I have chosen this title for my book as a kind of homage to the books I read when I was about 15 years old (a long time ago). One was titled The Little World of Don Camillo and was one of a trilogy, the first part published in 1950, a year before I was born. The author, Giovanni Guareschi, has always been a hero of mine, and his simple and very entertaining tales of life in a village on the banks of the Po river remind me a lot of my life here in France. The background to his little world is a village in the province of Parma in Italy. The background to mine is the little town of Blaye (pop. 5 000).
In his village, most of the funniest stories emanate from the sparring between Don Camillo, the parish priest, and Peppone, the communist mayor. The people of the village are just like those of Blaye – argumentative, hospitable, generous – with a healthy and sometimes disparaging sense of humour. The enmity (if it can be called that) between the priest and the mayor reminds me of my ongoing disagreements with our own Blaye mayor over the last 15 years. He is due to complete his third term of six years in three years and, if my prayers are answered, he will not stand for election again.
I have nothing personally against the mayor, and I am sure that deep down he is a very nice person. I have also possibly raised his ire on more than one occasion because, among other things, our concepts of democracy differ: he is an autocratic socialist of the far left (with the exception of his love for expensive cars). I might have irked him by suggesting that his experience as the president of the CGT workers’ union was possibly not the best preparation to be a good small town mayor. The fact that this observation was made over a public address system at a packed meeting of the locals probably did not help. I know this because he became red in the face at my comment, and launched into a tirade of French directed towards me, which seemed to be neither praise nor compliments… Anyway, like Don Camillo and Peppone, we tolerate each other, just, between flare-ups.
The town is beautiful, however, with an incredible history, involving love, wars and the pervasive influence of the English (it was under English control around the 11th century). It has one of the several citadels that the Marquis de Vauban, Louis XIV’s architect, built around France in the 1600s (now a Unesco World Heritage site).
Blaye, known as Blavia in the Middle Ages, has a wonderful energy. In 3,000BC the region between Blaye and the neighbouring town of Bourg had the largest population in Europe – partly because the region is very fertile and has plenty of water. There were apparently many wild animals as well. We still have some – deer, boar and smaller river animals – as well as some in blue jeans who hang out at the least salubrious bar in the town.
I found this lovely town by chance some 22 years ago. Lindsay, my then-girlfriend, asked me to do a cycle trip around France with her, as she was looking for a holiday home. Lindsay is an accountant; we are still friends and see each other from time to time. She and Clarissa, my partner, also like each other, which helps. Like most accountants she plans and enjoys controlling things, which, as most people know, is not possible. So prior to the trip, she told me that my bicycle had to be packed in a cardboard carton, as specified by the airline, so as to prevent damage. Having visions of me sweating, carrying a bike in a box (or possibly two, as, despite strong feminist leanings, she had some definite ideas on what tasks are men’s), I said I would be wheeling my bike to the check-in, but she could embalm hers in whatever material she wanted, as long as she understood that I would not be carrying it.
So I cheerfully wheeled my Cannondale to the check-in on the appointed day, where it was happily accepted by the charming Air France check-in person, while I pretended not to see Lindsay struggling with her cardboard box.
On arrival at Bordeaux airport, we collected our bikes, mine in perfect condition and hers, damaged, despite its protective packaging. After effecting the necessary repairs (one hour), as it was summer and still light, we decided to proceed for two hours on our route before resting for the night.
It grew dark after about 30 minutes, and when we decided to look for a hotel, we discovered that we had done a circumnavigation of the airport and were pretty much back where we started. There were as yet no GPS apps on mobile phones, so we had a laugh, a good meal and retired for the night at an airport hotel.
Finally, on our way the next morning, we passed through various villages and towns and began our search for the ideal second home. On the penultimate day we rode into Blaye. I commented that in Afrikaans (a South African offshoot of Dutch), “Bly”, which I thought was pronounced the same way as the French Blaye, means “stay” – which seemed auspicious. In fact Blaye is pronounced “blaai”. We nevertheless loved this town from the beginning, and it was the best we had seen on our journey.
Clearly filled with history and heritage, graced by white-stone apartments (so typical of the buildings in Bordeaux) and cobbled pavings, it was (and is) utterly enchanting. An estate agent showed us the “Maison de Maître”, the house of the richest man in Blaye back in 1860, and I was smitten. It was a ruin and Lindsay, who’s fairly handy with renovations, said it was too daunting for her. After confirming that she definitely was not interested, I, who am not handy at all, asked the agent to set up a meeting with the notaire (notary) to arrange the sale.
I returned three months later to complete the purchase, and as I was unfamiliar with the layout of the city of Bordeaux, decided to leave my car at the station and take a taxi to the notaire. My French consisted of little more than “Bonjour”, “Merci”, “S’il vous plaît”, the names of the three major French car producers, and a few other words. I was therefore very fortunate that my cabby had worked in a restaurant in London’s King’s Road for seven years, and could speak pretty good English.
He was the first of the many great characters who I encountered, all of whom you will meet in these pages. Jean-Louis was an artist but drove a taxi, as he did not earn enough from his art to live on. He also bred large tropical fish, angelfish, which I admired when he invited me home for lunch, early in our friendship.
Some years later, I was one of the two witnesses at Jean-Louis’s wedding. He married a lovely lady from Thailand, who he met online. She cooked the most wonderful Thai food, and our meals together went several notches up in quality, although JL was a pretty mean cook himself. I usually provided the wines, and found that Burgundies suited this type of cuisine more than Bordeaux wines did, although Bordeaux wines were, and still are, my favourites.
In these pages, you will also meet: Clarissa, my partner; Claude, my ex girlfriend, Christian, the baker; Bernard, my French-speaking renovation advisor and ten per cent man; Jean-Marie, the stonemason, known by some in the trade, as I discovered afterwards, as “The Butcher”; Odile, proprietor of the Tabac and PMU, the local betting shop, populated by some Damon Runyon-esque characters, collectively known as “the needy and the greedy”’; a tribe of handymen, who have come and gone; and lots of other colourful souls.
It has been, and continues to be, a great journey, and I invite you all to come along for the ride.