Paps in Sarlat

In order not to bore you with endless descriptions of 'rolling countryside', 'medieval architecture', and 'quaint french idiosyncrasies', here are a couple of photos of Sarlat and the surrounding area to set the scene...

Pretentious autumn photo in public gardens, Sarlat

View from Lycee Laure Gatet in the early morning, Perigueux

Early morning sun at Pont Barry, Perigueux

Church in the countryside near Trelissac, just outside Perigueux

Same as above...

Same as above...

Alleyway in the small town of Le Buisson - on the train line between Sarlat and Bergerac

Eglise de Notre Dame in Temniac, on the outskirts of Sarlat

Temniac

Walking under the sheer rockface in Les Ezyies, about 20km from Sarlat

Locals having a gossip in Les Ezyies

Looking over Sarlat

Le paysage..

Herman Dune

I was invited to my first proper French soirée the other day. One of my colleagues at school, Marjorie (l’enseignante de la CLIS classe) asked me if I wanted to join her and a few others for a drink later that night. All the primary schools are off on Wednesday’s in France. Tuesday nights are apparently in in the primary school teaching circuit. “Je pense que l’assistante à Jules Ferry va venir aussi. Et tu peux inviter l’autre si tu veux,” she said. Quelle fête.

Which is why, that evening, we ended up squashed into the sitting room of a fantastically asymmetrical old flat in the centre of the medieval town; Marjorie, Aurelie, Olivier, his girlfriend, Joe, Alaina, and me. The flat was in the heart of Sarlat’s old town, accessible only through an easily-missible door hidden in the shadows of the alleyway. Climbing a seemingly endless stone spiral staircase to reach the apartment, with the windows flung wide open we could hear the chimes of the cathedral bell soberly marking each hour.

Aurelie, who owned it, had only been living there for two months. In fact they were all fairly new to Sarlat, whether having only just moved here or only recently taken up positions at the various schools in the town. They were unbelievably friendly – providing us with wine (Monbazillac, Bergerac), food (local foie gras, home-made quiche, pizza, macaroons, home-made crumble) and the company of what felt like our contemporaries. I felt terrible that we did not bring anything – we promised that next time, we would provide the food. “Quoi? Le hamburger?!” roared Olivier. It was a bit awkward at first, with nearly everyone either overshooting or underestimating each other’s linguistic skills. There is nothing more embarrassing than explaining something really basic to a foreigner only for them to turn around and politely reply with the intricacies of a complex grammatical construction in perfect English. And we did manage to spend a good twenty minutes trying to find exact translations for ‘chaud’ (‘Mais on dit il fait chaud mais pas la nourriture est chaud’, ‘On ne peut pas utiliser tepid quand c’est chaud!’… both French and British sides were equally as obstinate).  However, as the evening wore on, we all started to relax around the empty plates, aided by a quick round of French-English ‘Time Out’ (who even is Herman Dune anyway?).

So, tumbling out in to the damp night well after midnight, dizzy from the long spiral stairs and mind racing from the strenuous linguistic exercise of the evening, I walked though the medieval alleyways up to my home. This isn’t half bad, you know...

Tu connais le Poulenc? Tu veux l’essayer?

It’s amazing how no matter how different you think you may be from other people; there are always some things that you will hold in common. As clichéd as it is, music is undoubtedly one of them, although it is alongside such things as the way you chop onions, or your preferred sleeping position. Today was one such case in point as I was fortunate enough to become acquainted with some lovely people living in Sarlat who also happen to be classical musicians. I had contacted Gaël a while ago as he featured in Sarlat’s Guide des Associations as head of the Association Piano Pluriel. Yeah, I did not know what it was either, even though it was described as “Animations musicales, organisation de spectacles, mise en scène, animations pédagogiques, theatre (colleges, lycées, associations).” To be perfectly honest, I’m still not quite sure what it is all about – I think the general gist is that they act as a link for musicians in the area (it is, after all, extremely rural) and organise groups, ensembles, concerts, and performances. After a few exchanged emails and a few unavailable weeks for us both, this was the first time that I had actually met Gaël in person. I was pretty apprehensive, namely because if this wasn’t what I was expecting, I may have suffered another major sense of humour failure, and I wasn’t sure my morale was quite up to that. Anyway, to cut a long story short, it was over and above all my expectations. I brought my oboe and the meagre collection of piano music that I managed to lug across la manche along with me, just in case we ended up playing. Which, certainement, we did.

