C'est Modnifique!: Adventures of an English Grump in Rural France, page 11
'It's a game-changer,' I said. 'If we don't feel safe here…'
And the evening carried on that way, both of us essentially repeating ourselves, still in utter disbelief. Ridiculously, but as a necessary distraction, we began to look at immobilier ) estate agent) websites and found a few properties not too far away, which, you know… if we had to.
I didn't want to leave for work in England the following day. I still wanted to see the farmer and have a talk with him; for obvious reasons I didn't feel at all comfortable leaving Natalie and the boys behind, but I had no choice. I looked out of my beloved 12-foot-high lounge windows that morning and it didn't feel the same, the whole place had changed. Suddenly it wasn't the paradise I thought it was; it was oddly claustrophobic and the distant mist threatening, and I knew Natalie felt the same.
Later that day I got an email from Natalie. The farmer's son, François, had called round and apologised profusely for the shooting incident and the later words that were said. We had every right, he said, to stop them from hunting so close to our property, but that if we kindly allowed them to continue he would make sure more respect was shown. His father, he continued, had felt 'aggressed' by Natalie, but that of course we and our children could use their paths and land whenever we liked. He had then left, Natalie said, still apologising. It goes without saying that it was a welcome and unexpected twist. Financially they need their winter hunting to continue and obviously realised that they also needed our co-operation for it to do so and, for the following few weeks, there were no hunting parties, at least not close by, but even the distant shooting sounded threatening.
On the face of it, following the Girresse son's welcome intervention, things were how they had been before. I'd return home from work and the boys would be charging about the garden, followed by the dogs. The hens would cluck fussily at me as I checked my barren winter orchard and the cats would be searching for a shelter somewhere to lie languidly and judgementally before attacking some poor rodent or late-season lizard. And the horses… well, they'd regard me with their customary disdain while the goats bleated quietly at their feet. It would be just how I like it.
Only it wasn't like that anymore, not at all. The place had been corrupted and we, perhaps more so me, needed to find a way to deal with that or… or what?
Harsh Treatments
It was hard not to feel besieged. There really seemed to be no imminent threat from the old lunatic, but nonetheless dog walking stopped for a while, the boys didn't go out unaccompanied to play in the fields anymore, not that they ever did anyway and, finally some good news: all thoughts of my cycling-in-the-fields exercise regime were ended with immediate effect. The Tour de France is hard enough for mods, but even Bradley Wiggins didn't have to deal with people shooting at him.
Then, when we were joined at Christmas by twenty or so members of Natalie's extended French family, it felt like the cavalry had arrived and our confidence was able to re-establish itself. Surrounded by bickering and drinking indigenous gourmands reminded us exactly why we'd come out here in the first place: family gatherings like this one, the fun, the warmth and, let's be honest, the safety in numbers. It was a refreshing break for us.
Also, although appalled by the implied violence, Natalie's family didn't take Girresse's threats as seriously as we did. The feeling was that people like Girresse were just anachronistic blowhards clinging to their symbols of power and influence, their posturing wasn't uncommon, but these threats 'rarely' led to anything. Monique, one of Natalie's aunts, told us how she'd found a group of hunters wandering across her own fields recently, where they obviously had no right to be, and who when confronted, seemed utterly bewildered that anyone would even think of restricting their movement, but were moved on unceremoniously anyway. Which is all very well and indeed a welcome piece of information, but which ignores the fact that Monique in full flow would stop most large-scale military invasions, let alone a group of chasseurs pootling about after lunch.
The general consensus was that it would all blow over; we were making a mountain out of a molehill and should take a break for a while, get away. Natalie and I didn't need to be told twice.
It has become something of a between-Christmas-and-New-Year tradition for us to try and get a couple of days away together somewhere anyway. It's not just an opportunity to have some time away from the children and the animals, but also Christmas itself – not just the big family gathering, which although a welcome annual fixture can be overwhelming, but sometimes Christmas traditions themselves. For instance, and I'll admit this may be a minor grouch, the relentless attempts by people to flog you a new calendar.
The postmen and binmen I get, it's a reward for a job well done, they'll keep up the good work next year and, because you purchased one of their calendars, they'll make sure your letterbox remains junk-mail-free and that your rubbish won't be strewn all over the drive. It's extortion, obviously, but you expect to give a tip to the postmen and binmen at Christmas, but the firemen? What would happen if we didn't buy a calendar from them? Would they not stretch out their ladder far enough for a tree-stuck cat? Throw less water on a fire? And before some of you get excited at the prospect of firemen selling their calendars, it's not that kind of calendar at all. Largely the pictures are of them slightly out of focus and taking it in turns to sit behind the one desk that their station has. It is a quite poor affair. By the time the new year rolls around we have at least a dozen calendars, none of which are particularly attractive.
