The Old Hack

I write this as England take on the mighty South African team in the final of Rugby's world cup.  We're watching the match with French commentary from a hotel room in Narbonne, on the South West coast.

Yesterday afternoon, en route from Vienne to Toulouse, our trusty old green Mercedes got the hiccups just outside a very small village called Lougratte, between the towns of Bergerac and Agens.  When I say hiccups, that is because I don't understand the vagaries of auto engineering.  What actually happened was that suddenly all the dials reset themselves at zero.  Petrol, oil pressure, temperature....  We stopped opposite asmall village hotel/bar/cafe where a young man at the bar, who had been in highly animated (French) conversation with an older man, clearly saw that we had glazed English looks about us, and offered his help in what seemed a very authentic South London accent.  He pointed us in the direction of the village garage, a mere 500 metres away, where the proprietor quickly diagnosed the problem as a blown fuse, replaced it and refused to take any payment in return for his efforts.

Returning to the small bar, we offered our saviour a beer, which was graciously accepted.  The recipient turned out to be Yannick, a 24 year old English lad, who had moved to France with his family from South East London five years ago, and who was now accepted by the village barflies as one of the community.  His French is perfect, and he has taken on the local accent.  All this with no formal schooling in the language, and an initial reluctance on his part to move away from London.

Yannick explained that his father, for whom he works as a plasterer, had let him off work early so that he could install himself in the bar in preparation for the France v Argentina rugby match.  A large television was set up in preparation, the table on which it stood draped with the tricolor bearing the words "allez les bleus" (come on you blues).

We decided that as time and daylight was not on our side, we would book into a room in the small hotel adjoining the bar.  We were offered bed, breakfast and evening meal at an incredibly favourable rate and settled down to enjoy a three course meal in the restaurant (through an adjoining door from the bar).

The only couple in the restaurant, we enjoyed a 'table d'hote' menu of warm duck salad followed by steak and a chocolate sundae, feeling guilty at keeping the chef and waiter (father and son) away from the rugby showing in the bar.  We finished our meal by about twelve minutes into the game, and went into the bar for coffee.

Unseen by us, the bar area had been furnished with three rows of dining tables, at which were sat the village rugby enthusiasts, enjoying their warm duck salads whilst watching France lose dreadfully to Argentina.

By the time the chocolate sundae was served, the assembed audience was resigned to an Argentinian victory, and offered polite applause at a successful drop goal by Argentina and even more genuine applause at the next (beautifully executed) Argentinian try.

We couldn't help but compare this very amicable scene to the reaction in British pubs to an international defeat in almost any sport you could name.  How very civilized.  How very French.  Vive les bleus!