Cows and their habits

Butter, cream, cheeses: Normandy is very much dairy country, to the extent that there is a unique breed of cattle – la race normande. They are essentially white splashed with either black or brown, but always with rings round their eyes like spectacles. In general, they look as if a whole pot of paint has been dropped from a height beside a white cow and splashed onto it in a random pattern. The photograph shows a group of young Normandy cattle. They provide very rich, creamy milk, and a reasonable yield; their meat is also good, and they are very successful on the rich grasses of Normandy.

Cows are of course not particularly bright, but they can be curious, and they can be stubborn. They are also very large and heavy. My brother once tried to push a cow out of his way at a fete in southern France, and the cow not only did not move, but casually pushed back. He fell over and was stood on, accidentally, and two of his ribs were broken.

Although in general cattle are not aggressive, they will defend themselves if they think they need to, and particularly if they have young calves with them they should be treated with some respect. Every so often in England there are news reports of someone, usually a middle aged woman, being hurt, or even trampled to death, by cows. Most often it is because they walk through a group with a yappy little dog that runs around barking at the ankles of the cows, which not unreasonably upsets them, and causes them to run about. In the course of this, the person can get knocked over and badly hurt. I read of one such last year, where the woman concerned was planning to sue the farmer because there was no sign warning her that cows could potentially be a danger. Logically, she should never leave the house without a sign on her back warning people that she is an unpredictable idiot.

Some people seem to be able to get on extremely well with cattle. A neighbouring farmer has a grandson of about 11 or 12, who lives in Paris, and is in most respects a very urban child. But he visits the farm for a few weeks in the summer, and collects and returns a dozen or more cows for milking twice a day. He is small for his age, and not even tall enough to look a cow directly in the eye unless it bends its head, but he has no fear of them, and they do whatever he wants.

As a direct opposite, an old friend from England came to see us, and as we went for a walk through our fields said she was terrified of cows, because they all hated her for some reason. We found that rather absurd, and went through the gate into a field which had one cow in it, at the opposite corner. I knew the cow, which was fairly timid, because it had been there for a few weeks, and I had often walked past it. Our friend was very unhappy, but we persuaded her to come with us. The cow looked up and saw us, and her. It immediately roared, and started to gallop across the field at us. The hedge was typical Normandy bocage, too high to get over, even if it didn't have electric wires on either side, and we were already some distance from the gate. The only thing I could do was to run full tilt towards the cow, waving the stick I was carrying to help gather blackberries, and rather pointlessly yell 'Stop!' Within a few seconds we were about 10 metres apart, and the cow did indeed stop. It stared aggressively at me with its head lowered for a few more seconds, by which time the rest of our party were out of the field. It then turned round and ambled off. I have no explanation for that, and the cow never charged at me again.

Avranches and London

Avranches should be an appealing town: in existence for over 2,500 years, perched on a promontory overlooking the Bay of Mont St Michel, and the abbey itself, politically and religiously important for many centuries. But I have never really taken to it, primarily because most of it was destroyed by American bombing in1944. Only a small part of the ramparts and a few small corners with old buildings survived, and the 19c large church.

There used to be a medieval cathedral right on the edge overlooking the bay, which really stood out and was visible for miles. Unfortunately, it fell down early in the 19c. It was replaced by a huge Gothic thing at the top of the town, on a sort of plateau, so that it really has no great visibility. And as with most other Victorian gothic churches, it doesn't really work. Medieval gothic soars out of the earth, with scale, activity and huge power, for example Coutances, Mont St Michel itself, or indeed Salisbury and Exeter. The Victorians made gothic buildings that were either absurdly overdecorated and defiantly false, such as the Houses of Parliament and the Natural History Museum, or solid, grumpy things that squat on the ground. Avranches is the latter.

Recently, the medieval manuscripts and books from the Abbey were moved to a specially built museum – the Scriptorial – built into the remains of the ramparts, which turns about to be well worth a visit. Going there with a friend from Canada and therefore being a tourist, I also discovered a few buildings in a corner nearby that dated back to the 12c. I also discovered a slight connection with London that I hadn't known about. 

