'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY' Part 7......

To be nostalgic again just for a moment, when I was last in this appealing part of France, we stayed in an apartment block in St Jean de Luz, a short distance south of Biarritz, and almost close enough to the Spanish border for the French to leer disdainfully at their southern neighbours – you know, the sort of look that I find waiters in Paris have perfected to such an extent, it can make you wince, hide under your table, or simply run. During our period of residence, south west France suffered some of the most dramatic and catastrophic rainstorms ever witnessed, which, apart from wiping the smirks of one or two faces, actually caused rather a lot of genuine destruction and mayhem. Our apartment block was something of a godsend (being on the 5th floor) and a surreal vantage point to witness the results of such natural savagery, as we were located right next to the River Nivelle, that flows directly from the Pyrenees and out in the Atlantic through St Jean de Luz and neighbouring Ciboure. Only after water was sent into the River system in quantities that it could not handle, the Nivelle rather blasted through the towns and villages upstream, before positively roaring through St Jean at a height many metres above normal, and brought with it a mass of detritus that was both sad and bizarre. I still have photos that shows not only the normal flotsam of tree branches and modern day litter (perhaps Coke cans do grow on trees), but also several caravans and more than one fridge. It all rather spoiled the somewhat chic air that St Jean de Luz tried hard to portray.

Twenty years on, and on a warm and sultry Sunday morning, the only thing troubling me was finding somewhere to park. I didn’t remember St Jean being quite this busy or indeed, quite this large, but today it seemed to be doing a passable impression of central London. While this would be no problem for your usual balanced and calm individual, put me in a car where I have already been around the block twice trying to find a space, and have witnessed at least three old ladies in pristine little Renault Clios have the extraordinary good fortune of someone pulling out of gap that is remarkably Clio-sized just as they arrive, just one car in front of me, and with the added indignity of the rest of the family starting to giggle at my misfortune, and you can watch my pallor change in real time, hear my teeth grind and flinch at the expletives. All fathers will recognise the scenario, particularly the one where, having finally found a spot about 3 miles away, and where the size of the space is such that cutting a hole in the roof might make getting out of the car quicker, your ever supportive family deliver their final volley of mirth at your expense and are falling about in uncontrollable hilarity – and all this does is make you even more angry, until you finally turn and strop off somewhere (probably in the opposite direction to where you want to go, which makes the return journey back past the car and your assembled humiliators still more painful). But never mind, I am sure they love you really.

St Jean de Luz is undoubtedly smart, but not intimidating or haughty. You could wander around its pretty streets and squares for hours, and although many of the shops and stalls are tourist oriented, it generally steers clear of the worst excesses of tat. While as a resort, the town actually dates back only to the mid 19th century, the port dates back many hundreds of years, though few buildings survive from before 1558, at which point a fire destroyed much of the townscape, which means much of the seafront is modern. But there is sufficient of interest to make St Jean an absorbing and charming place, with many pedestrian precincts, and a rather neat, intrinsically French blend of pleasant beach resort and attractive port. The beach that lays out in front of the town, with a high promenade immediately behind, is a pleasure, and it would be both churlish, and disingenuous to suggest that the confection of buildings that lay behind the beach spoil the impression, because frankly, they do not. Time did not permit a lengthy stay on the beach, but we satisfied ourselves with a fresh tuna baguette, sat in the half shade, on the wall overlooking the beach and luxuriating in the atmosphere and contented scene around us.

The mention of Tuna neatly moves us onto the port. While I still could not imagine Whales being hauled up into this rather peaceable town, fishing is still a significant livelihood, especially fishing for Tuna. For those, like me, who had no idea as to the proportions and size of a Tuna fish, and who, understandably, equate the little cans you get with a sea borne creature of similar measurements, I have a shock for you. It was only when I first came here, that I saw being landed what looked like a cross between a dolphin in a tight black wet-suit, and the fish of Satan. Its big, its pretty much black and its ugly, but it tastes ever so good. The port itself is picturesque without being twee, a number of elegant and ancient buildings guarding over the harbour. I liked St Jean de Luz twenty years ago, and I like it now. Its not breathtaking, stunning, awe-inspiring or dramatic, but it is accommodating (save the car parking), human, attractive and relaxing – and pretty much everywhere does a mean Salad Nicoise.

