Two Men In a Car (A Businessman, a Chauffeur, and Their Holidays in France). Mike Buchanan
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I duly bought four Riedel cognac glasses, to me a snip at 70 euros. Paul was visibly horrified by the extravagance.
At the Tourist Office we paid for a tour of a few Médoc vineyards on the following Friday – 70 euros for each of us. The tour would include Château Lynch-Bages, a claret of which I’m particularly fond. We also asked whether there was a dentist we might visit whilst we were in Bordeaux, and we were duly presented with a list of six or seven, one being on the nearby Allée Tourny. We went there, pressed the bell, but there was no response. So we walked into the adjacent pharmacy to buy more painkillers and enquire about the dentist. The lady explained that the dentist was on holiday for the whole of August, and helpfully suggested July or September might be a better month for us to take our holidays, to lessen the likelihood of such problems. Clearly the Tourist Office had given us the list of dentists who go on holiday in August. Merci beaucoup.
By this time Paul was tired again and we stopped for lunch at the Villa Tourny restaurant, also on the Allée Tourny, and sat outside. The waitress was very fetching, brown-eyed with rich chestnut hair. Maybe 28-30, she wore black clothes and a tattoo was visible on her hip. Paul and I agreed she’d look fine on the back of either of our motorbikes. Even though I’ve never owned a motorbike and never will.
Paul agreed to a steak for lunch, which I asked to be bien cuit. The French have now learnt that when English people ask for a steak in this way there’s no point in giving them what they think they should have, namely a rare steak in a pool of blood.
I had linguini with duck strips, and we both judged our meals very good. I polished off a bottle of a sound Entre-deux-mers and the world seemed a better place than it had an hour earlier. On our way out, as I was strolling past the waitress, I declared, ‘Merci madame. Vous êtes très belle!’ I didn’t dare look back for her reaction.
A ten minute walk to the second dentist on the list proved fruitful. A walk up the steps took us to a lady wearing a white coat. I enquired whether she was a dentist to which she smilingly replied that she was, whilst somehow communicating the thought, ‘Do I look like a bricklayer, then?’ Paul asked her where the toilet was, and she indicated a door about six feet away. He walked in and as the room was very dark, pulled what he reasonably assumed was a light cord. The toilet duly flushed and we all laughed. Something told me this was designed to amuse the dentist, to compensate her for having to deal with English-speaking patients.
But she was very helpful and professional, she checked Paul’s tooth and asked questions about his treatment and medication. She concluded that Paul should simply continue with the antibiotics and painkillers, and see his dentist again on his return to England. Paul looked very relieved and offered his E111 card which he understood guaranteed free – or at least reduced price – treatment in the EU.
Her expression made it clear that Paul was offering something as appropriate under the circumstances as a pot plant. She said she knew nothing about such cards and asked for 21 euros. Paul again looked very relieved – he’d expected to pay 50 to 60 euros – and duly paid the sum. The dentist gave Paul a receipt which she said he could use in the UK to reclaim the money from the NHS. He was so cheerful that on his way out he remarked that not all French people were plonkeurs, tosseurs, or wankeurs. A breakthrough, I felt.
We then walked to an elegant wine shop at number 2, Allée Tourny, L’Intendant. The bottles were arranged in racks in the wall, and the general plan was that as you ascended the three or four floors on the spiral staircase, the bottles became ever more expensive. The ones at the top were in the 350+ euros per bottle range and Paul noted I was almost drooling with pleasure at seeing Cheval Blanc, Ausone, Lafite Rothschild and the rest. But the effects of the lunchtime wine were starting to wear off, which probably saved me a fortune, as I restricted myself to one bottle of 1981 Château Lynch-Bages (120 euros) and one of 1997 Château Ducru-Beaucaillou (55 euros). Paul said he was impressed that I was holding conversations in French, but I knew I was far from fluent in the language.
In the evening I cooked chicken breasts in red wine with the obligatory onions, garlic and whatever herbs I could find. Paul judged it excellent, which was good enough for me.
WEDNESDAY 8 AUGUST
It was a fine day and whilst I was engaged in my writing in the morning Paul walked around the area, accompanied as usual by Louis, the owner’s Jack Russell. Louis’ main aim in life was to catch rabbits but sadly he was now too old to manage it. On one occasion when Paul opened the car door to retrieve something, Louis flew into the car. Clearly he thought Paul had adopted him.
Paul returned from his walk in fine spirits and said he’d seen something incredible. He’d spotted a Frenchman painting. Only a gate rather than a shutter, but it was a start. He vowed to take his camera with him the next time he went walking. I asked how he planned to explain to a Frenchman who was painting something, why he was photographing him. He was clearly baffled by the stupidity of my question and replied, ‘In English!’
I drove into Mirambeau and had a leisurely stroll around the town centre before buying more provisions at the Super U. In the town I saw something to gladden the heart, a woman cleaning her windows. I told Paul of this observation on my return, to which he retorted, ‘Yeah, right!’ Clearly a claim of sighting a naked Nicole Kidman riding a unicycle, whilst juggling flaming clubs, would have been more credible to him. He refused to believe windows were ever cleaned in France until and unless he’d seen it for himself.
After a Spanish omelette dinner in the gite we relaxed for a while, swimming and reading books, drinking a glass or two of wine. At 9 p.m. I declared I was bored and suggested we go for a drive. With Paul driving, obviously, so I could have a drink.
No bars appeared to be open in Mirambeau, and then we spotted a sign for Château Mirambeau. A leisurely drive up a hill took us to the place, and after passing through some magnificent gates and along a long drive, we saw a most beautiful building, its charm enhanced by the fading golden light of the sun. It was as if we’d stumbled across Chatsworth House on the outskirts of Corby. It has an obviously classy restaurant, and I told Paul I’d treat him to dinner there one evening, on the strict conditions he ordered neither a plate of chips, nor a cup of strong English breakfast tea.
Paul drove on to Jonzac, 20 miles away, and parked near a smart café not far from an enormous building of a military appearance. People were enjoying their late dinners and drinks at the outdoor tables but stopped to look at Paul parking the 17’ long Mercedes opposite, and a couple of not-very-smartly-dressed English people emerging. Now Paul had already told me he didn’t want a ‘second dinner’, and that a plate of chips and an orange juice would suffice for him. After perusing the menu I ordered a Thai curry and a glass of wine for myself, which cost around 25 euros, along with chips and orange juice for Paul, at 4 euros. I could see from the waiter’s expression that he didn’t consider our orders took due consideration of the concept of égalité.
Throughout our hour at the café the young men of the area did what young men do all over France, namely shatter the peace and quiet by driving low-capacity motorbikes with screeching engines past every group of people enjoying a quiet night out. Native French people appear never to be troubled by this antisocial behaviour. I wanted to hurl bricks at the culprits.
When we returned to the gite I was quite mellow so I decided to smoke my pipe, and enjoyed a glass or two of Hennessy VSOP whilst listening on my MP3 player to AC/DC, Led Zeppelin and Free. Anyone spotting my efforts at ‘air guitar’ and ‘air drumming’ would have assumed I was epileptic, I imagine. And so ended another happy day.
THURSDAY 9 AUGUST
I was awoken at 11 a.m. by the sound of Paul singing the chorus to Peter Sarstedt’s Where do you go to my lovely?
Where do you go to my lovely,
when you’re alone in your bed?
Tell me the thoughts that surround you,
I want to look inside your head.
I must admit to a few moments’ consternation before I realised Paul wasn’t actually in my room, but entertaining the other holidaymakers just outside our gite.
I’d