Full of freaks, misfits and oddbods; the French France of expats and longjohns is the current one we imbibe. Having left the middle classes of Blighty, in the hopes of hanging out with the cultured bohemians we assumed embraced the rural beauty of deepest frogsville, we have been sorely disappointed. And have actually met very few sane English-speaking folks inhabiting this countryside. A beautiful, bountiful countryside full of fresh walnuts, hazelnuts, damsons, pears, apples, fat juicy quinces and old horse boxes.
The children are on the front line everyday, in the local village school hanging out with the farmers children of roundabouts and the other English offspring subjected to incredible four-course lunches and long days learning frere jacques.
It’s not right and it’s certainly not bouncing our balls. But for many it does and for those who want it enough; baguettes and cheap Bordeaux are widely available.