He’d never been there before, but he’d heard of it from other expats in the pub.
A tiny shop in a small French village between St. Céré and Figeac, that had been there for just about as long as anyone could remember.
So when he finally had made up his mind to wage war on the jungle that surrounded him, it was to this little shop that he eventually repaired… in search of a brush cutter.
Everyone with more than a postage stamp of land needs one around here. If going into the business of producing bramble jelly is not on the cards.
You might well call them strimmers, but here in deepest rural France, they come with medieval looking blades as well, that can make pretty short work of the ever invasive bramble. Small trees too and car tyres, if, like me, your attention should happen to wander on occasion.
Big Boys Tools
Anyway, to Aynac went my friend on his quest for this manly-tool. You see, whereas in London or Leicester, your avergae red bloodied bloke may dream of the occasional big-boys toy to make life that bit more bearable, here in France profonde, it is the thought of a new big-boys tool, that raises the blood-pressure!
He’d done his research. He’d haunted the big DIY shops for miles around (not hard… there are only a couple or three!) and had worked out it was a Stihl that he needed/wanted.
Vorpsrung Tecknik and all that. Good, solid, German engineering, (with the instructions in 30 languages, including English, and not just the French and Chinese of lesser makes). I always find it strange, that with anything the French make, there is never an instruction manual in English, and yet anything the Germans make, there is always an English section in the instruction manual. Another thing… anything the Americans, Brits, Germans make, if you lose the instruction manual, you can always go online and download a pdf of the thing from their websites. Try doing that from a French website!
Anyway, I digress… this is not going into my “Are the French Mad?” section. This is just a reflection on life in France. Maybe one of the reasons that me, my friend and many like him are living here and not in London or Leicester.
Covetousness
Now we left him drooling over Stihl brush-cutters in Bric***ma. So why did he not buy one then and there? It was 12 o’clock by the time he had made up his mind. Shop closed. Come back this afternoon. No argument. No bending of the time-for-lunch rule, SPO (so piss off). Even waving his loyalty card and platinum could not divert the inevitable. Locked-out. Until 2 o’clock.
So he did what any sensible expat does at this, the fast approaching hottest part of the day… he retired to the pub for a cold-beaded one. Which is why, the next day, he ended up heading for said small village and the shop that had always been there and that he’d heard about in the pub. Sod the big corporates… he’d patronise the mom and pop shop and pay the small premium that goes with it. As a protest.
Now the shop in question, is where all the locals take their gardening stuff. A lost nut, a broken spriggit sprok whotsit a chain that won’t chew trees, a machete that won’t mash, even a LRT that won’t go if you can beg or borrow a suitable trailer. I have seen them all disappear into the old stable at the back of this tiny shop. From my vantage point at Chez Denise.. a pub much frequented in these parts by the more rural expats.
Anyway, you can harldy see in the grimey window of this little shop, for bits of things hung and strewn about, but I have spotted a kindly looking old gentlemen in there from time to time. Bolstered by a certain anti-corporate crusading zeal and forgetting, momentarily, his less than fluent French… into this dark den went my friend.
Drawing deep on his reserves of vocabulary, my friend duly presented himself to the shopkeeper and launched into his little speech of why he was there. You need a brush cutter, said the denizen of the dark little shop… not the old gentleman, but his son, it turned out, who was taking over the family enterprise. I would recommend the Stihl, says he! A price was mentioned, a discount swiftly negotiated, a lesser price agreed (to the satisfaction of both) and the much coveted big boys tool was his. Or would have been had he brought some money with him, because the little old shop barely had electricity, let alone a credit card machine for my friends plastic platinum. No worries, retorted this particular son-and-heir, we accept cheques now (a hint of a boardroom battle won, by the younger corporate blood?).
Er, after much patting of pockets, embarrassed, my friend had to admit that his cheque book was sitting on the shelf at home, exactly where he had put it the day before.
Ah, sighed the deputy CEO of this Aynac Enterpise. You will need to come in tomorrow.
OK, says my friend and beats an embarrassed retreat out of the tiny shop.
Trust
WAIT, comes the cry and my friend hesitates and faces the chap, who exits the shop clutching the brush-cutter…. you fogot your Stihl! But I haven’t paid for it, says friend. I’ll come back tomorrow. Come back tomorrow by all means, says the son-of-the-owner-of-the-little-shop, handing over the tool, but you’ll need this this afternoon… it’s a fine day for cutting down brambles. Or words to that effect… my friend had stopped his mental less-than-simultaneous translating by this time.
You see, he was somewhat befuddled, to be standing in the street alone, clutching a brand new Stihl Brushcutter, which he hadn’t paid 250 euros for… trusted by a shopkeeper who he had never seen before in his life!
Now there are not many places in this world, where that would happen to you.
So what did he do? My friend? What any sane expat would do. He loaded the thing into his boot, locked the lid (not a normal occurance around here… but, then, technically, the thing wan’t yet his!) and snuck into Chez Denise for a small cold, beaded one!
Which is how I know the story!
Rural Living in France (Rural Living in France: A Survival Handbook)
