French Letter: The last of my summer whines

Autumn arrived as if by appointment. Wednesday was dazzling. The pharmacy thermometer in Callac hovered around 26 degrees. I even got slightly sunburned on my arms. But the next day, September 1, was marked by heavy clouds, rolling thunder and an enervating humidity. The long, hot summer was in full retreat – and not just in Brittany. 

Météo France was right: storms were general all over France. Rain fell softly in Paris and upon the valley of the Loire, and further westwards into the dark mutinous Atlantic waves. It fell, too, upon every part of the lonely graveyard where my friend Alexis lies buried. It lay pooling on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the metal gate, on the thorn bushes laden with fruit. 

But I need hardly go on. Joyce is infinitely adaptable. 

The point is that the heatwave and associated drought is finally over. A lot more rain will be needed to restore reservoir levels to anything like normal. The great rivers – the Loire, Rhone, Garonne, Dordogne and Seine – will take weeks, even months, to recover. And the rain has come too late to rescue the harvest. As President Macron felt moved to inform us on returning from his Mediterranean vacation, the age of abundance is over. 

To my surprise, given the grim forecasts of only six weeks ago, the wine harvest may be the least affected. Volume is down, especially in the Bordeaux region, but quality in many instances will be up. It is humble grass that bore the brunt of the conditions. Cows in the fields, when they weren’t sheltering under trees, have been congregating round hay-feeders and water troughs since late June. How much hay from the spring will be left to sustain them over the winter remains an open question. 

At least La Rentrée, the annual return to Paris and the other big cities of millions of holidaymakers, is over. Holdouts – those without children who don’t have to be back at work until Monday (September 5) – are enjoying their last fruits de mer before loading up their cars and motorhomes for the long journey home. 

In Roscoff, while the off was getting underway, it was possible, just, to find an outside table for lunch without a reservation. Our friends visiting from Paris were quick to skip a line at one particular restaurant by the harbour when they spotted a table being vacated at a rival establishment. Envious heads turned in our direction as we claimed our prize, but in fact no one had to wait more than ten minutes. Later, on the way home, having already purchased a batch of Breton sticky buns, known as Kouign Amann, our pals greedily cashed in on the red onions, bulbous tomatoes and gnarled peppers available “for next to nothing” at the various roadside stalls.  

Roscoff, you should know, is one of the most captivating small towns in France – a fact confirmed by CNN, no less, in a recent feature covering the entire European continent. The British tend to think of it as no more than a ferry port, but it is a lot more than that. I know I shouldn’t be saying this – next year I won’t be able to get a table due to the hordes of Reaction readers – but there is no resort in Brittany as elegantly beautiful as the capital of the aptly named Côte du Sable. If you don’t stay at least one night – and preferably three – next time you arrive in France from Plymouth, it will be your loss. 

Back in the heartland, with our friends restored to Paris, there remained, and still remains, the problem of what to do about the high hedge that overlooks our front gate. I will be 74 next Wednesday and no longer move with my trademark elfin grace. Last year, I tottered on the final rung of a high stepladder in a bid to reach the hedge’s top knot; this year, I’m not sure I have the nerve, even with my wife poised to break my fall. But we’ll see. 

Our next trial à deux falls due on Monday, when we have to motor 150 kilometres to Rennes, where the only dentist we could find who was willing to take us on plies his trade in the heart of the city’s student quarter. As in the UK, there is a dental crisis in France and our appointments were made as long ago as the second week of July. The Breton capital is a lively town with a handsome centre, but I fear we are going to be seeing rather more of it than we would like in the months ahead.

I know what the dentist will say. “Monsieur Ellis, we can probably get through a couple of fillings this afternoon, but that is only the start. The truth is, you are two crowns short of a royal hatbox and will need at least three more appointments between now and November if you are to enjoy your Thanksgiving turkey.” And then it will be the same for Louisa, who, though an American, is somehow cursed with English teeth.

How much will it cost? Will our health insurance, covering the portion of the treatment not met by our cartes vitales, be up to the task? How many nights must we book in hotels in Rennes as we endure the agonies of the damned? And what about the car? Our GPS has recently developed dementia and only works intermittently. Will we be able to find our way through the mean streets of Rennes without satellite guidance. Only time, and your correspondent, will tell.