And now for something completely different. How I escaped the roar of The Celtic Tiger, and became an Irishman in France!
Ireland, 2007. Celtic Tiger. Boom boom boom. A time when 50s were considered loose change, houses were sold while oblivious cows still grazed the grass where the foundations would be, and the country swayed to the soundtrack of reversing tele-porters, cash registers and credit card advertisements. (”Blah blah blah is a trading partner of Blah Blah Blah and regulated by the Central Bank of Ireland – Terms and conditions apply). Indeed.
La Fournil (The Bread Oven) in south west France. Escaping the Celtic Tiger, 2007
It seemed as though half the country was a giant building site, and the other half was in a rush to get there. Yellow fleurescent-vested, transit van-driving, breakfast-bap eating ‘developers’ (known to all other civilizations as builders) were two a penny, and were highly paid and popular men. These were the times when a man went to the bank to get a loan to fix a van, and came back with a new jeep and Hitachi digger. You were nobody if you weren’t getting on ‘the ladder’. Even getting on wasn’t enough; you had to be climbing. The staple conversation was of rezoning, house prices and 100% mortgages. It was (in)famously called ‘showtime’. Those who were on the outside looking in at this Celtic Tiger frenzy watched as Ireland did it’s very best to eat itself. I HAD to escape.
Ireland during the chaotic Celtic Tiger years. Image: www.irishtimes.com
While not everything in the Celtic Tiger was bad, and I admire those who did well, it just wasn’t for me. At that time I was mid-way through a masters, and had hit a brick wall. I needed to escape the hustle and bustle and find space, but rent prices were extremely high, even in rural areas. I did some research, and immediately picked France – a country I love. I also chose a part of France which is both beautiful and off the beaten track – Le Lot. The few people I told about my trip beforehand, decided that I was on a property-buying mission. I smiled and let them have their ideas without telling them otherwise.
I packed up Blinky* with as much as I could cram in, and headed for the peace of rural France, where there were no breakfast baps, no magnolia developments, and most thankfully of all thankfulnesses, no teleporter bleepers.
* Blinky was my old car at the time. A sort of aqua green color. ‘Blinky’ because it was the same color as one of the ghosts in Pac-Man according to my nieces Rowan and Fiona!)
I drove from my Donegal home in the northwest, to Rosslare, in the far south-western corner of Ireland. Taking a final look around, I found it ironic that there was a construction crane right near the dock! Smiling, I secretly hoped the construction frenzy wouldn’t follow me over the Celtic Sea! And so, on a cold and overcast March evening, I boarded the ferry for the 19-hour night sailing to Cherbourg, France.
On my rambles through south west France. Villeneuve sur Lot, 2007
After having dinner and watching some football, I went to my cabin. Hanging my jacket on a hook on the back of the cabin door, I got undressed and climbed into the surprisingly comfortable bed. I was asleep quicker than you could say ‘full planning permission granted for forty more magnolia houses’.
What wasn’t in the script, was that I awoke suddenly around two hours later. Turning on the light, I saw my jacket now hanging almost horizontally. And then it fell back against the door. Just when I thought I had been dreaming or hallucinating, it rose again.
Curiosity got the better of me, so I dressed quickly and went out on deck. The first (and only) thing I saw was the light of another ship or a town. Im not sure, but it was a light. And then, it fell from sight! It disappeared right into the ocean! Then it reappeared. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realized we were in the middle of a huge silent swell. The waves were so perfectly ribbed and large, that the ferry was sideways surfing up and down along the peaks and troughs. Holding onto the rail, I stayed out on deck watching, figuring it was better to see what was happening, as opposed to guessing from my cabin.
There was little wind, it was very dark, and apart from the yo-yo light, the only parameter I had was gravity. Guessing wave height was pointless, but all I know is that when we were in a trough I couldn’t see the light – just a wall of water partly lit by the lights of our ferry. Then the wall would give way and the other light would reappear.
