Travel Book for October 2009
Serge Bastarde ate my Baguette by John Dummer
PREFACE
I was beginning to wish I hadn’t accepted Serge’s kind offer to show me ‘the true life of a French brocanteur’. Serge’s surname was Bastarde (I’m not making this up). He had ‘Serge Bastarde ‐ Brocanteur’ printed in big letters on the side of his van. He was a short, tough, balding bloke with wiry grey hair and a ready wit. When he found out I was English and that I wanted to start up in the antiques trade he had gone out of his way to be helpful and had taken it upon himself to show me the ropes. A brocanteur is the French equivalent of a bric‐a‐brac or antiques dealer in England, and they have a long tradition of buying and selling in the colourful open‐air markets all over France. I found Serge’s advice mostly useful and it would have been churlish to have refused his invitation to accompany him on a trip out in the country to ‘forage for hidden treasures’. If the truth be known I secretly couldn’t resist the novelty of passing time with a bloke called Serge Bastarde…
1 ‐ PIGS AND PEGS
‘Ooooh, look! They’re washing their pig!’ It was a touching sight, the epitome of simple country folk togetherness. The whole family ‐ mum, dad, grandma, grandpa and all the kids ‐ around a big stone trough in the yard with their sleeves rolled up. We had come bombing down a quiet country back lane in Serge’s old Renault van to arrive at a typical farm mas ‐ a house and several large stone barns grouped round a cobbled courtyard with a surrounding wall and big wooden gates. And there they all were, having the time of their lives. I could see the old sow’s head and her back over the side of the trough. Pigs must get really dirty plunging about in all that mud and need a good washing now and again. Serge tooted his horn and they turned as one to wave at us, happy smiling faces enjoying their carefree country living. But now, with all their hands in the air, I realised just how mistaken I was. Blood and gore was running down their arms. These people weren’t washing their pig at all. The miserable animal had just been slaughtered and they were in the process of disembowelling it.
As we drove through the gates and bumped over the cobblestones I could see a couple of legs and trotters sticking up and a long, livid slit in the carcass. This was exactly the sort of confrontation with the realities of animal husbandry that had turned me and my wife Helen into vegetarians since moving to France. In fact, as a reformed alcoholic ex‐smoker vegetarian who disliked sunbathing, I sometimes wondered what the hell I was doing living in France at all.
The farmer stood up and came towards us with a quizzical smile, followed closely by two of the youngest kids, a little boy of about four and a girl who might have been his twin sister. Their faces were spattered crimson. The farmer lifted his elbow to be shaken to avoid smearing our hands with congealed blood and waited to see what we wanted. Over in a corner by the barn a vicious dog that looked like a cross between a German shepherd and the Tasmanian Devil fought to break free of its chain and devour us.
Serge and I had been touring around all morning, ‘cold calling’ on the most far‐flung farms and cottages. Serge would strike up a conversation with the inhabitants to ask if they had any old furniture or junk they wanted to get rid of. If his question elicited a lukewarm response he would pull out a thick wad of euro notes and wave them temptingly under the householder’s nose. So far this technique had yielded a few old chairs, a broken‐down kitchen table and a rusty standard lamp. But Serge remained undaunted. Maybe our luck was about to change.
He reached down, ruffled the little girl’s hair and beamed his sincerest smile at the farmer. ‘Bonjour, m’sieu. We are carrying out some important work for the commune,’ he lied. ‘They have asked us to visit all the farms in this vicinity and perform a much‐needed service, to pick up any old unwanted furniture and stuff that needs to be got rid of. We have already helped out some of your neighbours.’ He waved vaguely towards the van. ‘Might you have any old bits and pieces you don’t want? Things that are hanging around the house gathering dust that we can take off your hands?’ The farmer wiped his hands on his shirt and appeared to be considering the question. The dog had decided we were no threat and stopped barking. The rest of the family carried on with their grisly work. ‘We’re not here to waste your time ‐ we’re honest, professional people. We’ll pay you for anything of value.’
Serge Bastarde ate my Baguette by John Dummer is published by Summersdale (paperback; £7.99). It is also available through amazon.co.uk and all good booksellers.
No comments were found
