but now have the problem of explaining why I must decline this kind offer. Where will we find room to mount a fox in a camper van? Not that I want the stuffed remains of the unfortunate creature anywhere near me. Oh well, a hard lesson learned. I’ll reserve my praise and admiration for his wine; I’ll gladly take any amount of that.
Hunting in this area is only ‘allowed’ on Tuesdays and Sundays, seemingly honoured more in the breach than the observance and most serious hunters belong to clubs and associations who have areas reserved for them. In exchange for payment of a club subscription the chances of finding game are vastly increased. The clubs finance the rearing of pheasant and similar game birds which are ‘farmed’, reared from young chicks in the same way as the game keepers in an English, or Scottish, estate rear young for the hunt. There are several of these large netted farms nearby. The unfortunate creatures, virtually tame and with no fear of humans, fly trustingly towards the massed ranks of hunters and their eventual doom. Oh well, not my idea of an ideal way to spend an October morning, but I keep my opinions to myself.
We’d brought a contribution to the fare and ate delicious food, washed down with wine from bottles that bear no labels, all made from local grapes, and were reminded once again of the pleasures of living in France. Even though I’m far less fluent in the language than I used to be, this proved no barrier. We ate, drank, roared with laughter in most convivial company and were transported back a dozen years to the last time we’d shared a meal with these delightful people. It may be a cliché, but it really did feel like yesterday.
Ah yes indeed. All familiar, our place is in the Foret de la Double and wild boar and deer are regular visitors. The crazy hunting dogs are often to be found, exhausted by the excitement and curled in the back of the garage trying to get a second wind before rolling home. Don’t really enjoy the thought of the hunt but it is a great tradition.