Gaël lives with his wife/girlfriend (I’m not sure which) who is a singer who recently graduated from university in Paris. I actually learnt a lot about doing music at uni in France – apparently performance is not counted at all when you study music at uni (note uni not conservatoire). That means that technically you are not required to play a musical instrument when enrolling to study music at a higher level. This is a little if not very bizarre as in my opinion, the most direct and effective way to get wholly immersed in music is to be involved in it. Anyway, that’s an aside, and I was also informed that this is changing, so perhaps check that out another time. After taking thé, and having a few extremely awkward conversations (my French is extremely amateur – the number of times I lamely muttered ‘Je ne sais pas le mot en Français’ as a cover-up was shameful – we moved from their front room to this out-house. As their house (and out-house) is on a hill, it all seems a bit strange with levels all jumbled up and random inclines all over the shop, so I was slightly confused when we entered and it seemed like we had all just walked into a bathroom. However, we climbed down some stairs, and, without meaning to sound like a complete nerd, I almost fainted with excitement. Not only was there an entire wall’s worth of shelving that groaned under the weight of sheet music, in pride of place and modestly sheltered by a curtain there was a grand piano. It’s the first time I have had the opportunity to play the piano, and to play with other musicians and it was fantastic. We began, toute les trois, with Bach Quia Respexit from the Magnificat, a Vivaldi Aria... to be honest I can’t remember what else; I was in such rapture about playing. His wife/girlfriend (totally did not get her name... gah!) has a fantastic voice, she had told me that she studied opera singing while in Paris and it shows. After a while, we ran out of repertoire for all three and Gaël and I continued with a couple more, such as the Cimarosa oboe concerto, Poulenc Sonata... We then moved on to duets, although I was utterly abysmal. It is a lot easier to sight-read oboe than piano, and although I’ve managed to do some oboe practice here, this was the first time I had sat down at a piano in over a month, and it showed. We managed to bash though a few though – Faure Dolly, Bizet, Schubert Marche Militaire, a couple of ragtime numbers. Not all emerged unscathed though – the Mozart duets that Nams, Emily MacGregor, Olivia Howie and I completely butchered in last year’s piano festival received similar treatment as I played in a similar manner to a goat wearing boxing mittens.

After we had exhausted ourselves and the light began to fade, we returned to the main house where I was invited to stay for dinner and they’d drop me home after. We had a deliciously French meal – despite being a ‘slap up’ meal as they were late for their badminton class, it still had 5 courses, including ratatouille, cheese, and gran’s home-made apple compote. The French do know how to live well, and healthily. So now I am back at mine and sitting in a warm glow of contentment. It was such a treat not only to play music again and to feel like I can actually put the last three years worth of learning into practice, but also it was a huge comfort to meet such generous and genial people in an environment that is almost wholly unfamiliar.

My recent (and relentless) quest for musical ensembles, use-able pianos and fellow musicians has made me realise that I was utterly spoilt during my time in Manchester. I am so glad that I took advantage (or at least tried to) of all that there was to offer in terms of opportunities in Manchester. The best of the best was served to us on a plate and it would have been a travesty to disregard any of it. My only regret is that not only did I shun things that were more than satisfactory (i.e. Chorus), but also I did not document anything thoroughly. Concerts were concerts and, in my opinion, were another excuse for a Jabez booze-cruise. In another life, I will endeavour to make the most of the here and now because you never know when all those opportunities that you take for granted will disappear from your fingertips and you’re forced to begin searching far and wide to reclaim them. Honestly.

Note: This was actually written before most of the first post had been completed, hence there may be a few slight chronological mismatches. Oop. 

Reading:

F. Scott Fitzgerald, Gatsby le Magnifique

The Great Gatsby but in French - Ta, Jaques Tournier

Borrowed this out of the local library as I know it almost by heart having studied it into a shallow grave whilst at school. Seems a bit of a joke really, reading one of the most famous American classics in the wrong language. But it’s good for me. And I like the story. And it  is unbelievably funny when Gatsby's habit of calling people "old sport" is translated as "cher vieux" – doesn’t really have the same ring to it in French, does it?

Pourquoi est-ce que tu es en France?

I have no idea how I should begin.

I live in Scotland. I am grumpy.

My name is Imogen.

As the proud owner of an irritatingly hybrid accent – predominantly soft Edinburgh, part Mancunian melange, part southern English, part American Mid-West – when it comes to explaining my origins, despite my unashamed love affair with all that lies north of the English border, I usually settle for the omniferous ‘British’ rather than attempting to track where I am actually from. I am a product of English parentage; father Essex born and bred and mother hailing from the midlands, although with Belgian maternal lineage. I was born in London and spend two years early on in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Returning to the UK aged 5 and following an education at various schools in Edinburgh, I recently graduated from the University of Manchester with a music degree. As a result of a serious lack of definitive direction, combined with an almost unhealthy fixation with all things French, I ended up choosing to spend a year primary school teaching for the British Council in France following the completion of my degree. Interesting? Yes. Good for me? Certainly. Relevant to anything I have previously studied and attained? Not at all.  

I have spent the last three years of my life immersed in Manchester’s palpably vibrant and stupefying-ly diverse music scene, and now find myself in completely alien territory, seemingly millions of miles from what I know. The other day I was asked, 'Pourquoi est-ce que tu es en France? Tu es venue ici pour quelle raison?' by a young lad who I work alongside. To him it wasn't obvious. To me, it isn't that obvious either. To be perfectly frank, just don’t ask why I actually ended up applying – I long ago came to the conclusion that I may have (definitely had) bitten off more than I could chew. 

