It ain't all courgettes and sunflowers!

If you read one of my earlier posts this summer, you will recall I was bemoaning the surfeit of courgettes with which my neighbours were keen to supplement my diet.

However, dear readers, I am here to tell you a few things about the fertile soils of Nowhere-in-France. I will tell you the tale of the Mystery of the Disappearing Marijuana..

Towards the end of my summer stay, I was (as in the courgette story) invited to dinner with my friend Karine. She, and indeed I and many others, have known for some time that her neighbours have a small area of their large back garden dedicated to the cultivation of recreational drugs which, I should add, are entirely for their own consumption and mainly for medicinal purposes. Nobody minds, except when the Gendarmes take their helicopter up for a spin. But then, the Gendarmes don't seem to mind, either. They (the Gendarmes) may make an appearance later in this tale, however, for another reason.

So, on the evening in question, I arrived at Karine's and let myself in, calling out a "Hello!" to which there came no reply. I wandered into the back garden and saw her far down the garden, deep in conversation with a man I didn't recognise. She introduced me to her neighbour, and together they explained that he had come over to tell her that, during the previous night, someone had come into her garden, and, using a stepladder that was already set up under a nearby tree, they had scaled the fence between their two properties and helped themselves to a couple of dozen cannabis plants.

Despite the indifference of the local Gendarmes to the existence of these plants, this is clearly not the sort of theft that is easy to report, but the neighbour, in a very pleasant way, had come to see if Karine might know of any visitors to her home who might have taken a shine to the plants and hatched a plan to steal them. We laughed together at the thought that a hotch-potch of mostly septuagenarians or under twelves would be able or willing to carry out such a dastardly plot, given that most of the former have had heart operations or hip replacements, and that any such scheme would probably make good material for an episode of "Last of the Summer Wine". And, talking of wine, we all had a glass of rosé whilst wondering aloud what the world was coming to when a person couldn't cultivate something a bit more interesting than courgettes without having it stolen. How anyone could have found them and carted them off in the dead of night seemed destined to remain a mystery, but Karine and her neighbour were both unsettled by this, although for different reasons. The neighbour was doubly miffed, because, as he explained, the plants weren't even ready for harvesting! That let me even further off the hook, as I wouldn't know a ripe-for-harvesting cannabis plant form a courgette.

Anyway, the neighbour left, we had dinner, and I took my leave of Karine at about 9.30. It's a short drive home, passing through the village, round the square and down the road to my house. As if the evening hadn't been eventful enough, I was just turning into the top end of the square when, suddenly, a man in uniform jumped out of a shrub opposite the boulangerie. A Gendarme, no less. No, wait, there were two of them!

We often joke that the centre of our village is so quiet after 9 in the evening that you could get arrested for having squeaky shoes. Well, I guess that the Gendarmes must feel the need every so often to make their own entertainment. What better way than to lurk in the bushes (on an evening when the local bar is closed, as well) and stop unsuspecting motorists and breathalyse them?

It came as a bit of a shock to both of us, I can tell you. Me, because I had recently consumed a glass of wine, them because despite my French licence plate, I exited the vehicle on what they assumed was the passenger side, so there ensued a brief moment of confusion while they checked that my car wasn't being propelled by a person of restricted growth who was hiding because they'd been drinking all evening. Once we'd all taken stock, I blew into their machine as requested, produced a negative result ("Nickel! " proclaimed the Gendarme) and was allowed to go about my business. If only I could have said "Look, instead of stopping innocent drivers and doing random breath tests, why not go and solve some real crimes, like the theft of a quantity of recreational drugs! " but discretion is, etc., etc..

There is a popular misconception among many Brits abroad that rural France is an idyllic place, where there are no drugs, no crime, and everyone can leave their doors open without fear. I am here to tell you that there's a lot more going on than meets the eye. It really isn't all courgettes and sunflowers, you know!

Cycle of Crime

TH has, for many a long year, been a cyclist. He is getting a bit long in the tooth, and although I’ve seen a great deal worse, he’s probably well past the age where lycra brings out the best in him. Nevertheless, I’m almost as proud as he is of the seven or eight medals he amassed on his annual outing on the London to Brighton bike ride for the British Heart Foundation. We’ve laughed with him and at him: the latter, especially, when he fell victim to an irreparable puncture several miles from home, and had forgotten his mobile phone. I don’t think he enjoyed the walk back in his cycling shoes, but you’re never too late to learn a life lesson.

