Pontorson, France

Downing tools seemed to be all the rage in France. From the scenes on the breakfast telly the National Rail Strike appeared to be causing carnage, with footage of traffic chaos on the roads of Paris. I was surprised to see so many French people trying their damnedest to get to work, as here in Normandy everyone seemed to be trying their best to avoid doing any. This was reinforced by the lady at the hotel desk brightly informing me that the hotel would be closing with immediate effect. I was homeless again.

I considered my options. It didn’t take long, as I had none. With no trains running and a silvery sky insistently pelting cold, snowy rain, I had no choice but to stay in Pontorson and pray to the Great Fat Controller in the Sky for trains tomorrow.

I tried to explain my situation to the hotel owner in poor French (”il n’y pas de trains, mais il n’y a pas d’hotels aussi. C’est fermé! Tout le monde est fermé!”). Luckily, he got the gist of my hysterical rantings and very kindly rang one of the few hotels in Pontorson that wasn’t shut to make a reservation for me.

I biked down there in the rain, checked in and had a quick sulk. Mentally I had travelled on to my next destination, but physically I had been prevented from doing so. I’d been in this situation before in Auckland and it wasn’t an enjoyable feeling.

I decided to make the most of being stranded in a shithole of a French town on a cold, rainy Sunday by heading down to the rather nifty-looking restaurant of the hotel. Half of it was reserved; it was obviously a popular place. Or perhaps the only place open.

I leafed through the gaudy menu, mentally adding “people who think it’s acceptable to use Word Art” to my list of people who need a good talking to when the revolution comes, and was pleasantly surprised at the wealth of choice. There were four or five different themed three-course menus on offer, each containing two or three selections. I plumped for the seafood option, and minutes later a huge bucket of mussels in white wine sauce was delivered to me, which were fabulous. The skate wing in butter sauce that followed was somewhat less than fabulous, but finishing off with a cheeseboard and washing it all down with a glass of vin rouge I ended up extremely well fed and watered. The damage for a promptly-served, finely-presented, three course haute couture meal? A tenner.

With the cautious reception I’d received so far, I’d been thinking about the ever-present English-French rivalry, and how we call the French frogs whilst they call us le rosbif (the roast beef). It struck me that these insults extended to somewhat more than just food preferences. Yes, the French ate frogs, but the term also implied a sliminess or greasiness with which those who use the term associate with the stereotype of the Gallic man. But after my new French dining experience, I now wondered whether le rosbif had a similar undertone; might being compared to a hearty slab of meat be a dig at a perceived unrefined, uncivilised, barbarian Anglo Saxon nature?

When the level of food finesse I had experienced today is available to anyone in France with €15 to their name in a random crap French town on any given Sunday, yet such refinement in our country is reserved either for those people with £££ or for special occasions, you can kind of see their point.

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