A local eccentric

 

Rolling countryside

See also my earlier post, A dying breed, about Monsieur C, another local personality.

As it was a lovely day today – chilly but sunny with an improbably blue sky – we decided to go for one of our favourite walks. It follows ancient paths lined with crumbling stone walls. In places, there are splendid views of the rolling green countryside that we are lucky enough to live in.

The walk passes near the small hamlet of S. Today, smoke curled up from the handful of chimneys and the pink-tiled roofs basked in the sun. Cows grazed on the hill below the hamlet: a peaceful, bucolic scene. I was reminded of one of the former inhabitants of the hamlet, who was less than peaceful. Monsieur Fabre (not his real name) was eccentric, or spécial as the French say. Born around 1925, he never married. 

When we encountered him (met is not the right word), he didn’t live in his cottage but had strangely decided to rent a cottage in another village about 3km distant. To get from one to the other, he frequently drove up our lane (a no through road) and then across the field behind our house. 

He explained, in his heavy regional accent, rendered even more difficult by his lack of teeth, “I used to own that field. So I open the gate, drive through and then close the gate again.” He felt that, even though the field now belonged to someone else, he had some kind of droit de seigneur over it. He also owned half of our house at one point, no doubt the result of the French system of partible inheritance, where 50 people can end up owning the same property. 

He revelled in telling us about the quarrels he had had with other unfortunate locals. Other people confirmed that he was pugnacious and litigious and that few people had escaped a run-in with him. 

Stories about him are legion and we have a few of our own. Sometimes he walked between one house and the other and passed by our house. One day, I was on my own when there was a knock at the door. I opened it to M. Fabre, who asked me if I would like to accompany him on foot to his rented house. I politely declined. He seemed to accept this as fair enough and continued on his way. I locked the door. It’s not clear what was in his mind. I can’t believe it was an attempt at seduction; after all, it might have been my husband who opened the door. But that’s how he was. 

On another occasion, my brother was staying and took a cup of early morning tea into the garden, dressed in his pyjamas and a woman’s dressing gown, which was the only garment of that nature that we had for guests’ use. M. Fabre walked by and my brother, mistaking him for our farmer neighbour, went over to greet him. The conversation was marked by total incomprehension on both sides, but a great deal of goodwill (unusually for M. Fabre). We concluded that he must have thought my brother was a visiting religious dignitary, clad in ecclesiastical robes. 

A neighbour told us about the time, some years ago, that he was invited with his daughter to M. Fabre’s. The house was filthy and full of rubbish and swarms of flies. In honour of the occasion, M. Fabre opened a tin of pâté, which was soon covered with flies. He grabbed hold of a broom – which had plainly never been used for its original purpose – and brought it down with a crash on the table. “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle,” he said to our neighbour’s daughter. 

As he got older, M. Fabre became ever more eccentric and his driving increasingly erratic; he was a hazard to other road users. He drove a tatty Peugeot 205 and I would be surprised if he had ever taken it for a contrôle technique (compulsory roadworthiness test). Driving between his house and the village, he often ended up in the ditch and had to be pulled out by passers-by. Sometimes he walked all the way, thumbing lifts when he got tired and making obscene gestures at motorists who didn’t stop. 

Following one of his more serious accidents, which left him permanently bent, social services took charge and he was consigned to a nursing home. The last we heard, he was trying to sell his house in the hamlet of S, but we don’t know if he succeeded. We don’t even know if he is still alive. But the local roads have certainly been safer since the day he was forbidden to drive. 

If you liked this, see also my earlier post, A dying breed, about Monsieur C, another local personality, now sadly deceased, who was somewhat more angelic than M. Fabre.

Copyright © 2010 A writer’s lot in France, all rights reserved

Advertisements

About nessafrance

My husband and I moved to an 18th-century farmhouse in SW France in 1997. I am fascinated by French history, rural traditions and customs and enjoy seeking out the reality behind the myths. I run my own copywriting business and write short stories and the occasional novel in my spare time. My husband appears here as the SF, which stands for Statistics Freak, owing to his penchant for recording numbers about everything.
This entry was posted in French life, Personalities and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to A local eccentric

  1. Paul Smith says:

    “Here, the dead oak leaves remain on the trees until the new ones push them off in early spring.”

    That’s extraordinary. I wish we would have the same – right now, it’s -22 (with wind chill, -31); beautifully pristine snow and a dark blue morning canopy, but bitter and brutal for anything but holing up inside.

    I will have to re-read Jean de Florette, been many years. I revisit the films more often.

    Thank you again for the writing – all the best for a happy winter.

    Like

    • nessafrance says:

      Rather you than me with those temperatures. Mind you, we’re forecast more snow for the end of this week. Just have to get some writing done.

      I love the Claude Berri films of Jean de Florette and Manon des Sources: Yves Montand as Papet and Daniel Auteuil as Ugolin were brilliant; not so impressed by Gérard Dépardieu as le Bossu, but he was OK. I have seen them so many times that I know them off by heart and annoy my husband by joining in with the dialogue.

      The films of La Gloire de mon Père and Le Château de ma Mère are also enjoyable, but not quite so good.

      Like

      • Paul Smith says:

        So, I guess that means my pitch for a winter house swap probably won’t fly, then.

        I love the films as well – Jean de Florette/Manon for the artistry (like you, love Montand and Auteuil, but also love Depardieu – as I do in Cyrano, and a few others; always love Auteuil, and Montand is, well, Montand – a god, in my estimation).

        I love Gloire/Chateau simply to dream, and smile insipidly. Usually accompanied by some Corbières, Bandol, Cahors or some version of a Mas de …..).

        Best, good wishes for your writing,

        Paul

        Like

      • nessafrance says:

        Sorry, no deal, with temperatures like that! It’s bad enough here – more snow and subzero forecast for tomorrow.
        Happy dreaming and wine sipping.
        Keep warm!
        Vanessa

        Like

  2. Paul Smith says:

    “The conversation was marked by total incomprehension on both sides, but a great deal of goodwill (unusually for M. Fabre). We concluded that he must have thought my brother was a visiting religious dignitary, clad in ecclesiastical robes.”

    -Priceless! I’m reminded of a (perhaps more surly) Edmond des Papillons (or a gentler garde ivrogne from Chateau de Ma Mere…).

    Thanks for the early morning laughs. Countryside looks beautiful. Totally different clime, obviously, but brings fond memories of life and walks in green New England…as well as walks along the Cobb from French Lieutenant’s Woman.

    Like

    • nessafrance says:

      Yes, M. Fabre was somewhere between those two Pagnol characters. If you wrote him as a fictional character, no one would believe you. He also had something of another Pagnol character, Pique-Bouffigue in Jean de Florette. Pagnol certainly must have based his fictional characters on real live ones.

      I’m sure that New England must be wonderful around now – although perhaps it’s now a little late for the fall colours. I like to think that our fall here is not unlike that in New England, but probably not as spectacular. The drier the summer here, the more colourful the fall. Here, the dead oak leaves remain on the trees until the new ones push them off in early spring. Winter has arrived here early this year – we’ll be glad to see the spring when it comes.

      Like

I love to hear from my blog's readers, so please feel free to leave a comment.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s