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If St Jean de Luz is a little understated and modestly chic, Bayonne is rather more loud and impressive. I am not one to draw conclusions here, but the town was in fact English for 300 years. Okay, in 1451, it reverted to French rule, but perhaps there is a remnant of English brashness that resides in this lively and interesting town. A codicil however – Biarritz and Bayonne virtually merge into one big conurbation, but the true heart of Bayonne are the two areas known as Grand and Petit Bayonne, on the banks of the River Adour at its junction with the Nive. Park on the western side of the old town, and you will find yourself in pleasant parkland, looking up at striking ramparts that run around the southwest quadrant. Take the signposted route through these grand monuments and within minutes you are within an array of romantic and striking streets and tall buildings, peering at the splendour of St Mary’s Cathedral, built between the 13th and 16th centuries. If you are not bothered by a fixed itinerary (and in any event, Old Bayonne is not that big), then just wander and marvel. There are 14th century gothic cloisters, half timbered medieval town houses, impossibly atmospheric, and sometimes narrow, thoroughfares with tottering, towering buildings, busy squares and bustling cafes, museums, quays and attractive covered arcades sheltering pristine little shops serving such delicious looking pastries and chocolates, that you will need to take a Kleenex to wipe the drool off your shoes.

Bayonne was an extremely prosperous and busy port, reaching its peak in the 18th century, and in such conditions trades and crafts burgeon and blossom. One such was the towns Corporation of Ironworkers and Armourers, whose members invented the bayonet (named, unsurprisingly, after Bayonne), and which was first used by the French infantry in 1703. This might suggest a somewhat aggressive or pugilistic nature for these particular brand of French, or possibly its that latent English hooligan element from the 14th century, and perhaps it was this that prompted one of the few moments of disappointment in what was otherwise a harmonious Anglo-French meeting during our two week stay. According to my little guide book, if I was on a budget (and we have to take this term with a soupcon de sel as far as this particular guide book is concerned), I should head for a particular restaurant on the waterfront overlooking the Nive. We had checked out a few other establishments in the area beforehand, but thought that, yes, prices were reasonable, in a French sort of way, and the menu looked interesting without being too leftfield (always important when you have to feed two children as well). Being fairly early in the evening (another child led dictat), the place appeared to be empty, and so I sauntered in, and in my probably very obvious English version of French, enquired
“Excusez-moi, esque vous avez une table pour quatre, s’il vous plait?”
Perhaps it was that I had used the feminine noun for ‘table’, perhaps I really should have shaved before we ventured out, or perhaps the waiters blood line ran all the way back to an ancient Bayonne tradesmen who had had something of an altercation with an arriving Brit back in 1154 which ended in tears. Either way, I eventually made out that he was telling me that the place was fully booked. Yeah, right, and I am Jamie Oliver come to check out your ingredients. I gave him a mildly incredulous look, realised that wearing shorts might not have endeared me to him, and walked away.

No matter. We simply went to the other side of the river, found a slightly more down to earth café, and enjoyed, amongst other things, an excellent ‘soupe de poisson’, piles of crevettes piled high in garlic, and a refreshing beer or two, while we murmured barely audible insults across the water. It didn’t spoil the impression of Bayonne one little bit, but it did remind me that in every quarter, in every culture, in every country, you will always find a modicum of prejudice. And on reflection, you probably find rather more of it in England than anywhere else. Bon Apetit!

'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY', Part 6 - The Basque Country continues to fascinate......

