Last week, during a short stay with some friends of ours, we visited a farmers' market in a small village in southern France. We were pleasantly surprised by the number of stalls, and the range of goods. In the same village, we went into the local library, staffed by volunteers, and established as a result of the enthusiasm of a small group of people. We met one of the volunteers, an English woman who, like our English friends, lives in the area, and who has been a driving force in bringing the library into being.
We know France quite well. (I paid my first visit in 1949, when the country was slowly recovering from years of war.) I am, nevertheless, constantly surprised by the strong sense of community, and patriotism, national and local, which is such a feature of the country.
Quite small villages want good facilities — and take steps to ensure that they are provided. Swimming pools, for example, are common — a provision unthinkable in similarly sized communities in the U.K.
Local dissent
Farmers, of course, if they are working on a small scale (which is common in France) do not find it easy to make a living. The farmers' markets are a way of reacting to the threats of a globalised economy, going out to the customer rather than waiting for the customer to come. Yet although they are a response to economic pressures, they undoubtedly touch a community chord.
We broke our outward journey in Paris and were just in time to see the end of a major national effort by farmers to make Parisians aware of the richness and variety of what they have to offer — and aware of the problems which they face. A vast array of products, and sheep and cattle, had been on show in the Champs Elysées, that iconic thoroughfare at the heart of Paris. The products came from many different regions of France, a reminder of the size and geographical variety of the country.
Our journey, from Cambridge to southern France and back, was by train. Rail travel provides another reminder of the size of France, and another illustration of the patriotism which pervades it. The trains are comfortable, and in spite of the long distances, generally punctual. (To put things in perspective, on our outward journey from Paris the train was half an hour late starting but that was explained by a blockage on the line. And lest it seems that I have fully bought the “France is best” line, I should record that the trains on our side of the Channel were also on time.)
It is unwise to draw generalised conclusions from limited observation of national differences. Two aspects of British-French difference, however, stand out. One is a difference of organisation, the other a difference of attitude.
Power to decide
Organisationally, France has long been a more centralised state than the U.K., and even at local level the concept that someone is in charge, and can make decisions, is a corollary of that. Even small communes have mayors, with executive powers. A mayor, for example, can in effect decide to provide a library building, or a swimming pool, given a measure of public support. In the U.K., by contrast, traditionally seen (by the British at least) as far less bureaucratic than France, limitations on local government at village level are much greater. The chairman of a parish council certainly could not take an executive decision of a kind possible for his French mayoral counterpart.
The attitude difference is at least as significant. Small rural communities in France tend to be more isolated than in the U.K. (geographically a much smaller country, with virtually the same size of population) and seem therefore to have a greater sense of “ownership”. To take a small example, if people want the street to be free of litter, they can quite easily ensure that it is. In the U.K., that is much more difficult to achieve. (My village employs a litter-picker, but his task can be frustrating because there is much through traffic, and people passing through are careless about throwing things in the street — a habit which some residents then follow.)
Given today's travel facilities, France is an easily accessible next door neighbour to an extent that was certainly not true when I made my first visit. However much we have in common, every time I go there I am reminded of significant differences. My reaction, frankly, is vive la différence.
Bill Kirkman is an Emeritus Fellow of Wolfson College Cambridge, UK. Email him at: bill.kirkman@gmail.com