One of the few reasons that I was sorry to be leaving Donegal was the fact that I was leaving the famous Atlantic coastline behind. Donegal is a surfers paradise. Ive never been much good, but I love it. I have always had some sort of weird fascination with the ocean, and the movement of water. A few years later, back in Ireland, I would be inspired by the seascapes along the Wild Atlantic Way to create The Paris Method. But on that ferry crossing at the spring equinox of 2007, I stared at the rolling waves in a sort of a trance. It was slightly frightening, but I was somehow calmed by the force of the ocean.
I later learned that our crossing had been made during a perigean spring tide, combined with a big swell. I walked (staggered) around the boat for almost 2 hours. It was eerily quiet out on deck. Watching as the ferry got rolled by the huge waves in the dark of night was a strangely hypnotic experience. I eventually rolled to sleep in my cabin at around 4am.
When I woke the next morning, the waters had calmed. After showering and going out on deck, I discovered that I was not the only one who had been shaken from my sleep the previous night. Everyone was in post-mortem mode, comparing stories, discussing what time of night the biggest roll had happened, and how sick they had all been. While on deck the previous night, I had presumed everyone else had been asleep. It urned out they were all huddled in their cabins, either afraid, sick, or both. I told a few people about the light rising up and down out of the sea. They stared at me as if I were crazy for going on on deck. Maybe I was a little crazy. The thing is, when you are on your own, you don’t really have anyone who can either confirm or deny how good or bad something is. You just sort of have to make your own mind up. For the last hour on board I thought about the fact that I was on my own, and realized that I had taken on something of an adventure by going away alone to a country where I could not speak the language.
Sunshine on the quiet roads of rural France.
After docking, I got into Blinky, rolled off onto French soil and hit the juice. The sun was shining, Blinky was in decent shape, I had a full tank of fuel and a Red Hot Chilli Peppers CD. What more could a man ask for?! I remember thinking that the downbeat thoughts that I had about travelling alone were silly. This was freedom! I had nobody to answer to, nothing to worry me, and 30 hours to get to my destination. So I rolled up the volume, opened the sun roof and let rip. Blinky and I never had it so good. Sometimes I travelled by motorway, and sometimes driving cross-country if I thought the scenery looked nice. And it almost always looks nice.
Rambling through the French countryside, March 2007
I stopped at a few village cafes. I love coffee and love cafes, and in my humble opinion, authentic little coffee houses in the villages of the French countryside are among the best. One particular cafe, right in the heart of the agricultural lands of Normandy, served the best butter croissants I have ever tasted. I ate four and took another four with me to eat along the road. Blinky’s carpet got covered with crumbs and flakes – something it would have to get used to. I met a few English speakers on my first couple stops, but the further south I travelled, the less English I heard. Linguisticly at least, I was venturing into the unknown, and it was bliss.
That day was the best day I had experienced in the two and a half years since I had given up ‘the drink’. I was on the move, and had the freedom to stop randomly and explore this amazing countryside at my leisure. I had been captivated by the allure of the open road and was hooked. After skirting Le Mans, I studied a roadmap at a service station, and decided to detour towards the town of Blois.
Chateau de Blois, Loire Valley, France
Visiting the Château Royal de Blois, with its abundant history, is an experience that will stay with me forever. This beautiful old Chateau which was a former residence of seven French kings and ten Queens, today houses thousands of noteworthy paintings, and items of historical interest. It was also here in 1429, that the Archbishop of Reims blessed Joan of Arc before she marched her army to liberate Orléans, by driving the English out. It really is one of the gems of the Loire Valley.
Daylight was beating me, and as I didn’t want to miss any scenery by driving through the night, I stopped off for the night somewhere near Tours. Although this had been a very special day, which I didn’t want to end, shortly after I had checked in, I was sleeping like a baby.
The following day I continued my journey southwards, regularly leaving the motorway to drive through the picturesque countryside. This was only my second full day in France, but it already felt as though I had been chilling out for weeks. The pace of life was just so different to what I had left behind in Ireland. At two in the afternoon, Blinky and I rolled into the town of Cahors. I was due to meet the owners of the Gite I had rented at four, so I wandered around ‘Centre Ville’ for a while, taking in the marvelous ancient architecture. Following an espresso to snap me back into the 21st century, I made my way through the countryside to the village of Catus, and eventually to my new home from home.