I used to work in the heart of the City, and about 100 yards from the office, there is a blue plaque stating that Thomas a Becket was born in a house on that site. Just one of the sudden historical resonances that one comes across throughout the City. The Avranches connection is that Henry II who was held responsible for the murder of Becket in Canterbury Cathedral eventually received a pardon from the Pope, in 1172 in Avranches. On the corner of the site of the old cathedral, there is a plaque in the ground recording the details, in exactly the spot where Henry knelt down and asked forgiveness. The building where he and his retinue stayed has also survived, but is hard to see because of later construction on one side, and on the other is has been severely modified over the centuries; it is still occupied.

Henry was the great grandson of William the Conqueror (Guillame le Conquerant (conquering) as they call him here) and apart from being King of England, was also Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, Duke of Aquitaine (he was married to Eleanor of Aquitaine, who has already been the wife of the King of France)), and Duke of Gascony, amongst others. He was the first king of the Plantagenet dynasty (plant a genet, broom twig, being the family symbol). This goes to reinforce the reminders that Normandy and England have a huge amount of shared history.

My other connection with Avranches is more personal. My father joined the RAF in 1939, and didn't come home again until he had a week's leave in December 1944. In August 1944 he landed near St Tropez in the D-Day of the South, and over the next few weeks made his way through France, arriving at Avranches. The town was unexpectedly full of American troops who made it difficult to do the things the British army and air force were supposed to do. On enquiry by the British senior officer, it turned out that the large contingent of Americans had been ordered to go to Arromanches, to help with unloading materials and supplies, but had ended up in the wrong town because they couldn't understand maps, and just decided to stay there. 

Eating out in France

Eating out in France, especially outside the big cities, is a bit different from the UK. Some British people seem to have problems in understanding the system of menus. A menu in France is a fixed price meal, of three, or more courses. You can choose any one of the first courses, plus any one of the main courses, plus any one of the desserts; if there are more courses you choose any one of the alternatives in the same way. The price you pay is the price of the menu, irrespective of which dishes you choose. So if the menu is 15 euros, for four courses, and you have no wine or mineral water, 15 euros is what you pay. By law, all restaurants must offer at least one fixed price menu, where the price includes tax, service, bread and tap water: apart from other drinks you pay nothing more, and a tip is not expected.

Most restaurants will have at least three menus at different prices. They are always good value, and can often provide a good way to try new dishes. What in the UK we call a menu is called the Carte in France, and you can order what you like from it. However, this will cost more; three dishes from the carte will be more expensive than the same dishes as part of a fixed price menu.

It is a good idea to have a reasonable dictionary or phrase book, because there are many things that you may not recognise. Some, such as museau de porc, you may not want to try (it's pig muzzle), whereas many will be wonderful if you know what they are, even approximately. There is a small but helpful book called "Eat Your Words".

Meals in France are a crucial aspect of the culture. Everywhere, including many supermarkets, closes for about two hours at lunchtime. Everyone expects to get home for a substantial dinner in the evening. Meals are formal, and from a minimum of three to up to eight or nine courses. All the schools, even the infants, display the menus for school lunches for the next couple of weeks outside, so that parents can check what their children will be eating; three course, no choices, every day.

What this means is that meals are only available in restaurants from around 12 til 2, and 7 til 10. If you want to eat in between, buy the raw materials (charcuteries sell pates, hams, cheeses, quiches, salads and if they are also traiteurs, prepared dishes to reheat) or look for a Brasserie which normally provide simple dishes most of the time.

Food is important to the French, and choosing the dishes to eat is a significant part of the process. Meals can take some time to eat, and dishes are served with intervals in between: speedy service is a sign of a bad restaurant.

The French have no understanding of the concept of vegetarianism, any more than Muslims have pork recipes or anyone except a few rabbis understands kosher rules. If you have to be vegetarian, learn a few key French vegetable based dishes, and ask for them even if they are not on the menu - they might be prepared specially.

It's a bit of a cliche (and a bit of a cliche to say it's a bit of a cliche) but the French live to eat, not eat to live like the British. Food is sacred stuff, meals are rituals, and junk anathema. What the cholestorol groupies call the 'French paradox' is that the French diet breaks all the rules for cholestorol and fat, but the French are healthier and live longer than we do. Part of that is that they do not eat snacks between meals, nor do they gobble choclate bars and other sweeties. A croissant for breakfast, two good serious meals, and that is it. The diet is balanced over a week rather than by meal, and they do not eat more than they need. The idea that a meal is special occasion, when everyone sits down at a table, with proper cutlery, is sacrosanct.

