Three months in France came to an end all too quickly. A cousin’s marriage back in the UK was conveniently timed, allowing me one week’s grace to return to mainland Europe if needed. This was a direct result of Brexit. Prior to the referendum, travel between the UK and mainland Europe was essentially unlimited, but afterwards any travellers from England could only stay for ninety days in a one hundred and eighty day period (without a visa). At the time of writing, this applies to all mainland EU countries as a block; if you spend ninety days in France, you must leave the EU and you can’t go to Spain, for example, until another ninety days has passed. Every traveller I spoke to had a way of getting around this (apparently some border crossings don’t stamp your passport), but I had my sights set on new territories; specifically Canada.
My train back to the UK departed from Montpellier on the South coast. Montastruc to Montpellier to London wasn’t feasible in one day, so I couch-surfed in Montpellier the night before my departure. Using the Couchsurfing app, it’s possible to find a couch to sleep on (for free) in most well-populated areas. It’s worth noting that people have very mixed experiences using Couchsurfing, with lone females in particular reporting difficulties with some of the hosts. But besides the bad apples, there is an exceptional community of travellers looking to meet likeminded people. My host in Montpellier, Mehdi, had only recently settled there after travelling around Asia with essentially no money, finding his way by doing restaurant jobs and sleeping in a tent. Despite being new to the city, Mehdi was able to give me a quick tour of the centre. He had incredible stories to tell over savoury crepes, and we discussed life and politics over a game of chess at his flat.
After a messy opening (queens gambit declined) where Mehdi took the advantage, the position became more complex, ultimately resulting in me being up a piece as we approached the end game. When you have a clear advantage and a good position in chess, your mind can start wondering. So as my host battled with a nasty pin, I reflected on my time in France and wondered exactly what I had learned over the previous three months, besides French vocab.
The pace of life was one of the biggest changes; specifically the importance of meals. In rural France, the days were spent working outdoors, punctuated by lunch and dinner. These weren’t quick stops to fill up on calories, but events of central importance where everyone came together and enjoyed multiple courses. The vegetables were always fresh, and without fail there would be bread and cheese on the table. Lunches were generally a melange of various different things thrown together. I discovered that varied and colourful lunches have the magical ability to make one feel exceptionally healthy. Paired with a big dinner, sunlight and a good night’s sleep it was possible to feel 110% every day, without fail. Sleep was another big change, unrelated specifically to France. Sleeping in tents and cabins for an extended period of time puts only a thin barrier between the sleeper and the outdoors, so the morning truly feels like the morning; it’s chilly, the sun casts gentle fingers of light over the horizon, and the bird’s chorus begins. It’s the best alarm clock, and being back between four walls with a double glazed window just doesn’t feel the same.
Mehdi unpinned his queen, sacrificing a bishop to find some counter-play. I captured the bishop and went on pondering whilst he considered his next move.
I’d also learned some of the realities of organic farming. On animal farms there’s no such thing as a holiday. Pigs need feeding and cows can’t be milked anudder day. Vegetable beds need tending and equipment needs mending and there isn’t time for much else. However, I never failed to be amazed by the existence of chickens (bizarre as that sounds). They’re good for meat, like many animals, but they also reliably squeeze out eggs every single day – a delicious and nutritious food produced at the cost of just a bag of chicken feed. Some vegetables could also be exceptionally abundant and relatively easy to grow. Tomatoes and courgettes, for example, thrive in a warm greenhouse and the watering can be done by an automated system resulting in a great harvest every year. There is some work involved in maintaining, cross-pollinating and harvesting, but the effort isn’t huge for what you get.
Mehdi’s position was desperate; he advanced his king to find the protection of a group of pawns. It wasn’t clear how best to take advantage of the position, so I brought out my second rook to join the fray.
Music had also been a surprising cast-member in the trip around France. Playing an instrument is an invaluable skill for a traveller. It can build instant rapport between you and a person who would otherwise be completely uninteresting and uninterested; boring Claude had been quite amiable when trying to remember the chords of “the house of the rising sun”. Making music created a shared experience that put one in the same frame of mind as the listener; Gaston and I became friends by playing congas around a fire, and I spent hours strumming a guitar with Sam and Hugo.
A poorly considered pawn advance caused Mehdi’s position to collapse, so I manoeuvred my queen to deliver check, offering an exchange of queens. It occurred to me that this was my last night in France for the foreseeable future.
The most memorable thing about France was the people. The people I’d met were a curious mix of opinionated farmers, stressed city folk, comfortable ex-pats and matter-of-fact professionals, to cast just a few. They all shared a common trait of aloof pride in their French-ness; as a carpenter in Gironde had put it, “our animal is the coq [cockerel], because even when we’re standing in shit we still sing”. They enjoyed good food, scorching summers, beautiful beaches and unspoilt scenery, but still always found something to complain about. The usual target was people in power, and it was no surprise that France had so many independent farms, unofficial solar installations and low-key anarchists. More than anything though, the French were kind hosts. Whether it was helping out a tired hitchhiker who showed up at a barbecue, or putting another baguette on the table because they know how much you love French bread, they really did value their guests.
Seeing the position was rapidly unfolding, Mehdi offered his hand with a smile.
“Good game!”, he said, resigning.
My train departed at six AM the next morning, so I woke at five to catch a bus to the station. Mehdi woke up early specifically to say goodbye and invited me to come back next year for Feria. We had discussed this the evening before and I was surprised to discover a major national event that was completely unfamiliar to me despite my long stay. Feria happens every year in late summer in many of the cities in France. It’s origin is shared with the bullfighting festivals of Spain; attendees still dress up in white shirts with red or blue neckerchiefs. It generally lasts three days to a week, during which time street food is available, events are hosted, lots of alcohol is consumed and millions of people flock to the festivities. It’s a huge affair, and because the different regions stagger the timing, it’s possible to do multiple Ferias in one season. I had missed the Montpellier Feria by a few days, so Mehdi suggested I return next year to check it out.