I used to love football. I say this in the past tense, as it fails to get me excited or interested these days – angry and despairing, yes, interested, no. Call me a Grumpy Old Man (and personally, I am happy to wear the badge with pride), but it lacks the flair and honest passion that seemed apparent to me when I watched the likes of Best, Charlton and Law (sorry, the 1968 European Cup sucked me into Manchester United like millions of others). Instead, I have to watch snide sub-intellectuals who have abundant qualifications in cheating, acting and it would seem spitting in your opponents face when the referee isn’t looking. Call me old fashioned, but it doesn’t really do it for me like George at his best making an opponents defence look like a group of uncoordinated drunks. I could go on, but it would get very boring.

In this part of France however, the French have a game that will have you breathless just sitting in your seat. In fact, it’s the only live entertainment I have ever watched which made me forget that at all live events they make the seat so uncomfortable, you may as well be asked to bring your own concrete block. In Italy, every town, village and hamlet will have a football pitch. In the Basque country, you will find Pelota courts marginally more numerous than McDonalds – that’s to say, they are everywhere.

In it simplest form, it is a high wall that looks just like the back wall of a squash court, with a modest court (or ‘fronton’) laid out in front, but in its most theatrical and energetic format, it is a covered three sided battleground, with spectators ranged on stands at the open side. You could (just about) be forgiven for thinking this was just a glorified version of that old schoolground favourite (well, it was in my day!) of fives, but even the most seasoned fives champion from the back wall just behind the boys toilets at Richard Hale School during the early 1970’s would have been a cowering lump of mincemeat in this arena to the truly fast and furious. The game is believed to have developed from a Basque version of Handball in the 17th century, and found its true spiritual home in Spain. From there it was exported to Cuba and arrived in Miami in 1924 (the Americans steal all the best ideas). Apparently, it is played at its most serious and professional in Mexico, Cuba and Miami, and, I am told, ‘less competitively’ in southern Europe. Let me tell you, if what I saw was ‘less competitive’, then I suggest we simply round up some Pelota players from downtown Miami and send them after Osama Bin Laden, as I doubt he would stand a chance (unless he is a secret world class pelota player of course).

There are a variety of versions of this apparently contrived form of sport and entertainment, but probably the most popular is ‘Cesta Punta’, where players use a curved wicker basket strapped to their arms like some alien extension out of a John Carpenter Sci-Fi horror. In keeping with the gladiatorial theme, players wear hard hats, and strike their opponents down with swords. Okay, no, they don’t slay their fellow competitors with large glinting blades, but this has all the speed and ferocity of that sort of arena, without the loss of whole limbs and pools of blood. There are however frequent pools of sweat which have to be mopped up at regular intervals, and I can’t say I am surprised.

In simple terms, in the game of doubles that I saw, one team hits (or rather launches) the ball against the court wall to the right, and tries to do so at such speed and with such perverse angles, dips and sheer guile that their opponents can’t (according to my simple understanding of physics and the ability of man to move at modest speed) possibly return it – except they do. To describe this as a manic game of squash does not do it justice. Consider: one little research article tells me that it is not unknown for the ball to travel at 150 miles per hour – then ponder that this is not just a one off rampant serve from a pumped-up Sampras, but is the velocity that this small, hard, goatskin ball travels at each fling towards the wall and then rebounding back. Now take four white clad combatants as fiercely competitive as I have seen outside a Wales vs England Rugby scrum, and mix in with abundant and astounding skills in running, catching, twisting on a centime and hurling the ball back towards the court wall in one, flowing, seamless balletic movement. And all this with an unnatural appendage attached to your arm to apparently aid the process. I can only really liken it to an engrossing lifesize version of pinball, with all the unexpected movement, colour and adrenaline that you could imagine, and with a crowd almost as fevered as the play. I was utterly transfixed, I saw catches, moves and returns that I would not have thought were possible, and I was more caught up in the excitement than I have ever been at any sporting event, save possibly seeing dear old Nigel Mansell monstering a Ferrari through the old Stowe corner at Silverstone, looking like it was on rails, when the speed suggested it should have been demolishing the scenery. In fact, in one small lull, I caught my wife looking at me with a mixture of disbelief and amusement, completely taken aback that her usually implacable and unemotional old man was twitching, gasping and gesticulating like a ..well, like a twitching, gasping and gesticulating old man – a sort of Terry Wogan on speed, I suspect.

