It doesn’t appear to be as fancy as the other places. But maybe this is a chance to see the real France, slightly off the tourist trail.
If I’m honest, I’m feeling more and more nervous as we park the van by a tumbledown stone farmhouse with an enormous, attached barn. There are a couple of work vehicles around – a yellow tractor that’s more rust than metal and a mud-encrusted Land Rover. A few straggly chickens peck at the dirt, watched by an enormous, narrow-eyed cat. A dog rushes up to our carand throws itself at Sarah’s door, making her jump. He begins to bark menacingly.
‘I’m sure he’s just happy to see you,’ I say nervously.
‘Yeah, only because he thinks I’m his lunch,’ she replies. ‘I am not getting out of this vehicle, Hal.’
I give a sort of derisive snort, as if jumping into the jaws of some crazed French farm dog is nothing to me, then, my heart thundering, open Betty’s door and step out.
Instantly, the mutt sinks its teeth into my boot. Luckily, knowing we’d be hitting a farm today, I’m wearing my Doc Martens, and his teeth don’t quite hit flesh. The dog growls, as if he knows he’s been thwarted, and eyes me as if sizing up what part of me to try next.Not the crotch!I think desperately,Not the crotch!But of course, even if the dog is telepathic, he won’t speak English.Pas le pénis!I think, trying to open the door behind me with one hand, while keeping my face turned to the clearly hungry and very annoyed mutt.
‘Arrête!’ a voice calls out suddenly. ‘Princesse,arrête!’
Princesse?
Instantly, the dog drops my boot and bounds away, towards the person approaching from the farmhouse. Presumably, this is Papi, cider producer and dog owner. He’s wearing navy blue overalls over a grubby white T-shirt; his face, underneath a grimy cap, is rugged and red, the lower half covered with badly sculpted facial hair.
Princesse sits at his feet and although I’m not 100per cent sure, seems to bat her eyelashes at him. He puts a protective hand on her head and looks at me, his face changing from affectionate to suspicious in an eyebrow-furling instant.
‘Monsieur!Qu’est-ce que vous faites à mon chien?’
‘Um,anglais?’ I say, the pathetic amount of French that still remains in my brain from my schooldays entirely deserting me. The ad did say ‘English spoken’, I’m sure of it.
‘Ha,’ he says, his nose crinkling with distaste. ‘Well, monsieur, I asked you what were you doing to my dog?’
‘WhatIwas doing to your dog? She was biting me!’
He looks down at Princesse, who’s a model of virtue at his heels. She looks up and seems to meet his eye, and if I’m not mistaken, even seems to shake her head a little. His expression, as he turns back to me, is thunderous, as if I’ve insulted his firstborn.
‘Princesse, she does not bite,’ he tells me. ‘She is a gentle dog.’
‘But I have teeth marks in my shoe! She was going to?—’
‘Non,’ he says in such a definitive way that I find myself clamping my mouth shut. ‘She would not do this. You are mistaken, sir.’
‘Look!’ I lift my foot, the end of the boot still sparkling with saliva. ‘You can see where she?—’
‘Non,’ he says. ‘This did not happen.’
‘Right. Great.’ I nod. I glance at Sarah who’s watching me through Betty’s window, and try to think of the bigger picture. If I have an argument with this old farmer and drive off, what then? We’re here for cider tasting and I am determined to at least try to help her enjoy herself. I’m trying to show her that my way of doing things is worthwhile, to justify my choice of having a meander down to Nice rather than rushing straight there. I try to smile at the man, who keeps eyeing me suspiciously.
‘Why are you here, monsieur?’ he says. ‘Are you lost?’
‘No, at least, I don’t think so. I’ve booked a cider tour and tasting?’ I say, no longer 100per cent sure if I’ve come to the right place. The guy doesn’t seem to be expecting anyone, and as we’re the only non-farm-related vehicle here, it doesn’t seem like he’s used to receiving tourists.
‘Oui,’ he says and regards me for a moment.
I am not sure whatouimeans. Obviously, I know thatouiis French for ‘yes,’ I’m not a complete moron. But does he mean – yes, you’ve come to the right place? Or is he just throwing in a random ‘oui’ to get me to explain myself further? ‘Yeah, so… I mean… I can…’
‘Adèle!’ he barks suddenly, not taking his eyes off me. There’s an answer from inside the house, and he fires something back in response that’s in such rapid French that I stop even trying to follow the thread of it and concentrate on the tone. He’s clearly angry, the woman inside sounds just as annoyed. He says something else, gesturing at me, and there’s a slam of a door.
Then, just as I’m about to jump into the van and drive as fast as I can back to civilisation, a woman appears. She’s wiping her hands on a tea towel, and her hair is tied up in some sort of floral scarf. Her face – well, put it this way, it doesn’t match the voice I heard. She’s young, her expression is kind, and when she looks at me, a smile breaks out over her features.
She pulls the scarf from her hair, and it tumbles, auburn and wavy, to her shoulders. Casting the tea towel aside, she walks towards me, hand outstretched for a shake. ‘It’s Hal, yes?’ she asks, pronouncing it ‘’Al’. But in all honesty, she could have called me anything and I’d probably have answered to it. She must be one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.
I realise my mouth is hanging open and snap it closed.
She says something in French to the farmer guy and he stalks back to the house, waving a hand in the air as if dismissing the both of us. Princesse, to my relief, trots at his heels.
