11th July 2010 – Goedele

Goedele – the girl whose name I struggled with – met us that day. There was another local fête in one of the nearby villages, and Xavier and Michelle were setting up their stall there. Michelle was going to man – or woman – the stall while Xavier turned into a master crêpe-maker. His crêpes were made with chestnut flour and served with a choice of jams, or with a home-made chocolate and chestnut spread which was never sold alone, only as a topping for the pancakes. Personally I thought that they were missing a trick; it was divine – dark, rich and nutty – and the fact that chestnuts featured in the ingredients would have made it an easy tourist trap if one had been needed. 

While they worked, I wandered. The fair was the Fête du Picodon. A picodon was a speciality cheese of the region made from goats´ milk, and so there were shows of goats – and sheep for good measure – and such competitions as guess the weight of the picodon, as well as the usual offerings of raffles, artisan market stalls, tat and car-boot sale type stalls, live music and piped music. It was a hot day, and the village was full of happily chattering families, groups of friends and gaggles of children, as well as the occasional overheated two year-old.  

The village itself, Desaignes, was fascinating. It dated back to the medieval era and, unusually, was still completely walled with three ancient gateways, having miraculously survived centuries of war, pillage, and exposure to the elements. Roses crawled up the wondrously thick walls of the buildings as if they had been painted there, strangely delicate against the stonework’s defensive solidity. I understood why this was the hidden jewel of the area. At the centre of the village was a fourteenth century castle, perfectly maintained, around which twenty-first century children were playing, unaware that they were sharing in history, bright clothed and barefooted.   

When I arrived back at the stall, a tall girl with wavy dark blonde hair was standing there with a pair of adults. I assumed – correctly – that this was Goedele, although I was incorrect in my assumption that she was older than me. It turned out that she had only just turned 18, and she had come to France after her first year of university in her native Belgium to practise the language; she was from the Flemish-speaking part of her country. Her parents were there to drop her off as they had decided to take a holiday in the region. Her father was less than happy with the fact that I was British. He had imagined that I would fill the stereotype of a staunchly monolingual Anglophone, and as Goedele’s English was near-perfect, that was far from ideal for his daughter. His reaction when I spoke to him in French was one of shock. It made me laugh inside. And also cringe a little. While I considered it a truth that as a nation we were bad at learning languages, I also didn’t think we were as bad as we were made out to be. Most people I knew were willing to learn a few words and at least to make an effort if they were visiting another country. Or maybe that was just the people from the bubble that I lived in. I couldn’t be sure. 

I was looking forward to having a partner-in-WWOOFing-crime. I had enjoyed the comparative solitude of Fontchouette, but I was ready to share the experience. That Goedele was another young female languages student who had chosen to spend a fortnight getting her hands dirty filled me with hope. I wasn’t going to be disappointed. She had a good sense of humour and a real drive to speak as much French as she could, and over the following two weeks we spent many happy hours sitting in the blackcurrant plants together sharing geeky French linguistics conversations, trying to play the guitar on the sofa, or chatting about music or jam or anything. Anything in French, may it be noted. Never let it be said that my inherent Britishness prevented my companion from doing what she was there to do! 

Because it had been such a hot day - we had been outside since midday - once we had packed away, Xavier took us to an area where the river pooled into a small lake and where the locals went to swim. I guessed it was the same river in which I had swum with Juan and Malo near to Lamastre, but here I thought we must be higher up and closer to its source. I took off my shoes and walked to the edge. My toes curled at the cold. I was always faced with this quandary when I swam outdoors. I knew that if I could get over that initial shock and submerge my body, I would be a fish, and content for hours. But it was taking the plunge that was the issue. This time I couldn’t do it. My calf muscles tensed as the water lapped around them, and I knew that anything above my knees would be too much. Another day I would be braver. So instead I lay and sunbathed next to Goedele, and we began to get to know each other as our skin turned to gold.