28) A French car

Renault Estate partly for disguise, partly for loads of luggage

As part of our efforts to “blend in” we have now bought a French car.  For the past few years I have had German cars - Volkswagens and Audis.  Like any cars, they do occasionally go wrong, but I like the reassuring, understated clunk as you close the door, and the lack of rattling or grinding sounds from the engine or wheels.  It has thus been a bit of a challenge to move to a Renault.  We thought long and hard about the decision but, in the end, we felt if we are going to embrace the life of France, we will have to take the rough with the smooth.   German cars are incredibly expensive both to buy and maintain over here.  We also suspect there might be a slight modicum of resentment against buying a non-French car when Peugeot, Citroen and Renault are so much a part of the French psyche.  And when the car gets old and its warranty has run out, we will want to use a toutes marques garage (they are half the price of the main dealers), and they are bound to know the ins and outs of French cars better.

Our landlord's (fairly typical) French car, showing some of the scratches, dents and holes

It’s difficult to know how long we’ll be able to keep the new car scratch and dent free.  The French seem to regard the body of a car as simply a device for keeping out wind and rain.  It, therefore, doesn’t really matter what shape it is, or whether it’s scratched or not, just as long as it doesn’t leak (too badly).  When we bought the car, part of the deal was that all the minor scratches and dents would be fixed (there were just four, as it was only a year old).  When we came to pick it up there was one they had forgotten to do (though it did seem to be in a slightly different place).  They didn’t make a fuss, and what we both realised, but didn’t say was that, actually, this one was an additional scrape that had been picked up in the garage itself while the others were being fixed.

We are, of course, quite used to driving in France now, but there are still a few little oddities we have yet to learn about.  You have to carry with you in the car the insurance certificate and the carte grise (which oddly is not actually grey, but more a kind of orange).  You are not supposed to leave them in the car on the basis that, if the car gets stolen and then stopped by the police, the thief cannot produce the right documents.  However, until you get used to all the chopping and changing there is a very good chance they will be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or simply get lost altogether.

(Semi) pedestrianised main shopping street in Montauban

While our new (second hand) car was having the additional scratch taken out, we were given a replacement with a full tank of fuel (usually courtesy cars have the flashing light on, and an annoying bleep telling you you are about to run out of fuel).  We, therefore, decided to go for an extended drive down to Montauban, a largish town about 40 miles away that we hadn’t yet been to  .It was a lovely drive but once we arrived it was all one way streets and we couldn’t find anywhere to park.  We thus drove round and round getting more and more lost, and more and more agitated (I thought I was staying quite calm, but not everybody agreed).

A French police car, just like the one that nearly hit us

Suddenly, as we were driving down what I regarded as a fairly main street, a maniac in a blue and white car shot straight out in front of us from a side street to our right.  With great dexterity and skill, I managed to swerve round him, thus avoiding what would otherwise have been an expensive collision (in our borrowed car, for which, incidentally, we had none of the requisite papers).

Unfortunately, the said maniac turned out to be a policeman.  Instead of congratulating me on my driving skills which had saved an expensive claim on his precious car and mine (or at least the garage’s), he turned on his flashing blue light and siren, and started chasing me down the street.  I was already lost, and couldn’t find anywhere to park, so this was really the last straw.

I was anxious not to stop too suddenly and cause an accident

The next problem was that I then couldn’t find anywhere to stop.  For a few seconds ("which seemed like an eternity..."), I agonised over whether I should stop immediately in the middle of the road and almost certainly cause an accident, or keep going until I found somewhere safer to stop and risk the crazy policeman thinking I was trying to outrun him (which might mean he would start shooting).

I found somewhere safe to stop and he stopped alongside me in the middle of the road.  He wound down his window and started shouting something about Respectez la priorité.  I in turn, started babbling all the words for apology I could muster in French (looking as meek and contrite as possible).  They soon realised (though I’m not quite sure how, given our disguise of the French car) that we were English.  His female colleague obviously thought the whole episode was hilarious, and soon he saw the funny side too, and off he drove with both hands off the wheel in a classic Gallic shrug (Bah!).

I am sure that we really did have priority on that occasion, but you don’t argue with police carrying guns.  Perhaps he was saying that POLICE had priority (however badly or dangerously they may be driving).  As it turned out we had stopped right next to the only parking space in Montauban, so he’d actually done me a favour after all.

Cleverly marked cycle lane in Cahors

We are also somewhat bemused by the proliferation of cycle lanes in France.  You find them not only in the towns, but even in all-but deserted bits of road, miles from anywhere in the countryside.  The odd thing is that no one seems to cycle anywhere, at least not in this part of France.  This could be because all the cyclists have been killed off by their fellow countrymen who drive cars, or perhaps it’s simply too hilly.  You see lots of would-be Tour de France types in multi-coloured lycra, but they always travel in packs.  Presumably this is on the basis that if they are mown down by a car, at least one of them is likely to survive to sue the driver and get compensation for the widows (they are always packs of men).

Someone with very little regard for his life

Quite near to where we are staying we did spot one brave soul using the cycle lane (without a helmet I might add).  We assume he was foreign (that is to say, not French), and most probably English.  In fact, when I looked at the photograph later (which we took on the move), it seemed to look very like Vince Cable.  He has obviously had a hard time of late, what with having to chummy up to the Tories (who he obviously doesn’t like much) and getting trounced on the PR, AV (or whatever it was) referendum.  As a result, he may not be too concerned with survival, and this may explain the extraordinary risk he is taking.  The lack of crash helmet may even be a typical Vince well-thought-through-stratagem.  If he gets hit by a car, even by a Renault or a Citroen, he is likely to be severely maimed.  But without a crash helmet, he will probably be killed.  No more Cameron, no more Clegg, no more lying about policies he doesn’t believe in.  No more misery.