Had you asked me last week, I would have described myself as one of those rare breeds that is equally comfortable in the country or in the city, having spent the first half of my life in various rural outposts and the latter half living slap, bang in the middle of assorted cities. I have always described myself as neither a country bumpkin nor a city slicker, but as a mysterious cross-breed, destined to sit on the fence and declare that both lifestyles have their merits.
However, a weekend in Shropshire – England’s most sparsely populated county – at my mother’s house has definitely forced my hand. I must choose and, what’s more, I am going to betray my roots (as the product of two farming families) and place my foot firmly into the urban camp. Being shacked up with a townie has clearly begun to rub off on me – it must be catching.
What has this got to do with France, I hear you ask? Patience, dear reader.
Back to my weekend and subsequent epiphany. On Fridays, I usually work from home. On this particular Friday, the laptop and I were ensconced in the ancestral home. Mother-dear was at work, the various siblings at work or college, so I was alone with Tom the cat. As lunchtime approached, I began to feel a little peckish. Mmmh, thought I – perhaps a warming bowl of soup, some hummus and pitta or a ciabatta with mozzarella, tomato and avocado would fit the bill. As I opened the fridge I heard the sound of winds blowing across an empty prairie – nothing. The cupboards revealed slim pickings. Nevermind, thought I, after I had spent a suitable amount of time cursing the gannets I have for siblings. I shall nip to the shop. Problem solved.
The problem was most definitely not solved. I cannot drive, it being a slightly redundant skill for those who live in central London and an extortionately expensive redundant skill to acquire, at that. A combination of hail and rain was doing its level best to take out the window panes, but hunger drove me on. I donned a full length waxed jacket belonging to my mother and a waxed hat adorned with a natty pheasant feather that was perched jauntily on the settle in the hall. Next I stepped into my younger sister’s wellingtons. At this juncture, so that you get the full mental picture, I should point out that my family are giants and, although my mother assures me that the milkman was nowhere to be seen at the time of my conception, the height gene seems to have passed me by. So there I was, swamped by a wax jacket that I could barely lift unaided, wearing wellingtons designed for Bigfoot and with hat obscuring my view, braced to go forth and hunt down my lunch.
As soon as I had navigated the driveway, I realised my first mistake. There are no pavements in the country – everyone drives everywhere, so why bother to cater for the automotively-challenged? Instead, I was forced to half-step, half-flop onto the verge whenever a passing vehicle approached.
The second I stepped into the village shop, a good mile uphill later, I recalled the second law of country life: food options are decidedly limited. Soup was Heinz cream of tomato or Heinz cream of tomato. The chances of buying a fresh tomato or avocado were slim and as for ciabatta, hummus and mozzarella – forget it!
It was on Saturday, however, that my romantic visions of moving to a rural idyll and living out my Good Life fantasy finally crumbled. My brother and I were sent into the garden to rake up an innocent-looking pile of leaves. Three back-braking hours of raking, scooping and ferrying said leaves to the compost pile later and I was ready to get on the next train, preferably to an area totally devoid of greenery of any kind.
The point I am making, albeit in a rather long-winded fashion, is that it’s all very well fancying yourself as the next Hugh Fernley Whittingstall, but the reality of country life is aeons away from scenes of rosy-cheeked children and baskets of fresh produce all ready to be turned into nutritious suppers. Countrylife can be intensely isolating – rarely of the splendid variety – the amenities limited and tending even a modest stretch of land involves relentless toil.
So if you are thinking of relocating to rural France, make sure you know what you are letting yourself in for. If you currently live in suburban England, or in a town or city centre, you will be in for a rude awakening. Of course, there are those who adore country life – my mother is one of them – but for the rest of us mere mortals, it might be wise to seek out a compromise; living on the edge of a town, for example.
If you are determined that country life is for you, then make sure you read Mary Hall’s tips for living in rural France in the January issue of FPN – out December 31st. And Bonne Chance!