Astrophil and Stella 41: Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance
Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize,
Both by the judgment of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance,
Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,
Think Nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shot awry! The true cause is,
Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face
Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.
Friday, June 5, 2015
Caunes is a village the English have taken to warmly. Brits abound, and tend to live in one quarter of the village, one of its oldest parts. That quarter of the village is the one least accessible by car, the ruelles so narrow, backing in and out is virtually impossible. Therefore, those who live along that street can pretty much keep to themselves.
The English love France. The weather is so much better than in the British Isles. One woman told me that when someone back home says, "How's the weather? --It's terrible here", she feels guilty answering, "It's beautiful."
The frequent flights between Carcassonne (30 minutes away from Caunes), and Stansted and Gatwick airports, make short trips back to Old Blighty easy, and vice versa.
"We're leaving for London in an hour," a transplant, a builder, tells me when we cross paths for the second time in a morning. Earlier in the day he was working on a house with another Brit. He seems only slightly rushed, probably because what can be brought on board these shuttle flights is so limited, packing is an afterthought. Ryanair and Easyjet pack you in like a sardine, but for a minimal price, hence their popularity.
There are those English whose home here is a second home, and there are those who are permanent residents. It tends to be an ex-pat colony: some of the English speak French well, they are the long-term residents who came with young children destined for French schools. However, the retirees are less inclined to mix with the French. They find more than enough to do puttering around the house, attending yoga classes led by a compatriot, playing the occasional tennis game and generally sticking together.
With such an established colony there are, then, divisions between the French and the English insofar as the restaurants they patronize and extol. France may be where they love to live, but it is British restauranteurs Brits here frequent and British-run "bed-and-breakfasts" they recommend to friends. One Frenchwoman, proprietor of a restaurant cum "b-and-b", swears that negative comments about her restaurant have found their way onto travel websites, put there by Brits wanting to bring English custom to English transplants in the village.
France may be delightful, but the French remain "that sweet enemy".
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