Aside from hunters and my pedantic arguments over calendar collections, there were other reasons to try and get away. Natalie was becoming increasingly concerned for Junior and needed a few days respite from his apparent failing health and spirit, and her own subsequent fears for his welfare. Happily, we took advantage of Natalie's parents' offer to look after the place and sought refuge in a health spa a couple of hours south. Bless the French; only they would build a health spa and detox centre around a high-quality gourmet restaurant and a well-stocked wine cellar.
Just about the only experience I have of a health spa or gym is the opening 20 minutes from Thunderball, but we were both in need of a good break and looking forward to seeing what our 'treatments' – which were included in the price – would turn out to be. There was an 'algae body wrap', which sounded more like a detox lunch from a fancy deli than a treatment, a massage and chemotherapy. Well, I heard it as chemotherapy anyway and immediately began suggesting to the receptionist that maybe they rethink our treatments, when Natalie pointed out that the now-flustered woman had actually said 'chromotherapy', something entirely different altogether, apparently.
The treatments weren't to start until the following day, however, so for the first afternoon we could lazily enjoy the pool, the sauna, the jacuzzi and the saltwater jet-stream thing. I had a problem, though. I don't own any gym or leisurewear and the thin robes that we had been given at reception to wear around the hotel were frankly an affront to mankind: a shapeless, almost doily-thin affair that was completely see-through and just screamed 'No dignity here.' I refused to wear mine and insisted that Natalie do likewise, so we hired a couple of towelling robes that were much more the part and enabled us, me really, to look down on those that hadn't done the same. To be perfectly honest, I was still prickly from having to buy a pair of trunks. I had assumed that swim shorts would be banned, for rather spurious hygiene reasons, as they are certainly in most municipal pools in France, and so on Christmas Eve I had flown around the shops looking for a pair of 'legal' trunks. Twenty-nine euros I had paid for a pair of budgie smugglers, twenty-nine bloody euros, and yet I seemed to be the only one in the place not wearing shorts! I felt robbed, semi-naked and self-conscious, and for a time also reluctant to let go of my towelling robe.
Natalie had no such qualms and was immediately in the pool and relaxing while I smarted at the poolside. Relaxation really isn't my thing – what looks like a calm environment to you, or Natalie, is just another opportunity to get worked up for me and I felt aggrieved that there were no free loungers. Eventually I had no choice but to get in the pool as well, as my brooding poolside presence with my robe done up tightly to my neck was actually beginning to look a bit menacing, and I was getting some worried looks, clearly upsetting the relaxation vibe.
I'd only been in the water a few minutes when Natalie insisted that we try the sauna. I quite like saunas, though I'm not at all sure what they're supposed to do. They always seem to descend into some kind of unspoken competition to see how long you can stay in. Frankly, I'd had enough after a couple of minutes, but seeing as no-one else was budging I stayed in until, through the tiny window in the door, I spotted that one of the jacuzzis was completely empty and I made a dash for it.
It was wonderful. The warm bubbles massaged my perennially sore 'traveller's back' and for five minutes I allowed myself to relax completely, eyes closed and head back, just soaking it all up. It was sheer bliss.
'Monsieur? Excusez-moi?' I was woken from my reverie as an elderly woman tried to step over me to get in and was signalling for me to move around. I did so and inadvertently let in a further four people. My solo jacuzzi paradise was immediately gone and I was now squashed in between the others, with all our feet touching each other's in the well in the middle! I refuse to get on cramped trains sometimes, so this was absolute hell. I also hate feet, yet someone else's toes – SOMEONE ELSE'S TOES – were on top of mine, leaving me paralysed and unable to move. I was in there nearly forty minutes, ramrod tense, until the others got out and I could finally get myself out too, by this time a wrinkled wreck and looking a very long way from the picture of health and happiness I'd seen in the brochure.
The dinner that night was magnificent. I don't know how many detox diets contain déclinaison de foie gras aux poireaux et rhubarbe, followed by pomme de ris de veau aux pois gourmands et fondue de carottes de Créance, but I'm all for it, and if detox also revolves around the hearty consumption of the sort of red wine that makes a grown man purr with delight then again, count me in. I mean it's entirely possible that I was ordering from the wrong menu, but people go on about the barren, cheerless austerity of dieting and detoxification, and the strict discipline involved – well they're clearly not doing it right and I expanded loquaciously on this theory to Natalie over the immaculate table. She quite rightly wasn't listening, her mind was elsewhere and I knew exactly where too. It was going to take more than a swim, sauna and a baba poires au vin à la cannelle to distract her from thoughts of Junior.
According to the vet, he'd developed something called equine exertional rhabdomyolysis or – wait for it – 'Monday morning disease'. Apparently, it's common not only with every human who has a proper job, but also working horses – or horses who have too much carbohydrate in their diet, or horses with a thyroid or reproductive hormonal imbalance, but which must be fairly rare in workshy geldings who stand around all day eating grass and hay, and whose only previous known activities were angry sex and a bellicose spirit.