I went to a vide grenier (empty the attic) which is a bit like car boot sale, in a small village recently. At around one o'clock, everybody began to clear a space on their stall, or setup a little folding table. They laid out a plate, cutlery, a glass, and made a meal with perhaps salads, charcuterie, cheese, a quiche, accompanied by bread and wine, even if they were on their own. Civilised, is it not? And the French word for 'mate' is 'copain', ie. co-pain, the person you share your bread (pain) with.

How to get on with the French

A lot of English people complain that the French are rude, unfriendly, and unhelpful. A lot of our French friends and neighbours ask us why the English are so rude and ill mannered.

A paradox, perhaps. The explanation is fairly simple: the French are extremely formal and polite, and regard the absence of the formalities as insulting. Here's an example of how deep it goes. I was sitting in a beachside cafe, when there was a roar of engines and three bikers pulled up. They got off their bikes, and walked to the cafe, their chains clanking, their big boots clomping, their tattoos catching the light, their leathers creaking, and their long greasy hair flopping around their heads. I became just a little tense, they were big, ugly blokes, two of them with facial scars. The waiter was a wispy 18 year old student earning a bit of money in the summer. These huge bikers went to a table, and the waiter bustled up and said 'Bonjour, messieurs'. Each of the bikers meekly said 'Bonjour, monsieur' back, and sat down to order their coffees and a citron presse.

As this politeness - and effectively expression of respect - dates back to the Revolution, and you are in their country, it must be up to you to adapt to their ways. Fortunately, this is easy, even if you do not speak the language. All you have to do is use a few key words appropriately and you will find that not only is everyone helpful and friendly, but a lot more speak some English than you might realise.

The first rule is that you must always say Bonjour before any other communication. Even close friends will say it when they meet before they kiss each other. Even the checkout cashier in the supermarket will say it to all the customers. If you go into a shop, the other customers will say it to you. Not to say it is extremely rude.

In the supermarket in the tourist season, I have often seen a cashier being terribly helpful to all the customers, and then say Bonjour to an English tourist who just stares blankly at her. She feels insulted, becomes sullen, doesn't understand a word of English, and so the tourist has problems in dealing with paying and everything else. The next tourist says Bonjour back, and she speaks enough English for a sensible conversation.

The second rule is that you must nearly always address people as Monsieur or Madame, as in Bonjour Madame. All French people do so except for very close friends, or children. We are Monsieur Paul and Madame Averil, to our neighbours and everyone in the village - because our surnames are unpronounceable.

The third rule is always to say Si’l vous plait (please) and merci (thank you) as appropriate. If you can only point to what you want, still say s'il vous plait, and merci when you get it. I know this sounds like teaching children, but people who don't speak French forget such simple essentials when confronted with a non English speaker.

Another useful word is pardon (sorry), to be used whenever you don't understand. Finally, always say au revoir Monsieur / Madame when you leave.

So, less than a dozen syllables are all you need to be welcomed, if you use them all the time. Any phrase book or dictionary will be very helpful as well.

The key is that not saying Bonjour when you meet someone is the equivalent of starting a conversation by saying 'Oi, pigface' to an English person.

The reason the French are so pervasively, perhaps excessively, polite may not be remembered by most of them, but after 200 years it is well embedded. Before the Revolution, the aristocrats treated ordinary people like animals, but demanded total deference from them. In the first phase of the Revolution, everyone became equal (egalite and fraternite) and was called Citoyen (citizen). Even the king was called Citoyen Capet at his trial.

After the excesses of the Terror, things changed again, and instead of everyone being equally low, everyone became equally significant. Thus all people were addressed as My Lord (Mon Sieur) or My Lady (Ma Dame), and every request was accompanied by If it pleases you (S'iI vous plait) and so on. Not to do so was to declare yourself opposed to the Revolution, and this was not a good thing to be. Now, such behaviour does not involve prison, if you're lucky!, but it is seen as offensive. And if someone is rude to you, you will be rude to them. Easy, isn't it. However, none of this applies to Paris, where almost everybody is always rude, just like London. Still be polite, but don't expect everyone to be nice back.