The Proof is in the Pudding .

“France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits the tread of a man's foot”… Shakespeare.(1601).Alls Well That Ends Well.

It is impossible to write of the intricacies of French life as an English immigrant without having a peak through Nelson’s telescope at the relationship between the two countries. I know, I know, no one wants a history lesson but it's important to note that the two nations have been proudly competing for influence and power in Europe, and indeed the globe, for many many years. The two sparring partners have shared a love/hate or even hate/hate relationship since before The Duke of Normandy took his first swing in 1066. Whilst we recognise the monumental, arduous events of history, (insert big list of wars), it is necessary not to bore my followers to death with the lengthy details.The question today reader is... In diplomatic times do the historical prejudices of these two great neighbours still create friction whilst living together on French soil ?

Poets, journalists and cartoonists alike have immortalised boastful stereotypes across the Channel in true Charlie Hebdo style… (or Punch if you’re an old boomer). The french are portrayed as stroppy, stripy-shirted, beret wearers shaking their onions at us; whilst they pontificate we are superior, tea swilling, roast beef eaters that produce little more than football thugs in Union flag tee shirts. A melange of abuses harpooned across the La Manche since time in memorial indeed. So how does this affect those who decide to stay?

Growing up on the Kentish coast, France was in sight from the Sunny Sands beach in Folkestone. As families, we would regularly take the ferry from Folkestone and Dover to Calais and Boulogne just for the ride and a day out; gloriously concluded with chip filled baguettes with a massacre of beautiful mayonnaise. In short, France in all her glory, was never far from my heart. Being just 26 miles away, French has always been enthusiastically taught in our schools. We gladly accommodated excited French students into our homes on busy exchange programmes; not to mention produce on our shelves that changed the face of our breakfast choices.

When Christmas threatened an alcohol drought we happily skipped over the Channel to restock our bounties and save a fortune on overtaxed French wine in the UK. We never uttered a french word except ‘mercy’ and blissfully took for granted signs and menus in English to best aid our travel and spending. Things were going swimmingly! We even linked arms over the water and built a tunnel connecting the two countries by train. So what’s the beef? (pardon the pun).

The British live in France and the French live in Britain; both having to navigate the minefield of bureaucracy that each government inflicts. As immigrants both have difficulty transferring skills from other countries for work: visas and permits, not to mention the language barriers... but are they the only barriers? Does there still exist old, unpacked baggage that incites judgement of our neighbours and them of us? Is it all in good fun? Water under the pont? Essentially, does the said, out-dated mud-slinging interfere with our future dreams and plans on French soil?I

landed in France in 2021 and could only stay on a year’s visitor visa. Gone were the days of free movement and settlement, after Britain had monumentally shot itself in the foot by voting for Brexit. Even though I owned a house for some years and had a job to come to here in France… it was a firm ‘Non!’ However, the year evaporated quickly with lots of to-ing and fro-ing to the local prefecture with a wheel barrow for my ever-growing dossier. I gained employment and was all set for my life in the Corrèze.

Through an agency I started my French working life, caring in the community. This offered me a great and valuable opportunity not only to improve my French but to experience a glimpse of intimate French life. Invited into charming old houses and delivering care proved to be a humbling and yet interesting insight into the treatment of my compatriots under the French sun.Fortunately, I had enough French to communicate well and it would seem that overall my treatment as an immigrant who spoke basic French was amazing. But as time drew on I made a very interesting observation. My reception seemed to differ from client to client according to their age. I’ve had the honour of caring for gentlefolk nearing their centenary. Whom, on hearing my accent were happy to greet me and associated my Britishness not with superior priggishness, but remembered the coming of the British during WW2 and how grateful they were to when we arrived. As they relayed their incredible stories the British were remembered warmly, playing a crucial role in opposing Nazi occupation. I was proudly welcomed as an ally of old. Equally, the less aged and younger generation, in my experience, were eager to consume and share language skills and cultural exchanges; not just from the UK but globally. They were hungry. I felt comfortable and forgiven for mistakes in their mother tongue… forgetting the genders of kitchen appliances in a second language is a genuine struggle. I have indeed made many acquaintances that cozily share the bicultural love. However, that being said, there is a fraction, (a tranche if you will), that curiously hang into the notion that Brits are simply superior and self righteous; a sweeping generalisation, but none the less…