If you ever get the chance to go and see this astounding game, do not miss it. 20 years ago, I saw the even more ridiculous version where they play on a smaller, and more intimate, court, and merely have some frankly inadequate little wooden plates strapped to their palms to hit the ball against the wall. It is possible that they are all completely barking, but to me it is simply sporting competition distilled to its finest and most exciting elements.

'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY', Part 5....(this is fast becoming a strange experience, as its becoming apparent that I am writing to myself...)

Actually, I have any number of examples of the French being both helpful and friendly, but there is one other that stands out. Leaving late one morning, we were venturing again into the interior, and by lunchtime were reasonably close to our destination, when we passed through the town of Hasparren. It is a fairly unremarkable, but perfectly inoffensive place, but at midday on a Tuesday, was all rather lifeless, virtually all shops closed, just a few bars with their doors open, usually with a wily looking old Frenchman sat at a table by himself, almost invariably with a fag drooping from his mouth, either remonstrating amiably (like only the French can) with someone else propped at the bar, or pouring over his paper. This then was not a promising trail for us to find something to eat of the snack variety, but we happened upon what I can only surmise was a small delicatessen, with a small line in the tiniest filled rolls I have ever seen. Owing to their size, and won over by the proprietors warm smile, we pretty much cleaned out his stock, even if he did clearly think we were mad to buy up what was probably a weeks supply of canapés and finger food. Like most others we met in France, they were polite, utterly forgiving of our atrocious French, and genuine in their good wishes.

This came home to me within 30 seconds of wandering out of his shop, when I heard shouts of “ Monsieur, Monsieur!”. I turned around thinking that once more what I thought I had said was wide of the mark, but within a few seconds realised he was brandishing something that was definitely not of a threatening nature. In fact, it was my wallet. A tip – if you do not know the language well enough, beware of being profuse, as you probably sound like a total dickhead. For me, I didn’t care, but was aware that trying to say ‘thank you very, very much, you are a hero, how can I thank you, you are truly a God etc’ in another language would probably bring ridicule. Like the affable French gentleman he was, he shrugged and toddled back to his shop, bless him.

Our destination for this journey were the nearby prehistoric caves, or Grottes d’Isturitz et Oxocelhaya. These are in fact two sets of long abandoned chambers and cavities of the underground course of the River Aberoue, located one above the other. What I liked about this from the beginning was the rustic, understated nature of the place, including the rough but neat gravelled car park, from where you had to walk a good 15 minutes along a track that led along the side of a hill, rising ever more steeply and affording long views across fields, thick hedgerows and scattered farmsteads, and out to more hills and distant mountains. This I felt was more French than we had seen, and was all the more rich for the relative peace and quiet, save for cawing crows and chattering birds, the gentle conversation of the odd group of people that passed by, and the bonkers antics of Cara, who insisted she make her way up this path, leaping from one hidden spot to another like a demented cross between James Bond and Wonderwoman, only without the satin tights.

When we reached the entrance, there was of course the obligatory visitor centre, but the quiet, discreet and tasteful theme continued, built tidily into the hillside, constructed of (presumably local) wood, and without the glaring signs and posters inciting me to ingest a triple whopper burger, whilst at the same time imploring me to inject a certain fizzy drink whose addictive qualities may bear more than a passing resemblance to its globally shortened name. In fact, all there was, was a sign telling us the time of the next tour, another pleasant lady who sussed our nationality within a microsecond, and a modest little exhibition and shop, all, of course, in the best possible taste. The caves were first discovered in 1895, and consist of some 600m of incredible underground tunnels and mazes. Neanderthal Man was the first tenant, but in the first hint of a changing rooms society, he was succeeded by Cro-Magnon, something of a handyman, inventor and artist (a sort of early Linda Barker and Handy Andy in one), who by all accounts had quite an impact on the world. In all there are more than 70 000 objects, paintings and engravings that have been uncovered on the site, and are witness to the importance of this place.

