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)
Amazing! I know that little shop (I think). In 2003 I was staying at the house of Pancou in Glanes where my step-daughter lived at the time. I told her that my bathroom window at home was gently rotting away and I needed to replace it quick. She suggested that I had a carpenter make one in the french style (opening inwards) as it was inaccessable from the outside because it was over a conservatory with a glass roof.
I said that I would like that and also fit some shutters to complete the illusion I was in France. I went along to the bricolage place between St Cere and Bretoneux, but surprisingly they didn’t have the old type shutter fittings, only hideous modern crap.
I drove around and eventually came to the little dark untidy shop/bricolage place and asked the old chap if he had any really old type fittings; from ornate hinges to the old type locking rod fastener. He took me into the depths of the shed at the back and spent an hour poking around in all the used and new stuff and eventually came up with all the necessary bits.
When I asked how much he replied “Don’t know, come back in a few days when I’ve worked it out”. I turned to leave and he said “Don’t forget your stuff!” (in french of course). Just before I left to return to England I went back to pay him. “Haven’t worked it out yet, see me the next time you come to Glanes!”.
About six months later I walked into his shop. He looked at me and said “That will be €25 please”. Can you picture that happening in England?
Yes! I’ve lost count of the number of times shopkeepers in Saint-Céré, Bretenoux, and Biars, have allowed us to leave without paying for goods, e.g. to check if paint would match the colour of our floor tiles, or to let us see if computer speakers would work with out Apple Macs.
Best story, however, was the time we bought a large screen TV an DVD player. We’d just received help from the shopkeeper to get them, with some difficulty, into the car. When we returned to the shop to pay, the machine spat out our credit card. We said no problem, we would go and get a cheque book to pay the 1,000 plus euros, but then we remembered the things were already in the car and it would be a real hassle to get them back out. The shopkeeper told us it wasn’t a problem, we should just take them. But we still felt uncomfortable about leaving the premises with all the goods in our car. So in an effort to convince the shopkeeper of our trustworthiness, Dear Husband said to shopkeeper – I’ll leave my wife here at the shop, so that you know I’ll come back.
Well… the shopkeeper took a look at me and said quickly, “No! No! Please, that’s not necessary. Take her with you. Come back any time with the cheque!”
I try to tell myself, that it’s because they are so wonderfully trusting here, that the shopkeeper let us go off together with the goods, but I’m still haunted by the sneaking suspicion that he would prefer to lose the money for the TV and DVD, rather than risk getting stuck with me!!!