Just back from a few days in France… Oh I know, the last entry was full of disparaging remarks about the French and then I exposed myself as a snake by going there and enjoying it. Sorry.
In one of the brief breaks in the torrential rain, my son and I went exploring, specifically in fact to find and visit the remains of a 10th century hill fort of a type known as a Motte Castrale. Which is of course fascinating to everyone.
Whilst imagining to ourselves what it must have been like living in a glorified wooden hut on top of a windy hill in northern France around 1000 years ago, we bumped into a local who was carrying a rather fancy looking mushroom-carrying box, clearly with mushrooms in it. It is, after all, the season.
‘Ah – you have come for the sheep?’ He asked.
‘Err….I don’t think so’ I said, giving my best confused look, wondering how he had spotted that there was an errant English vet stumbling up the hillside obviously ill-equipped for gathering mushrooms but clearly (in his mind) ready for sheep-related activities.
‘There’s a sheep up there with it’s head stuck in the fence. Never mind – I’ll go and report it at the Town Hall.’
Rather than advertise my profession and then risk the possibility of a crowd of local farmers chortling into their champignons as the stupid eenglish vet failed to untangle the sheep, or worse killed it in the process, I nodded and agreed with him that that was probably a good idea (would my local Town Hall be that interested, I wondered?).
We carried on the ascent, and soon enough came upon said sheep, bravely trying to get downhill through a small hole in a very solid looking piece of wire fencing. Reverse gear was clearly not an option on this particular model. With some wrestling, bleated protests and inappropriate curses, the beast was freed and set off trying to pretend that nothing had happened.
Imagine my surprise when on the way down we encountered 2 very rotund men on a tractor heading up the hill in our direction.
I knew the drill.
‘Ah – have you come for the sheep?’ I asked, my imagination spinning off for a moment into the idea that this could be some bizarre and probably smutty shaggy dog story…
‘Oui.’
‘No need’ I said. ‘It’s done.’
‘OK.’
And off they went. I wondered what they talked about on the way back to the Town Hall.
‘Did you zee zat, Henri?’
‘Yes it was that stupid eenglish vet.’
‘Ee didn’t find ze mushrooms?’
‘Non.’
‘Tres bien.’