20-26 août

Samedi 20 août
La voiture devient française

There were two English people, a Spanish Frenchwoman and an Italian Belgian (with a Polish girlfriend)………….

It’s three weeks since the paperwork arrived saying that our car was now registered in France. It will now be known as EE-937-EN.

Wilf went out for a bike ride and found a shoe-maker/key-cutter/number-plate maker so he went back and ordered the plates. The owner “seemed like a good guy” and he had a good chat while placing the order with a man whose small daughter, on being told that Wilf was English, proceeded to shout “good-bye” until he was out of sight on his bike.

We went back later to collect the plates. The picture of the owner in the window reminds me slightly of Bruce Forsyth. A woman is sitting in a chair chatting to a customer and the man behind the counter, much longer-haired and younger than Brucie. I hear the word “anglais” but am not really paying attention until the customer goes out, she hears me and Wilf speaking and starts to apologise, though we’re still not sure why. The owner gets the new plates, goes out with Wilf to fit them, and we continue the chat. Within five minutes we have covered Brexit, (I think her earlier comments must have been something along the lines of “the English are crazy”) David Cameron, Boris Johnson, the Euro, her family background and where her son worked near Birmingham. The other two return and we find that Owner was born in Italy but became Belgian, while she is of Spanish origin. Owner has a beautiful girlfriend, as Woman agrees. Owner grabs me by the wrist and takes me behind the counter. There is much comment about this: “What’s going on now?” “Give us half an hour.” “He can keep her.”  I’ll let you work out who said what.

He points to a picture of a very attractive woman, blue eyes and blonde hair. She’s Polish, he says, and as kind as she is beautiful. I wish him well. We emerge from the behind the counter, stopping on the way for him to give me a large bottle of water. He points to the label: it’s local, doesn’t have nitrates and is something to do with a friend of his. I hope the friend and the bottle haven’t been too closely connected.

He can also fit jeans buttons, rucksack strap buckles, do any sort of shoe repair and car keys, so we will go back and get the key fixed soon. We’re hoping that we need to use his services again: it’s such good entertainment.

Mercredi 24 août
Il fait chaud

The temperature is over 30 Celsius. We have all the doors open (four onto the balcony) and four smaller windows and there is still no air. In the afternoon, after the morning’s two trips to the market and one to the supermarket, I decide that a stroll will be a good idea and set out across town. I stop to look in the window of a bookshop which never fails to intrigue. As well as a range of very old books, there is a newer one, whose title includes the word “Satan.” On display are also an engraved jawbone of a large animal, a red-painted skull, what appears to be a pickled baby and a shrunken head. I take a couple of photographs but they have disappeared from my camera. Spooky……………..

After strolling for twenty minutes I can feel my skin starting to burn so shelter in the Place St Nicholas and order a Perrier. One of the local congregation of homeless people comes to a nearby table. He’s extremely happy, has his bottle of whatever well-stoppered to avoid spillage if he sways too much and, after a while, is quietly removed by the bar owner.

As I walk back past the square in front of the Eglise St Gery,  I see an elderly man still sitting in the same spot as forty minutes ago. He is wearing a spotless pink shirt, pressed trousers and explains in a querulous voice, that he is in a bit of difficulty and asks if I can spare some change. I tell him, in my best English accent, that I don’t understand and he goes. I have only rarely given money to people on the street since seeing a tv documentary twenty-odd years ago when a former social worker had lost her job following an accident and ended up on the street. She was adamant that it was better to give food rather than money.

Back home, later, I make the most of having the warm evening by having a glass of wine and admiring the flowers and the view, with a niece (in Brighton) as a virtual companion.

Jeudi 25 août
Je vais au lac

I get up early to go for a walk before it gets too hot: across town, then along by the canal to the lake at Le Vignoble. There used to be a vineyard there and vines have recently been replanted, though nothng’s been produced yet. 

I’m at the lake for 9am and get ready to try out my new Nordic walking poles. There are plenty of people around, though it isn’t crowded: walkers, runners, fishermen, a father and son watching the ducks. The poles do make you walk a bit faster and I get up a decent pace while still keeping a reasonable technique. I usually manage one or the other. It’s too lovely not to take a couple of photos, though, so I get a chance to cool down. 

I take a different route back, with another stop for a Perrier. Five and a half miles in all, and finished by 10.30am.

Vendredi, 26 août
Je trouve un nouveau marché

There is a Friday market at Anzin where we had the number plates made. I’m trying to walk more so set off up there. I wander round looking at the stalls and wonder what a visiting alien would make of it. He’d probably deduce that the people of Anzin eat comparatively little fruit and veg but wear out their shoes very quickly, as there are only five greengrocers and at least as many shoe sellers, who also seem to have bigger stalls. Despite not needing anything I buy a plait of smoked garlic and a spread made from red peppers which tastes lovely but looks rather less appealing.

When I get back to Valenciennes I diverge slightly from my outward route. A friend had commented yesterday that I’d had lovely views so today I’ve been taking photos of the less touristy parts of town (railway lines, a street with tramlines (but no trams) a “Danger of Death” sign). I give up the idea when I see a lovely building with stone carvings on the façade, take a phot, then notice that two of the carving represent Aesop’s fable of the stork and the fox. I cross the road for a closer look, hear a family of birds and spot them, at home on a ledge next to one of the carvings. 

 

Samedi, 27 août
Au marché de bonne heure
We have learned that we need to get to our favourite stall, a small local grower, early if we want to buy a variety of vegetables. I’m there at 8.15, having bought the fish, and join the queue. I am seventh in line. Anyone who knows me will know my love for queuing: there always seems something better to do. Here, though, on an already-warm summer morning it’s very pleasant. All the customers are regulars and so there is news to catch up with, banter to be made, “mistakes” with the amounts of potatoes and the totalling of the bill, done by hand in a battered book. Half an hour later, it’s my turn and I’m able to buy what I want: our basics of potatoes, a bunch of carrots, tomatoes, courgettes and, for the first time this year, a punnet of cherry tomatoes. It's worth the wait.