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.