Not the posthumous bard, I will relay by example... I entered a clients house ready to work, where two ladies were taking coffee. Naturally, as I have an accent, its usual to be asked my nationality. As soon as the word Anglaise fell from my lips the ladies both seemed astonished and so, then fell that thick silence when the words that were not said… said everything. On my leaving the room one exclaimed to the other “Wow the bourgeoisie cleans!”. Fortunately, working previously for the prison service, plus having lived on the boarder of Northern Ireland in the mid 1990s was enough to toughen the softest hide. Of course, as we know as adults, misplaced judgements are just that… and aren’t worth the rhetoric. So I continued breezing through the house with a duster. But as I worked, a creeping realisation dawned on me that perhaps my hide wasn’t as bullet proof as I’d thought. Their speculation was that I felt I had privilege in some way… because of this archaic connotation of haughty superiority. In other words they thought I was too posh to clean and were amused that I’d tumbled out of my ivory tower and brought down a peg or two. So, as the alleged embodiment of a crumbled Empire I dusted off my stiff upper lip and remained stoic when she asked if I knew how to use the mop.

This myopic view of the xenophobic contingency, is by no means the general treatment by the French people here in beautiful Limousin. But it may be justified by several factors that remain a part the French experience. So, I asked my clients about this blot on my parchment as an ‘Anglaise’. Interestingly, they feel it’s foolish not to engage in the English language as it is spoken globally; to excel in international business and enterprise it’s imperative to communicate in the prominent tongue. Being a native speaker of English, I marvelled at my ignorance of this, thinking perhaps Spanish or Mandarin had surpassed us; not here in France it seems. When I asked how they felt about this they offered the Gallic shrug and said they had to accept it as fact. I wondered how this might play out in the UK if businesses felt forced to speak French for fiscal advantage in the global market? Hhmmm... if the boot was on the other foot?

In addition to this, there are the internationally infamous, die hard ‘expats’ that have no interest in the local language and culture of any country they occupy creating cliques of ‘Little Britain’ where ever they lay their knotted hankies. Of course it’s arrogant, rude and not helpful to us integrators and francophiles, it rubs everybody up the wrong way! Understand, that trying to learn the language is much respected and goes a very long way to being accepted as part of the community; which is why a lot of us are here.That being said, sadly, if you ask Alexa in French for top hit songs - she’ll deliver the English and American favourites… In English; its simply inescapable. Buying houses as holiday homes only to be occupied two weeks of the year is a pet peeve here in France. They would rather see it occupied as a home for the months that the owners are away. It also means there are less houses for sale for families and first time buyers.On the other hand, to restore a crumbling wreck to live in and stay, the French admittedly stand back in awe of our bravery (and ability to live without utilities covered in dust for a very long time). We spend long hours exposing stone, sourcing original materials and genuinely loving our french houses. Fixer-uppers are cheap here and crying out for renovators to come and love them.

Having enjoyed French life and culture via osmosis since childhood, I cannot help but feel that during all of the waltzes throughout our history with France, that we have stepped on the toes of her courtly satin slippers. Should we still endeavour to cross the Channel in search of sun sea and serenity? Shoulder the antagonisms of our ancestors as French rivals for global imperialism? The bigger question is are we welcome? The answer is yes. Within the context of living and buying property in France, the French generally prefer the mods and cons of the new build. The French also want to safeguard and preserve their beloved heritage. There is leverage here for a wonderful compromise. If we arrive and unpack a crate of respect and behaviour that bridges the cultural divides, dispelling out-dated bigotry; France will continue to open her arms to the British. In modern times, we no longer adopt the Caesarean: “I came, I saw, I conquered”… For the contemporary francophile: we come, we renovate and restore with great passion.