Four years on from what? In March 2020 Madame and I were living in rural SW France, in the Pays Basque, where little occurred to disturb the calm of rural life. Millions of lives were then turned upside down when the French president, Emmanuel Macron, announced a nationwide lockdown, or confinement. Covid 19 had arrived.
President Macron asked people to stay at home to avoid spreading the virus. However, during the few days before the official lockdown, thousands of Parisians left the city for their maisons secondaires. Many of these were in SW France and the owners received a cool reception. The second home of a British couple, an attractive mill near us, was burnt down a few years ago. It’s not always a good idea to leave a property hastily, as this young woman found when she returned to her apartment after three months.
Meanwhile hospitals in Paris and the north-east of the country were soon overwhelmed and special trains were equipped to bring the seriously ill to hospitals in Bordeaux and Bayonne. (In France, the SAMU is the national emergency organization or, to give it its full title, Service d’aide médicale urgente.)
Up until late November the rules on taking exercise limited you to one hour and one kilometre from the home, always accompanied by a signed and dated attestation (permission form). For Madame and me this was not a problem, living as we were near the foothills of the Pyrenees. We could cross the field by the garden and then climb up the hill and away.
We were caught out one day though. To return to the house on this occasion meant a 100m walk along the road. As it was the sacrosanct French lunchtime we rarely saw anyone about even pre Covid.
As you get older the police tend to look younger and these two gendarmes, male and female, really did not look old enough to be carrying sidearms. They asked for our attestations. We were by then only 20m from the house, but without the paperwork. This could have been a problem as the fine was substantial. However, it was their lunchtime and they were heading back to the station so they didn’t linger.
The hunting lobby is strong in France but a growing number of French people have an unfavourable view of this pastime. There was widespread surprise and condemnation that hunters of large game were permitted to continue hunting during the lockdown. Large game in our corner of France generally meant the sanglier, or wild boar. Madame was driving to Biarritz one day pre-Covid when she almost collided with a boar coming out of the adjoining forest. It didn’t stop at one; eight more trooped across the road behind the leader. Wild boar breed at a phenomenal rate.
Marc, our local farmer, showed us the damage that the boars had done to his maize crop and the reason that the French prime minister permitted hunting was, he said, with some justification, to protect the farmers and their crops. A petition was launched, which attracted nearly a quarter of a million signatures, which wanted the rules to be eased for riders, cyclists and outdoor sports enthusiasts, but this was refused. It was pointed out, with some reason, that the mental health of those confined week after week in cramped accommodation would suffer.
When restrictions were eventually eased the following year Madame and I had to make an urgent visit back to the UK. The paperwork involved was a nightmare, let alone the Covid tests that had to be taken regularly; you had to declare where you going, who you were staying with and how long you would be away. How travellers without computer skills coped was a mystery. We heaved a sigh of relief when we finally embarked. That should have been that, but the captain came on air to say that two of the crew had been in contact with Covid and he would have to ask for permission to sail. Not a problem? Well, we were in a Spanish port, in a French vessel en route to England, so permission times three. We went to bed and hoped for the best. Many hours later the engines started and we were on our way. A negative Covid result was only valid for 72 hours, so any disruption meant you would have to start the whole process again.
If you thought that was the end of the saga you’d be wrong. On the return journey from Portsmouth there was a minor problem with our papers so we couldn’t board. We were directed to the ferry office to sort it out. For once luck was on our side in the form of a super efficient official who reprinted them correctly.
We heaved a sigh of relief when Old Portsmouth slid by and we were in the Channel.
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