He'd become a shadow of his former self and even (and this shows how unwell he was) seeking my company when I was in the paddock, nudging me and apparently looking for support. I'm no Doctor Doolittle, but the temptation to lean in close and tell him that this was penance for being an utter shit for most of his adult life was a strong one, but I was actually feeling quite sorry for him. He had been put on a course of medication, which hopefully would bring him physically back to his prime, but the mental scars from his usurpation by Ultime were going to take longer to heal. She had become almost wild in defending the goats, which meant that it had actually become unsafe to enter the paddock at times as she would come charging towards you, snorting her anger like some grudge-bearing rugby player.
The farrier had paid his regular visit and had said that this behaviour isn't uncommon among fillies at all, far from it. 'They turn,' he said wistfully, looking into the distance. 'You give them everything you have, and then bang! They want more…' Clearly no longer talking about female horses, we just left him to get on with things.
'We'll just have to see what happens,' Natalie had said when we were out of earshot of the farrier, 'but we can always send her back if she gets out of hand.'
'Really?' I asked, incredulous. 'But I thought we'd rescued her from an abattoir?' Natalie looked at me like I was insane.
'No! Do you ever listen? We're like a foster home for her, we don't own her. She can go back at any time if she gets too much for us.'
'Right. So who did we get from an abattoir then?'
She'd already gone, which was probably just as well as I'm pretty sure that 'abattoir' has been used as an excuse for taking on at least one other stray.
We talked about Junior and everything else over the meal, the chance to get away giving us the opportunity and the distance to do so, and then had an early night in preparation for our 'treatments' the next day, and also to sleep off my 'detox' indigestion.
Natalie had rather nervously ventured the question of whether I'd actually be able to 'control myself' during the massage, which will give you some idea of how little she thinks of me, but really, there was never any problem on that score.
It seemed to be a house rule that whether you were having a 'blissful full-body massage', 'a full cleansing facial' or just bobbing about in a flotation tank you would be subjected to Enya's Greatest Hits whether you liked it or not. I say 'hits', but surely she's only ever done one song and just managed to cleverly rename it ever since? As a result, although physically relaxed inside I was ready to punch walls as 'Sail away, sail away…' kept reverberating around my head for the next two days like a metal ball banging around in a pinball machine.
But the overall rest was magnificent. I don't de-stress well, if at all, but just two days in that detox–retox paradise was the tonic we both needed, giving us renewed energy to tackle home life again.
We woke on the Saturday morning, our last day, to a beautifully bright and clear view that went on for miles across the valley of La Creuse and the Limousin beyond that.
'You know what?' said Natalie wistfully, taking in the breathtaking sight. 'It's nice to see beautiful countryside and not feel I have to go and clear the poo up.'
Well, quite.
Unfortunately, Junior's condition hadn't improved any in our brief absence. The vet had recommended a course of treatment that, while initially giving him some sort of fillip, was now having no effect whatsoever, and in fact seemed to be making him worse.
I found him in the field one morning later that week, lying down on his haunches almost like he was crouching, surrounded by the seemingly worried goats, and he didn't look good. The whole tableau, especially with his long mane, actually made him look like the defeated Aslan surrounded by a host of Mr Tumnusses (Tumni?). I approached him gingerly and he bowed his head almost in supplication, his heavy breathing making great clouds in the frosty air. Despite his illness you could still sense his enormous power, but it seemed to be fading.
Strangely enough, Ultime was also lying down not too far away, but then she immediately shot up, whinnied and started prancing around like a dressage diva, clearly pleased with herself. Was she mocking him? Surely not? Yet it definitely seemed like that and Junior watched her coldly, but with resignation.
'We need to get the vet out again, I think,' I said to Natalie, though obviously she had already been on the case. Our usual vet unfortunately was taking a holiday for the new year in her native Belgium and, not only that, she was planning to sell up her practice and move back there for good! She had moved here at about the same time as us and, though very likeable, she was, I think, slightly mistrusted by a number of the locals, certainly the men who possibly didn't think a woman should be prodding about at livestock. She also had a very sinister monobrowed boyfriend who we hadn't actually seen for a few years, but who you knew was lurking in the surgery because of the pungent smell of his odious brand of cigarettes.
So, after eight years she was going back to Belgium. Obviously the almost full-time job of being personal physician to our fluctuating menagerie was paying so well she was planning to leave this rural backwater and head back to Brussels, where the only patients would be pampered, hand-bagged toy dogs carried by EU gravy-trainers. I felt slightly let down by this, I admit, but these things happen. I used to work quite regularly in Mumbai, where my presence practically built the empire of a local off-licence owner, probably putting his children through college, but then I stopped going to India and the man may be back now to knocking out homemade hooch for a couple of rupees. These things happen.
With our vet not being around it enabled us to get a guilt-free second opinion on Junior's plight, though Natalie was once again convinced that she had found the problem and that he was actually suffering from sand colic. In short, a horse chews down the grass so far that he takes in a mouth full of dirt each time, and with our soil being so sandy Natalie reasoned he was probably full of the stuff.
'Can't we just tip him up then?' I asked, hoping to save money on yet another vet house call. 'You know, like an egg timer?'