The entrance to Begot, in Le Lot. My home from home in 2007
La Fournil (The Bread Oven) at Begot, Le Lot, France 2007.
My landlords gave me a great welcome, and then showed me to my bread oven. Yes, bread oven! I had rented a little Hansel and Gretel styled holiday home called La Fournal (The Bread Oven) which had been used to bake bread for the troops during the 100 years war. It is part of a tiny hamlet, perched atop a little hill in the Lot river valley. Lot is one of France’s best kept secrets. Not as busy as the Loire valley, less expensive than the Dordogne, the Lot river meanders westwards through miles and miles of rolling hillside which is sparsely populated and mostly oak covered. This department has a reputation for being among the most traditional and old fashioned in all of France. With the exception of cars and electricity, Lot looks and feels as it always has. There are no new buildings as such, and people are laid back and are as self-sufficient as possible, with their own mini-vineyards and vegetable patches. Life in ‘The Lot’ is simple and very peaceful. I was really happy with my selection.
Having surveyed my new surroundings, I took a seat and picked up the book that I had been reading prior to setting out on the journey. What exactly Scar Tissue by Anthony Kiedis has to do with my dissertation and human computer interaction I don’t know! I liked the band, and liked reading about how the singer had struggled with addiction. He could have been doing with some time in the Lot.
Sometime around eight o’clock I realized that I was hungry. Croissants are tasty, but they don’t really pack much punch. Partly out of curiosity and mostly because I didn’t want to cook on the first night, I got into Blinky and headed back to Cahors. Maybe I just wanted to see what the nightlife was like. I would be disappointed on that front. The french retire early, and although it was not yet 9pm, the streets were empty. I stopped at the only restaurant which still had a light on, walked in and took a seat.
”Bon Soir”
”Em, ah…Bon Swar?”
With that, the waiter handed me a menu. Over and over I studied it. I think the waiter was as unsure how to proceed as I was, so he went off to wipe tables or something. Eventually he came back, and asked me something in French, which I deciphered as a diplomatic version of ‘make up your mind – you are keeping us opened late here’! In desperation (hunger had escalated by now), I scanned the page one last time, and pointed to ‘steak’.
”Steak”, I ventured, with raised eyebrows that begged for confirmation.
”Ah oui, steak”
”Frites”, I elaborated, again with raised eyebrows. ”Et coke”.
After a few scribbles and a very unconvincing ”merci”, he was gone.
I sat in silence for around 20 minutes. No music. No customers. Just me; An Irishman in France. And my rumbling stomach.
Out of the blue, the waiter reappeared and in an instant he had everything laid out on the table and was gone again, obviously trying to stave off any awkward hand-gestering requests I might have.
I tucked in. Believe it or not, I was actually very proud of myself for being able to order in a French restaurant. I got to the stage where I had silenced my stomach, and after taking a long drink of coke, sat back waiting for space to be made so I could finish the meal. I surveyed the room. Off to my left, the menu was also printed on a wall sign. I looked at it to reaffirm how cool my ordering skills had been. There it was: Steak, with another word after it. ‘Steak Cheval’. Cheval I thought; I wonder what that means? Maybe the cut? Or the way it is cooked? I was actually mid chew when it hit me! Cheval is horse! My French adventure suddenly seemed a little more daunting. Being an Irishman in France was going to be interesting!
Bed-time in ‘the bread oven’ loft. 2007
As I drove the 20 miles or so back through the dark and silent French countryside to my little bread oven, I smiled to myself as I remembered the steak and the awkward exchanges with the waiter. I would be lying if I said I didn’t feel a bit lonely, especially when I got back to the dark bread oven in the middle of this oak-forrested rural setting. Mostly though, I felt a sense of adventure, freedom and independence that I had not known before. France was going to be a challenge, and it was was already an adventure. I climbed up into the loft and got into bed. I read another bit from my book, while listening to the hooting of a pair of owls. As I closed my eyes, I was thankful that I hadn’t heard the sounds of a construction site nor talk of tracker mortgages in over 48 hours. I was, an Irishman in France, and it was complete tranquility.
Tranquility in the oak woods of Le Lot, France, 2007.