                                                                                       Bicycle Marathon by Vojko Kalan                                          

                                                                                   Image from http://www.publicdomainpictures.net

                                             

Then, about four years ago , he had an unfortunate experience in France whilst out cycling, where he was poleaxed by the Very Strong Gust of Wind. 

Having brought his pride-and-joy racing bike out to France, he set out one sunny afternoon, leaving me lounging by the pool, with the promise to return in time for us to go into the local town for a stroll and an early evening drink. I settled down with a book to await his return.

Some time later, my mobile phone rang.

“It’s me” said TH “Can you come and get me? I’ve fallen off my bike”

“Where are you?” I asked, fearing all sorts of things “Are you OK?”

“Yes, I’m fine, but hang on….someone wants to have a word”

With that, TH passed his phone to a Frenchman, and the conversation went as follows:

“Bonjour madame. Your husband had a nasty fall. We picked him up, but when we got to him, he wasn’t making much sense, so we rang for the SAMU”

( I did think, rather uncharitably, that the “not making much sense” might have been a little matter of language problems, but I was becoming increasingly concerned).

The Frenchman (or men, for there were two of them) had been working on a chantier next to the road, where a new dual carriageway was under construction. They gave me directions to the spot, and told me that the ambulance was on its way. I hastily gathered together my clothes, bag and wits and jumped into the car to hurry to the scene.

Upon my arrival, I found TH covered in blood, his cycle helmet looking as if someone had attacked it with a cheese grater, and his lycra top looking somewhat shredded. The SAMU had also arrived. TWO lots of them, for it appeared that TH had selected a spot for his accident that fell exactly halfway between the jurisdictions of two hospitals, so he was being largely ignored whilst the two crews had a chat about who was going to take him where. I managed to establish from TH that he thought he might have broken his collarbone, but that he was now pretty sure he hadn’t. I got the story from the two Frenchmen and thanked them profusely for their help, and then spent several minutes whilst waiting for the medics to make up their minds who was in charge, persuading TH that no, he was NOT OK, and yes, he did have to go to hospital and get checked out. Eventually, after I had answered all the necessary questions and forms had been filled in on TH’s behalf, the ambulance drove off with TH impressively strapped onto a spinal board, wearing a neck brace and a helpless expression.  His almost total lack of French, rather than his injuries, was the main cause of this helplessness.

I’ll spare you the blow-by-blow. Some few hours later, discharged from hospital and wearing an impressive neck brace, with a prescription for a year’s supply of Doliprane and Betadeine, I helped OH to the car. We did both wonder why, amid all the x-rays, examinations and ministrations, no-one had offered or tried to remove ANY of the blood in which he was covered, but never mind.

Anyway… Since that episode, TH has done very little riding outdoors. The bike – quite an expensive road bike – had suffered no lasting damage from the fall, and when we came back home, TH invested in a gadget which enabled him to use the bike as a static machine. This was installed in the garden shed, to which he has disappeared on at least 3 evenings each week, and cycled a good 30 miles or so on the spot. Something known within the family as the “Tour du Shed”.

Alas, overnight on Friday, and after having already over the last month broken into the garden sheds of both of our neighbours, the local  thieves finally decided it was Our Turn.

Up early on Saturday morning, I popped out to put some rubbish in the dustbin and noticed that the garden gate was ajar. Walking through the gate to the back of the house, I saw the shed door open and ran down the garden to check. The locked door had been forced open, and the beloved bike was gone. It had been chained to a huge wooden tool chest and fixed into the static rollers, but the chain had been forced apart with a screwdriver (ours) and the bike was no more, along with a few other items of equipment and tools. Luckily, and largely as a result of precautions taken since the neighbours’ burglaries, another three bikes, including a nice new road bike recently purchased by TH, were still there: he had had the presence of mind to chain all three together using some really heavy chain AND a D-lock. The police were called, and came to look. That’s all, just look. They won’t be doing anything – they said so. 

Things could, of course, been a lot worse. However, TH is bereft. There is unlikely to be much money from the insurance, as a separate insurance for a bike is almost impossible to obtain, but although this is not a piece of expensive jewellery or a family heirloom, that bike was an old and trusted friend. TH and the bike have been through a lot together. No more Tour du Shed….