French Letter: Can I survive my latest sporting endeavour? The jury is out

I’m in a state of trepidation. Berthold (Bertie), our new German neighbour, is a keen player of Pétanque, the French version of Bowls, and is dragging me into town tomorrow to be instructed in the rudiments of the game. He will pick me up at two o’clock and whisk me to the local boulodrome, where I will evidently serve my apprenticeship under his expert guidance. 

Who knew that the Germans played Pétanque, which I always thought was confined to the south of France, particularly Marseille? Here in Brittany, Boules, of which Pétanque is an offshoot, is played mainly by men, and some women, over the age of 60. It is what French men do when they are retired and not drinking kir. It is what the seemingly never-ending commotion over President Macron’s attempt to raise the retirement age from 62 to 64 is all about. 

Bertie, it emerges, is quite the Petonker. Though a recent arrival in the district, he has already organised a mid-summer tournament, with teams from Germany, Belgium and the Netherlands, as well as France, scheduled to take part over three days of hard competition, during which, I imagine, no quarter will be asked or given. 

Am I somehow to be part of this? I can only hope not, but the jury will not be out for long.

Our local boulodrome is located in the grounds of the town’s sports centre, close to Intermarché, the posher of our two supermarkets. It is a hugely popular venue. Down the years I have often observed the various concours taking place, little realising that, notwithstanding the fact that I am noted for my spectacular lack of hand-eye coordination, I was fated to join the fun. 

Lest you think me a joyless curmudgeon, I adduce my attempt, while living in Amsterdam in the 1980s, to learn to play squash. I was given personal instruction by a Dutch colleague, who gave up, bewildered, as I failed totally to connect ball to racket. I couldn’t serve to save my life. At golf back home in Ireland, I was a hopeless duffer, whose swing would have been reasonable had it not routinely left the ball rooted to the spot three inches below. Skiing? I couldn’t remain upright for more than a minute at a time and on several occasions found myself heading downhill in reverse, which I am assured is next to impossible. I played cricket once for the Financial Times, against a Spectator team captained by the Greek playboy, Taki. I was out second ball, hit-wicket. At school, where I expended considerable energy in avoiding every form of sporting activity, I was the McCavity of football: wherever the play happened to be on the pitch, Ellis wasn’t there. 

So you will understand that I am not looking forward to this latest test of my athletic disability. Bertie, however, is a hard man to say no to. He is enthusiastic about everything and apparently sees in me some form of kindred spirit. He is wrong. 

But never say never. I will tell you next week how I got on. 

In other news, you may recall that our local pub, Les Fous, is closed at the moment due to the fact that Trish, the landlady, has broken her hip. She is making progress, though we are still waiting to hear whether or not the treatment centre where she is currently installed will remain open beyond the end of the month. Again, I will keep you posted. 

But with the pub shut, the regulars have had to find an interim watering hole, which turned out to be the bar-tabac Ty Douad, in the nearby village of Doualt. Ty Douad is that rare thing outside of rural Ireland, a spirit grocer – a bar where you can also buy bread, milk and other provisions, as well as the local paper. The patronne, a blonde of a certain age, is thrilled to have new customers. The bar nearly went out of business a few years back and was taken over by the commune as the one place that, with the church no longer a viable concern, served as a meeting place for the village and home to the annual fest noz, or harvest knees-up. 

I can report that we have been well looked after. Our host has pulled out all the stops, even selecting and then turning up the volume, until we begged her to relent, on a streamed version of the Beatles’ greatest hits. 

The sorrow is that we are about to desert her after less than a month. Trish has emailed to say that the Fous will be back in business this weekend and should, with luck and a following wind, stay open three days a week thereafter, pending her return to active duty. Don, her husband, is a craft-brewer of some distinction and has worked hard to ensure that all is not lost amid misfortune. He believes that his supplies of bitter, mild, IPA and stout – relished not just by Brits but by the more discerning French – will be sufficient to see us through the duration. We will drink to that.  

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