16) Some of the lighter side of France

No historic building or town is too precious for a coiffure (Tournon d'Agenais)

After a rather serious posting about the intoxicating beauty of France, I thought I would illustrate that France also has its funny (and often hilarious) side.

One of the criteria in our hunt for a house has been the proximity of somewhere to buy croissants.  On checking out the local villages we have always looked to see if there is a boulangerie.  Sadly, fewer and fewer villages now have a baker as more and more people shop at the supermarche, just as they do in England. We have noticed, however, the one thing every village has, regardless of size, importance or remoteness is a coiffure.

Other than the obviously-chic, the French do not appear to spend a great deal on clothes.  This is not all that surprising.  You can either buy very cheap (and grotty) clothes from a market stall or the supermarket, or you pay through the nose for designer goods from a boutique in town (most do the former).  Seemingly, in compensation, every respectable French female goes to the hair dresser at least once a week in an effort to make the beauty and sophistication of her hair distract from the dreary cheap clothes she is wearing.  Needless to say, this rarely works.  Firstly, because men invariably linger on the more sculptural parts of a woman’s body long before they start worrying about their hair.  And secondly, in a bizarre effort to out-do each other, les coiffeurs come up with more and more outrageous approaches to scalpel adornment, which often makes their clients look frighteningly grotesque.

This is, of course, as seen from a man’s perspective.  Having once caught/trapped her man, the female of the species often turns her attention to her female peers.  It is they who are to be impressed by the hair-do (rather like with wedding dresses, which all seem remarkably similar to a man [white], or shoes which either look comfortable, ridiculous, or like some bizarre and painful prosthetic).  Being a man, I am not in a position to judge how well this hair ploy works on women, but I understand that hairdressers in France are remarkably cheap, especially it seems when it comes to bottles of dye and hair spray.

Concrete tower in the 1930's railways style attached to the ancient stone church at Tournon d'Agenais

Although the good burghers of Tournon d'Agenais show admirable taste in hairdressing signs on their listed buildings, at some stage a Mayor must have taken leave of his senses when it came to re-building the historic church tower.  As we approached this hilltop bastide town, from far off its church and tower dominate the countryside for miles (kilometres) around.  Something about it, even from a distance, didn’t seem quite right.  Once we got into the town and were able to see it close up, we were astonished to find it was built of concrete (not the church, just the new tower).

There was no information on why concrete was used, so we can only speculate. 

Perhaps the Mayor, (or was it the Bishop) had a cousin (or an illegitimate son) who was a master-concreter and needed the work.  Perhaps the Mayor (or the Bishop) was rather enlightened and had been impressed by Walter Gropius and the ethos of the Bauhaus, or the writings of Le Corbusier and his Habitations at Marseilles.  In a heroic, albeit misguided, moment he (the Mayor or the Bishop) had decreed the tower would be built of concrete, as a lasting symbol to modernity, progress and egalitarianism.

Or perhaps he simply said he wanted to do something concrete to re-invigorate the town, such as having the church tower re-built.  This was perhaps misheard by a distracted secretary (anxious not to miss the hair appointment she was already late for), and the rebuilding of a concrete tower was recorded in the Council minutes.

We wondered what sort of folk lived here

Unfortunately you can only buy a house if it is for sale, and this one wasn't.  We saw this near Entaygues-sur Truyeres and thought, with a name like that, it has to be the one for us (also we would have no difficulty with the pronunciation - unlike Entraygues-sur Truyeres).

A well loved companion is put out to grass

Something we have been warned about is the price of second hand cars in France.  Apparently new cars are about the same price as those in England, but second hand ones are significantly more.  No one we have spoken to about this seems to have any idea as to why this should be. To me, though, it seems fairly obvious.  

The French have a completely different attitude to cars (and driving) from the English.  Firstly, they tend only to buy French cars, and this means that the French car manufacturers don't have to try very hard - they will buy them anyway. This also means the buyers get used to not being very fussy about their cars.  The English, by contrast, can be very fussy.  They can choose between a reliable Volvo, a , swish Mercedes, a boy-racer Subaru, with rear spoiler and virility bulge in the bonnet, or even something rather eccentric such as a Morgan.  The French simply have Renault, Citroen and  Peugeot.  Not surprising then that they don't get very excited about cars - and there's not much thrill in buying another one.


I suspect, though, that in time, they come to love them, rather as you would a trusted spaniel, a horse or a wife. I suspect also that their mechanics are rather good, and they are able (and willing) to keep old cars going far longer than we do.  As a result, you see a vast number of old wrecks being driven about in France that people would not be seen dead in in England.  And even they have a value.  I feel sure there is a certain pride in keeping an old motor car going, and perhaps a certain shame in consigning a trusted retainer to the knacker's yard.  Instead, they are left gently to return to the elements, where they happened to pass away, like the old Renault in the picture above.  We came across it in a field, the road it was on having long ago been subsumed back into the natural landscape. 

Seen on a wall in Lauzerte

This strange little fellow we found in Lauzerte, a place where they obviously have a heightened sense of fun.  We have no idea what it is, we simply saw it perched quite high up on one of their eye-wateringly beautiful buildings.  A monk chained to a chair, a bunch of grapes, a hare, and a sort of shepherd's crook with a flag on the end.  Perhaps it represents some alternative version of the race between the tortoise the hare (but no tortoise).  It surely must have a moral dimension.  Perhaps if there is anyone out there, they might care to suggest what this weird, enchanting little scene might signify?

The market square in Lauzerte

We only visited Lauzerte quite briefly.  It is another dazzlingly beautiful 13th century bastide town.  I scanned round with the camera to get an idea of the colonnaded square and took a few quick snaps for the record.  It was only when I got back to the gite and transferred them to the computer that I noticed something a bit strange.  The cobbled square curls up in one corner.  Just imagine what that must have taken to get this through the Council Chamber.  Or perhaps they are simply a very enlightened bunch in Lauzerte.  It is very subtle, very clever, and very funny.

Gorgeous knockers, Fumel

Above is a rather beautiful door knocker we saw at the Château in Fumel.  Fumel itself is now rather run down, but it is in a spectacular position high above the Lot.  It also boasts an enormous E. Lerclerc on its outskirts.  The one thing still preserved in its former glory is its Château, standing in a dominant position at the summit of the town.  It has the most charming formal gardens (somewhat shabbily kept up), and some very convenient conveniences (remarkably clean, though, needless to say, nothing to dry your hands on/with).  It now acts as the Council Offices - and what a wonderful place to work.  Georgi and I had our sandwiches in the garden there for lunch, but we noticed the best spot had been taken by a couple of clerks.  It was rather marvellous to sit (without charge) in this wonderful Château garden, open to all.  It gave one a soothing sense of the egalitarianism, and I began to think perhaps Robespierre and his cronies were right to chop off all their heads.  Prior to the revolution, this would only have been enjoyed by a few aristocratic chinless wonders in silly wigs and embroidered waistcoats.  Now this beautiful place could be enjoyed by everyone, or at any rate, by me, Georgi, and the two men from the Council.  The garden was probably a bit more untidy, but the view was just as good.  


Chopping people's heads off is a bit extreme, and I'm sure many of the aristo's really weren't doing anyone any harm.  I am also just as sure that Robspierre, Marat et al were probably all a bunch of shits, and far more deserving of losing their heads than their victims.  It was a long time ago now, and perhaps, just perhaps, as a society, we have made just a tiny bit of progress.  It would be nice to think so.

Georgi has found her true station in life at last (colonnade in the Château gardens at Fumel)