The Last Straw: The French social model is under threat, as you'll have heard, and the nation is debating its future in a mood of deep pessimism. Driving through Normandy's cheese country last week, I couldn't but sense the gloom provoked by the onslaught of what the locals call "neo-liberalism". It was as if huge, dark clouds of globalisation were moving in from the English Channel, casting a pall over the French countryside and its traditional way of life, writes Frank McNally.
In the event, as luck would have it, they turned out to be actual clouds. And by the time we reached Livarot, the town nearest our guesthouse, they were casting torrential rain over the French countryside, and over us, to the extent that I could hardly see the road. At this point, like France, my family and I were caught up in an angst-ridden debate about our future direction, mainly because I'd forgotten to download the exact location of the guesthouse from the website and our hosts weren't answering the phone.
Livarot's tourist office was closed. So I pulled in on Rue Marechal Foch and, wading through the downpour, inquired among the moustachioed farmers in the Café de la Paix. I sensed I'd interrupted a discussion about neo-liberalism, because the air of the bar was thick with gloom - the parts that weren't thick with cigarette smoke. Either way, the name of my guesthouse provoked only shrugs, some of them deeply pessimistic. And as I emerged coughing into the rain, I wondered aloud why in the name of Marechal Foch I didn't download the directions when I had a chance.
We found the guesthouse, eventually. Sometime afterwards it stopped raining, and France didn't seem so gloomy. It was business as usual next morning at Livarot's boulangeries, where locals queued for bread, the price of which is still fixed by law to support small bakeries. There was no sense of economic doom. But as you watched everyone trooping home with baguettes under their arms, you couldn't help wonder if the French really eat them all, or if they're not stockpiling weapons for the forthcoming war against neo-liberalism. A large, week-old baguette could do a lot of damage in a riot.
The forces of neo-liberalism lurked on the outskirts of Livarot in the form of a supermarket, but the dangers it posed seemed minimal. The fish counter was closed for half of August. And the rest of the shop, while open daily, took two hours off for lunch. Next to fresh bread, incidentally, the French love to consume political literature, fresh or otherwise. Among the beach reading in the supermarket's small books section was Les Consequences du Non, now past its best-before date (polling day) but still selling well.
The French model's real enemy, arguably, was the Huit à Huit convenience store just off the main street (on which it wouldn't be allowed). But while this did, in a manner of speaking, open from 8am to 8pm, it turned out that the catchy name was a de facto abbreviation and that the store should really have been called: "Huit à huit, sauf 1pm à 2.30pm: nous ne sommes pas les Americains, quand même."
For real convenience, it was hard to
beat the weekly regional market at Saint-Pierre-sur-Dives, where you could buy everything from live geese to lingerie, and most things in between. Surveying a cageful of rabbits at €7 each, I wasn't sure if they were pets or food - my children were playing with them at the time, so I didn't ask. The main point is that the market was full of local produce, and the only sign of globalisation was the inevitable Peruvian pan-pipe band. Is nowhere safe?
The French government is currently selling its tolled motorways, amid soul-searching about the possibility of them falling into foreign hands. But at least the back roads will still be held by France, and that's where you get the flavour of the country. The village nearest our guesthouse was a place called Heurtevent, which comprised three buildings, none of them a pub. In Irish terms, it was more of a Nonevent. But, like everywhere else in France, it had a mayor, who will shortly host a "repas communal" for residents.
The French model does impose certain strains. After several days of buying bread in one boulangerie, I tried another shop one morning, just because I liked the name - M Bigot. Since price competition doesn't apply, it must be a big blow for a boulanger to lose custom. So it was an awkward moment when I walked past my usual shop just as the Madame looked out. I couldn't hide my shame - it was about a yard long, after all. But I felt such a cad when she smiled and said, "Bonjour".