While the cold of these places is always the thing that hits you, you cant help but be stunned by the size, proportion and capacity of the caves, and your first entrance into the upper cave, the Grotte Isturitz is no exception. It is in this complex that there is most evidence of mans early obsession with interior design and decoration, but I am pleased to report, not a sign of MDF or Roman Murals. More impressive for me is the astounding natural geological theatre of the second stage of the tour, into the Grotte Oxocelhaya. The Caves own literature describes these as ‘a natural masterpiece, a cathedral of rock carved by water over thousands of years’ and I would not disagree. The incredibly convoluted shapes and formations, the fascinating and magical natural stalagmites and stalactites, columns, discs, petrified cascades and curtains, in a range of some of the earths most translucent and warm colours through reds, oranges, dusky pinks and ochres, are quite astounding. You could well imagine being in one of Disneys best and most imaginative scenes of make-believe, except this was real and all the more enthralling and captivating for that – you really could not imagine or make this up. It would have been surreal, if it wasn’t for the knowledge that this was as natural as earth, wind and water, and indeed it was all made by those three elements.

Just to round off the impression, our guide (who hadn’t spoken a word of English), then proceeded to ‘play’ a huge range of stalagmites that looked like a range of oversized organ pipes, but sounded like a monstrous and very deep glockenspiel - as he hit them, they resonated, like some great underground music system, only with a touch more finesse and mystery than The Darkness on CD. We then trundled back up several flights of stairs and then were thrust rudely back into the real, brightly lit world, as the warm air and the green vista of rural south west France lay before us. I have rarely witnessed the juxtaposition of two natural scenes so apparently diverse, but both deserve attention.

'SOMEWHERE HOLIDAY', Part 4 (even though I dont think anyone is reading this....)

I have a picture in my shambolic collection of old photos that shows myself and my two accomplices from 20 years ago, when we first travelled to this part of France. Once you have stopped laughing at the shiny blue running shorts, the ridiculously tight white vest, the mild beer-gut and the sunglasses big enough for two people, you notice that apart from me and my companions, all you can see is a spectacular clear view from the edge of this mountain top, across the green fields that sweep at an alarmingly steep descent through to the plain of the river valley beyond and out to the Atlantic Sea – it’s a bit like the biggest skate ramp in the Universe (Ever!). My memory of this place is one of wonder and tranquillity, but also (like so many discovered destinations) the fun of getting there.

La Rhune is something of a cultural symbol for the French Basques. At nearly 3000 feet high, close to the Spanish border, and lying just back from the coast behind St Jean de Luz, you should have the most splendid panorama across land and sea, the Basque Pyrenees to east and south, the Bay of Biscay to the West, and away towards the Landes to the north. Getting up to La Rhune was a happy discovery in 1983, when we stumbled across the little rack railway sited at the Col de St Ignace on the road to Sare. Granted, memory becomes more rose-tinted and less wistful with age, but I recall the bottom station being a small discreet affair, perhaps the odd small associated retail outlet, probably an obligatory ice cream van, and a gentle saunter in at any time of day, to buy a ticket and hop on board a quaint little carriage with other like minded amiable travellers, as we shifted around with eager anticipation whilst the train wound its way quietly up the steep slopes to the summit. I do recall marvelling at the views and vistas that opened up as we travelled up the mountain, and of course the truly breathtaking visual assault that greeted us as we stepped out at the summit, and made our way to what seemed a small viewing area, circled with a low, makeshift wall.

