Ca să fii acceptat într-un sat din Franţa profundă, nu trebuie doar să ştii să ridici din umeri à la française sau să spui oh la la cu un tremolo de exasperare galică. Mai e nevoie şi de alte lucruri, îndeosebi dacă eşti un englez cu ambiţii integraţioniste, care vrea să scape de eticheta le rosbif. Rurale sau nu, dexterităţile franceze au un je ne sais quoi care, dacă nu eşti echipat cum se cuvine, te poate face să bombăni merde. Bunăoară, trebuie să ştii care e diferenţa dintre boudin şi andouillette (cine nu ştie e cârnăţar doar la figurat, nu şi la propriu), să plantezi fire de praz într-un sol de consistenţa cimentului, să întreţii raporturi de concurenţă agricolă cu vecinii, să-ţi negociezi ieşirea dintr-un imbroglio amoros cu o vendeuse de fromage (shit, quelle horreur!) şi să participi la turniruri culinare care sfârşesc în cel mai bun caz în indigestie. Ca şi cum n-ar fi de-ajuns, trebuie să fii pregătit şi pentru droaia de concursuri săteşti care îţi epuizează nervii cu mult înaintea imaginaţiei. Iar dacă într-o bună zi descoperi că prin casă îţi mişună nişte şoricei cu impulsuri sinucigaşe, se cheamă că nu-ţi mai lipseşte nimic. Un englez la ţară este o iniţiere tandru-amuzantă în plăcerile şi rigorile unei vieţi stropite cu vin bun, soare şi surprize.
Not really being a fan of France and all that is French, I enjoyed this book simply because of the way the author wrote it. It is very humourous, in a clever, witty and wry kind of way. Naturally, there was a fair bit of the French language used in this book, and it got a bit frustrating, as there was often no translation supplied.
A bit dull. You need to be able to speak French to read it (I do, but thought I'd mention it). A few colloquial words that would now be considered slurs.
Michael Sadler's writing about a lone Englishman in France has received praise from sources ranging from Peter Mayle (whose own work seems to me to infinitely surpass Sadler's) to one of the Monty Python troop to King Charles III (when he was Prince of Wales). My own reaction must then be in the minority. "Punch" refers to Sadler's anecdotes as "charming, witty" but I found them to be riddled with heavy-handed whimsy and cutesiness, devoid of much entertainment value. In addition, Sadler's tendency to slobber after any attractive Frenchwoman whom he meets seems creepy rather than humorous.
Unfortunately Michael Sadler died suddenly, late 2022. Didn't particularly enjoy this book. I thought the author wrote in a condescending manner about fellow English who helped him. Then there were the French paysans who accepted him into their community, in return they're at the receiving end of a supercilious, mocking Englishman. Furthermore, some of his behaviours/attitudes are significantly predatory and would not go unquestioned in the 21st Century.
I loved this book from the start, I laughed out loud on many occasions, his clever sharp characterization and self depreciating humour kept me amazed and entertained, wonderful stories from the most rural of areas, just so funny. Read it and enjoy.
Some books are so bad that I chuck them in the box of paper we use to light the fire, to ensure they are never inflicted on anyone else. This is one of those.
O carte draguta ce merita citita dimineata, pe terasa din spatele casei, cu un croissant cu unt si o cafea sau seara alaturi de un pahar de vin rosu si branza maturata.