So that is essentially why, at ridiculous o’clock on a drizzly Monday morning in late September, I took one last (damp) breath of British air and prepared to embark on my own mini-French adventure. Within an hour, I was whizzing underneath La Manche laden with as many bags as my little arms could carry en route to la belle France. Following various Eurostar, TGV and TER connections, I finally made it to a small town in the Dordogne region, called Sarlat-la-Canéda – my home for the next nine months. With approximately 10,000 inhabitants, the enduring medieval architecture, gastronomic prowess (foie gras, walnuts and wild champignons) and breathtaking surrounding scenery has secured Sarlat as one of the most desirable towns to visit in the Périgord Noir region. Frequented by hundreds of tourists during the summer months, it is not by mistake that Sarlat proudly sports three Michelin stars in ‘Le Plus Beaux Détours en France’. Unfortunately I am too computer illiterate to upload a map, but one shall follow. For the time being, here are a couple of photos of the town.

Market day in the main square

Sarlat's rooftops

The road to Temniac - one of my schools

The view from Temniac overlooking the valley in which Sarlat resides

View from my front door at dawn

Before going into detail about Sarlat itself (yep.. next post), I suppose I’d better explain this chronologically muddled and seemingly purposeless blog before it gets a little too late and a little too confusing. I really should have started this blog au début i.e. when I arrived in France, which would have been the sensible way to begin. Instead, I am now just under one month into my new life on the continent. Hence, although it seems like the following few days consists of a flurry of hyper-activity, this will not always be the case. It is just that three weeks worth of observations, new experiences and excessive spare time has led to a welling up of words that are in desperate need of expulsion. 

Yet it is no lie that I love writing. Loath as I am to admit it, I do own a diary (of the ‘Dear Kitty’ ilk) but after much deliberation, I feel that a blog (gah – absolutely detest that word, along with vile contemporaries such as buzzword, wifi and ceebes) presents a more valid, more viable and in general, much better option. The moth-eaten stigma of secrecy that surrounds diaries means that you either never write in it, write really badly in it, or write in with a confused self-conscious-whilst-trying-to-be-independent narrative that does not really make for good writing nor reading, no matter how hilariously irrelevant (and irreverent) the subject matter.

In retrospect I reckon that this miniature hiatus was actually a blessing in disguise. For a start, although I always knew moving abroad would be hard, the first couple of weeks were much tougher than I had anticipated. Despite being spoilt rotten through the beauty of my surroundings, Sarlat is shockingly inaccessible. Although only 2h30 from Bordeaux, the connecting trains are infrequent and astonishingly slow. Buses to Périgueux only run in the week and are at commuting hours (leaving at 6am) only. Major TGV lines are damn near non-existent in this neck of the woods. As I was informed by one Sarladais, it is near impossible to benefit from what the Dordogne region has to offer you when you do not have or do not have access to a car. The town may be wonderfully touristique in the summer months but come October and the grilles come sharply down – leaving little in the way of entertainment, leisure and even weekly grocery shopping has become increasingly difficult. Combined with mountains of alien bureaucracy, a non-existent 18-35 year old population, schools that have no idea who you are or when you should be working, and one of the largest grèves the country has seen this year, it can make for a pretty lonely couple of weeks.

To sharpen my sense of unease, my mental state did not provide any solace. Being apprehensive before a big move or change of way of life is nothing out of the ordinary, but as the days of September slipped away, I became increasingly nervy, fractious and generally a bit of a pain (for want of another word) to be around. I have never had too much bother when living abroad or moving out as things usually just slot into place, but I think not only was I unprepared for such a significant culture contrast but also leaving behind the comfort, ease and familiarity of my life in Manchester was a feat more easily envisaged than executed. And of course there is Celyn. For someone as un-enamoured with romance as I, university was the first time that I was fortunate enough to meet someone with whom I found I could share anything. Providing me with support, taking time to listen to what I have to say, teaching me, and being more fun than I ever thought was possible, t’lad’s not bad. As my best friend, confidant and boyfriend, being so far away and for such a prolonged period of time, has been and is a test like no other. But, je promis, there will be NO moaning - nothing reads white like lamentations about distance and other such sloppy sentiments, as I am sure you, and Celyn, will agree.

Of course, as a hormonal female with an unhealthily over-active imagination, I do exaggerate. Although the come-up may have been rough, I have settled in quite nicely thank-you-very-much and am looking at things in a much more positive light. Work has started (well, as much that can be done with half the teachers and pupils absent a cause de grève), a routine has almost been established, I have met some fantastic assistants who are based in various towns in the region, headway has finally been made in my seemingly fruitless search for music and musical ensembles nearby... things is looking good.

More detail is to follow, but for now, in a fantastically chronologically unsound manner, here goes... to the Grumpy Scot.