Either I have chronic memory failure, or 20 years has changed things rather more drastically than I had feared, or perhaps this is just what society is like these days. If there was one thing that I had savoured showing Sharon and the girls, it was La Rhune, with all its romance and beauty, but I suppose the cynic in me should have known better. To begin with, parking was a veritable Gordian Knot of a task – I had not seen such traffic chaos and lines of cars looking as if they had been thrown into the verges by some cantankerous giant since Silverstone 1983, although at least this time we did not have to walk so far that by the time we got there, things were almost over (I still remember the sinking feeling when on the last section of our marathon trek into the circuit, my ears were assaulted by the unmistakeable sound of a pack of Formula One cars blasting away from the grid, while we were almost on our knees with exhaustion, and yet to even get into the circuit). Having found a spot beside the road which seemed a perfect fit for the car, providing you didn’t mind it being an occasional hazard for oncoming traffic, and wended our way up the road to the station, we then had to join a line that would not have looked out of place in a Moscow bread queue (except the Muscovites probably behave rather better than the average tourist, and dress rather more soberly).

Eventually, we managed to make the ticket office, and my money was taken with the practised art of someone who was on commission for the number of passengers he could get through his turnstile. Problem was that having squeezed onto the platform, there appeared to be a mismatch between the number of people waiting and the capacity of this waiting place. That is to say that the former grossly exceeded the latter, so that the mass that waited, bundling and spilling over the track and every other area around the station made it look like an evacuation scene from a Hollywood blockbuster. When the train arrived, it was clear that this actually was a scene from a Hollywood blockbuster, as people elbowed and trampled their way into the carriages, so throwing my polite, English meekness aside, I of course let them, but we still managed to find two spaces opposite each other of sufficient size that if Sharon and I melded into a single person, and Cara sat on Sian’s lap, we could sit in comfort. Okay, it wasn’t quite that bad, but it was all pretty cosy, and that in itself spelt, sorry, smelt, another problem.

Immediately behind us in this mobile open sided sardine can was a family of swarthy appearance, most of more than ample girth. There must have been ten of them, but chances are they were double this size, but to save room, they had swallowed the other 10 offspring, which would have accounted for their somewhat portly stature. They were also inclined to talk profusely, in a language that had me baffled, and at a level that challenged ones comfort. Okay, okay enough of the pleasantries – they were fat, greasy, loud and – worst of all - unpleasantly fragrant. The smell was difficult to describe, but if you were to blend the atmosphere of a boys sports changing room from a 1930’s school that was in need of refurbishment, a condemned kitchen from a flat in Hackney where they probably fried everything (twice), and an armpit that hadn’t seen soap for a fortnight, you wont be far wrong. The look on Sharons face was a curious combination of distress and amusement, and total relief when we got to the top.

I am pleased to say that the view from the summit of La Rhune was still splendid, if a little misty on that particular August day. The coast and the sea were just visible, while to the south there was a wonderfully textured landscape of hummocks and peaks, winding valleys, and sweeping little swathes of forest painted onto the hillsides far below. A solitary footpath swept away from the summit down a slope that seemed to run at a constant 45 degrees, perfectly zigging one way and then zagging the other, like a lace track in a corset, until it disappeared in a closing funnel of trees into the quiet green idyll below. Tracks and roads ran amok in this distant countryside, thin and apparently random as if they had been scratched and etched by a dreamy doodler. Above all of this birds soared, wheeled, circled and rose amongst the mist and the green and the mountains. While a clear, crisp view would have been particularly splendid, it was still beautiful and tranquil, providing you kept away from Mr & Mrs Loud n’ Smelly and their assembled horde.

The problem with the summit however was a function of the welcome that was perpetrated in its retail establishments, particularly the Café. It seemed a reasonable idea to have a sandwich and a drink, but such an experience is inevitably coloured by three things 1) The staff 2) The food 3) The price. I am afraid that on all three counts, this place failed so badly, I began to pine for McDonalds. Surly would have been a polite way to describe the tight black haired princess of evil that deigned to take our order, and then threw it on the table when she returned. Your choice of food was processed warm cheese, processed warm ham or (if you were feeling in particularly celebratory mood) warm processed ham and cheese in a flaccid baguette, while we opted for Coke all round for drinks to save entering into what might have been a dialogue we would regret with Mademoiselle Merde. To cap it all, I thought I was going to have to telex my bank to release sufficient funds to pay. To be honest, all they needed to do was put a big collection box at the summit station exit with a sign simply saying ‘Give us all your money – now piss off back down!’ At least that would have had some honesty about it.

