Peregrinations

The French think we’re cool: bon voyage!

Anthony Peregrine

It may have taken the best part of an ice age to get through Calais recently, but I understand there are now zillions of Britons on holiday in France. This is admirable. It confirms that we refuse to be cowed by killers – or exchange rates. As you will have noticed, sterling is currently at ankle-level against the euro. But still the queues snaked for miles into Dover. Bravo. Well done, everyone.

You are now driving around France with, if I’m any judge of Britons, that characteristic mixture of diffidence and guilt brought on by contact with foreign parts. (We’re either laying waste to “abroad” – colonial wars, soccer strife, hen weekends – or embarrassed before it. There is no halfway house. I’ve no idea why this should be.)

This year we may feel particularly embarrassed, having so recently told Europe to b----- off. The good news is that there’s no need. Embarrassment is unnecessary. On Brexit, official France expressed dismay but unofficial France – I’ve talked to much of it – thinks it’s pretty cool. Or at least eccentric in a way they expect of us, as they don’t of Bulgarians.

Leaving Europe is considered quirky, like being home to Keith Richards or five-day cricket matches. They might not want to do it themselves, as they wouldn’t want a queen, but they admire our experience. No worries, then. No one’s going to hold it against us. In fact, they (like us) understand nothing of Europe, get bored almost instantly and turn to discussion of food, sex, wine and cycling.

Nor need we be ashamed that we speak no French. They all speak English. The interesting ones, anyway. So, a quick “bonjour”, then stick with the mother tongue. This saves acres of inanities, and gives them the useful impression that they’re slightly cleverer than we are. Everyone’s happy.

We shouldn’t feel inadequate, either, before French food and drink. French cuisine has its disasters (there’s nothing in Britain as blatantly disgusting as andouillette, not even steamed haddock), and the much-vaunted French home cooking is only any good if the homely person is competent. The stews of my in-laws’ Auvergnat neighbour have, for instance, caused at least one rural exodus, and possibly more.

And no awkwardness wine-wise, please. We are indisputably French winemakers’ favourite customers because a) we don’t pretend to knowledge we don’t have, b) we buy a lot and c) enthusiasm is our standby mode.

As, in truth, it is for everything French, sometimes to the point of madness (“Great underground car parks,” I’ve been told). The French like us for it very much. It’s the flip side of all that diffidence and embarrassment.

So, carry on as you were. The holiday’s going to work out fine.