33.

July 27th.

At the teeming market, 15km. from my village, I'm buying crystallised fruit, nuts, olives and stunningly delicious grapes. I am stopped by a stall holder who, annoyingly, knows I am English. He had been calling out, ‘Madame, madame! `, trying to catch the attention of passing women who might just be interested in his leather belts. I do not notice him calling out to males. But he yells, ‘Mees’, when I am near. I can’t resist asking him how he knows that I am English, although I think I know already. He tells me that French women saunter sexily, time on their hands; he demonstrates. Then he tells me that English women wear particular sandals and stride purposefully. He demonstrates again, perfectly. We are both laughing but I don`t buy a belt.

I come from a small town in England where 2 enormous and resonant exhaust pipes per vehicle is the norm. Here, in this part of France, it`s the little motorbikes that make their mark. Young men externalise their identity by putting their foot down in rhythmic bursts. And that’s just a very restrained way of describing it.