This all rather tainted the experience, and certainly shattered the memories that I had, but I wouldn’t want to dissuade anyone from making this trip. The railway ride is still delightful, and if you choose the right day, the views are awesome. I can also categorically say that our encounters with those of a dubious nature were not representative of what we found elsewhere. An example may help to illustrate.

On the way back to the Villa, we decided that the time had come to change some of the travellers cheques into hard, cold cash, failing which it would have to be Euros. For this we needed a bank, and for this we needed a reasonably sized town. Unfortunately for the bank concerned, we chose Cambo Les Bains. Cambo is a quiet, very green town, particularly known as being one of a number of spa towns in the region, and on this afternoon, it seemed particularly hushed and serene – I am always faintly troubled when you can find a parking spot with consummate ease in a place where you really should have to have a fight to secure it. But here we were, pulled up outside a bank that was clearly open for business, and I assumed was used to tourists wandering in to try their faltering French and exude embarrassment at their own failings as compared to the French mastery of English. We stood politely in the queue while a succession of ordinary French people did whatever French people do at a bank at three o’clock in the afternoon – pay their TV licence, buy stamps, swap a few funny jokes about the English. And then it was our turn.

Even before I opened my mouth, I sensed an air of uncertainty and concern, although not a hint of menace or displeasure. This young girl sat before me, on the other side of a counter so pristine and sparkling you could probably have seen your reflection (if you had been stupid enough to try), looked equally unsullied and pure, and somehow I just knew that we were about to enter the twilight zone together. Here we go, best false smile to preface your worst French
“ Bonjour, est ce que vous changez les Travellers Cheques?”. To the best of my knowledge, there wasn’t a decent French equivalent of travellers cheques, and in any event, saying it in your strongest English accent made sure they had no doubt that you couldn’t really master the language if they had locked you up in Linguaphones headquarters for three years.
I thrust my passport and the travellers cheques onto the counter, but this did little more than confuse her further. For a few seconds she looked at me with a curious combination of total blankness and abject fear, but unlike a rabbit in my headlights, she didn’t choose the option of walking aimlessly into danger to be flattened by Michelins finest. Instead, she disappeared out to the back office where there were heard a variety of voices in differing pitches and tones, but all with the same unmistakable tinge of panic. Sian and I looked at each other, and fidgeted nervously. Maybe what I had actually said was an insult to her family, and that if she didn’t hand over one million euros instantly, I would fart profusely in the corner. Perhaps she had gone to fetch the armed branch of the Gendarmerie, who of course all sit around drinking coffee in the back of all French provincial Post Offices.

She returned with an equally young and fresh faced man, and a handsome Madamoiselle, but all were smiling, no pistols or AK47’s at their side.
“You word like to change zees into Euros?”
“Oui. Yes please” I said, as if saying yes in two languages might get me preferential treatment.
More smiles, and concerned shuffling about.

To cut a rather long story short (or to précis, to give its proper French translation), all three gave me the utmost attention in what I thought was a simple task, but clearly one which to them was akin to being asked to build a bridge with a packet of polos, two rubber bands and six empty matchboxes. They cheerfully, yet purposefully sorted out what was clearly the wrong form for me to sign, put down my address as my next of kins address (which in itself is wrong, as my parents moved two years ago, and I hadn’t bothered to change it in the back on my passport), and failed to charge me any commission.

On departure I gave them a genuine smile, and they even seemed to join Sian and I in a little chuckle. I like to think that I was a major factor in training them in how to change travellers cheques, a little bit of cross channel consultancy.