A walk to the bar - 25/02/2007
A Sunday morning trip to the bar
The walking gives me time to think and most often, one of the things that I'll be thinking about is how important it is to go to your local bar, at least once a week.
I seem to have got myself into a routine. The first Saturday after payday, I go into Josselin and do the market. I always go to the Bar de le Charcuterie to have a coffee and to read the paper. It doesn't really look like a bar and almost never has any English in it.
Every Sunday, I walk into Lanouee (I cheated today, it was raining so I took the car) and have a beer at the Bar Celtic, whilst reading the Sunday paper.
At work, I have a rule...
"If my work is especially hard, I am entitled to treat myself to a beer, after work!"
"If I do overtime, I am entitled to treat myself to a beer, after work!"
"If I finish early, I am entitled to profit from that and thus, to treat myself to a beer, after work!"
This sort of works quite well for me as, every day, at least one of those conditions will be fulfilled!
The bar that I go to, after work, is in the small village of La Gree St. Laurent, 2 miles north of Josselin. I'm not sure why I like it so much, after all, architecturally, it has no claim to fame. The bar looks a bit like a 1960's conservatory, the furniture is functional rather than pretty.
I suppose that what makes it special is the ambiance of the place. Michelle, the landlady, keeps popping into her kitchen to cook the evening meal for her husband and one of her sons (I work with them both). She loves to talk about cooking - I love to listen.
From her kitchen, the smell of her evening meal wafts out and people keep popping in for a glass of wine after a day's work. As Michelle sells stamps, neighbours come in with their post which gets put behind the bar to wait for the postman's next visit. Every car that drives past is commented on.
Why do you need to go to the bar, regularly?
If your French isn't so good, you might not understand all that is being said but, you will pick up clues about the local gossip and have an idea about what your neighbours are interested in and concerned about.
After a while, you seem to become part of the place - people know to expect me after work at 4.30pm and will comment if I am early or late. I'll have to explain that it's been busy or that I've had a quiet day. The conversation leads on from there.
If I miss a Sunday at the bar at Lanouee - that will be commented on, as well. There seems to be a natural slow regularity to life here. It's a nice contrast to my old life in London. Here, I know where I am and, as a result, who I am.
It's all about putting down roots. It does take some time but, by taking the effort to go out, at least once a week, to the bar, you soon discover the history and secrets that define where you live. In London, I didn't really know any of my neighbours - I couldn't say what they did for a living, let alone guess at their names. Here I do know my neighbours names, I do know what they do for work, I know who's expecting babies (or who's just had one).
I think of it as a jigsaw puzzle. If we are all pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, we can choose whether to be just pieces in a pile of pieces of a jigsaw puzzle or we can try to be part of that complete picture, meshing with the people that we live near - going to the bar helps us to do that.
And, of course, our neighbours want, and expect, to be part of that jigsaw, as well. They've possibly spent most (if not all) of their lives in the same area. They're used to knowing almost everything about each other.
Then, we move over to join them. We come over with no history, with different customs and no knowledge of the history and secrets of our new home. It's only fair and only right to allow our neighbours to gently interogate us over a glass of wine. That way they get to understand which bit of the jigsaw puzzle we are.
And then, the Walk
And back to the walk. In a way, it is the act of walking to the bar on a Sunday morning that is almost as important as the hour I will spend there, having a beer (or two) and reading the paper. Somehow, the walk seems to be an act of purification - any little worries that I might have had during the week, seem to wait until a Sunday morning to be sorted out. And they do get sorted out, each and every one of them - there generally aren't too many, anyway.
It's something to do with the scenery, it's something to do with the fresh air. It's the anticipation of meeting friends and neighbours and, afterwards, it's the affirmation, once again, that I fit in.
Even this time of the year, there are new things for me to see during the walk... A Hare in the field, a buzzard swooping above, the new daffodils popping up everywhere - they're all part of where I am - they're all parts of that jigsaw, as well.
