FIDELMA COOK

INSIDE the village church every pew was packed with mourners – a rare sight in this 12th-century Catholic chapel. Weekly mass is no longer a guarantee as the two remaining priests in the area work themselves to exhaustion covering parishes throughout the region.

The last time I was here was again for a funeral; the interment of the mayor’s father where Latin, French and Occitan merged in a strange yet familiar chant. As is the custom we followed the coffin to the crypt in the shade of the chapel walls, filing past to touch the casket and scooping rose petals from baskets on to its lid.

Then the handful of expats – a term they use – stood slightly uncomfortably outside the gates not sure of this ancient ritual.

They were the ones dressed in dark suits and overcoats; slender cashmere on the women, dark stockings and court shoes. The uniform of death, kept handily in wardrobes, particularly after a certain age.

The French, as is their way, had come in a variety of outfits – some as if straight from the fields, others in the much beloved waxed anorak, shirt collars open, unpolished boots.

They stooped and shuffled on the benches; old men and women perhaps lost in a reverie of childhood.

Last Saturday many were there again but it was plain from the pressed trousers, in some cases suits, that they were here to honour a much admired man – a man of them, but not from them.

And in row after other row, straight-backed men and women of that cast of features marking them out as undeniably English brought a very different feel to this crouching rural French church.

From the opening bars of Elgar’s Nimrod the memorial service flowed from the heart of England and one could almost feel the stones of the chapel start and then settle to this very different rhythm.

God knows, as do you, that I have not always been kind to the expats around me, particularly those who live in a Cotswolds bubble, clinging grimly on to old glories. But I have always been kind, as they unfailingly have to me, to the many former military drawn to this backwater.

For me they are the most successful of all immigrants; used to constantly uprooting and changing countries during a life of service to the Crown.

They know how to slip into a landscape, charm the locals with their quick grasp of the language, be courteous and curious of the many anomalies of life wherever they end up when private citizens.

T, whose life we were celebrating after his private cremation the day before, was the best example of that breed of Englishmen, encompassing all the virtues and none of the vices.

A retired colonel from a muchrespected regiment, he neither used his former title nor traded on it. Tall, handsome even as he aged, he was unfailingly polite, interested, uncomplaining – never more so than in his final, pain-filled months. He was what is now often sneered at as “old school” – a gentleman.

On the altar a Church of England female priest, whose parish is twice the size of Wales, led us through those rites familiar to most of the congregation.

Her English rang out in a land where English and French have fought for centuries, but her simultaneous French, in homage to T’s dual existence, softened the foreignness.

And the hymns, such as Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer, were those encompassing the fortitude of those military families who fanned the globe.

Regardless of one’s national affiliations, which may be at odds with all that past colonialism stands for, one can’t but admire their indomitable spirit.

In the end it is the man or woman who stands to be counted.

Readings from T’s son and daughter and a long-standing army colleague and friend merged family and country. His wife fulfilled her own unpaid army role to the end; smiling, dry eyed, a gracious hostess at the drinks on the terrace later.

Life always gives you jolts to remind you all is not as you once believed. Ageing teaches you that nothing is set in the stone of history.

Once, when young and fiery at the height of Ireland’s Troubles, I could not have envisaged breaking bread with “the enemy”. And here I was celebrating the life of one who had served in Ulster during those desperate times, hiding my eyes behind dark glasses.

It has taken common ground in La France Profonde to teach me that, and perhaps that is the greatest lesson of all in my life. One I never expected to find anywhere, least of all here amid the sunflowers. The final hymn was I Vow to Thee, My Country, sung with gusto by those around me in rounded, loud English voices.

The French did their best but their hymns are mainly gentle, their national anthem bloodthirsty. We exited to Toccata, from Widor’s Symphony No 5, a particular favourite of T’s.

It was right and proper, rounding off a perfect English/French farewell/ adieu. T would have been proud, for he loved France without ever ceasing to love his own country.