Sweet Surrender by Mary Moody Page A

jealousies, mental illness, nervous breakdowns, alcoholic collapses, horrific car accidents, deaths from cancer and heart attacks, stand-up fights, affairs, marriage break-ups and plenty of acrimony. The population is ageing – both the French and the expats – and this has brought problems too; health and financial problemsmainly. I was oblivious to all of this during my first visits to France, but it has become increasingly obvious, and keeping clear of it has proven extremely difficult. As a part-time resident I drift in and out and that makes it tricky to keep up with the local politics. If there has been a falling out – and these seem to happen quite a lot – I’m usually unaware and, quite frankly, I don’t really want to get involved. I just wish they’d all get over it and get along together.
    Since I first bought my house nearly eight years ago, two more cottages in the village have been bought by Australians aspiring to live there part of each year. They are just around the corner from me. I know and like them – they are friends of my old mate Jock – yet curiously we have rarely been ‘in residence’ at the same time. There have been plenty of Kangaroo Valley jokes of course, and the locals now call the main street Rue de Billabong because it backs onto a bubbling stream. However the Australian influx is nothing compared with the English invasion. New houses – not very attractive new houses – are being built on the outskirts of the village, and they appear to be predominantly for Britons looking to make their home in the region. Because of its distance from the Channel, the Lot was relatively free from tourism and immigration for many years. Slowly and steadily, however, the population has been changing, and this has to some extent changed the character of the villages.
    Those English who do speak French fluently have a pretty fair idea of the local reaction because there are mumblings in the bar and an undercurrent, among the older population, about
les Anglaises
. On the surface the local businesspeople appear delighted with the relatively affluent new population because without that cash flow their shops and restaurants would undoubtedly have difficulty surviving.
    Like all migrant populations, the newcomers tend to cluster together for companionship. In one local restaurant there is a large gathering every Wednesday night, with a floating population of between eight and fifteen English-speaking locals. It can get quite wild and woolly in thereas they talk and laugh loudly while eating pizza and gulping the local cheap red wine. They often finish with round after round of Irish coffee or strong liqueurs like Armagnac or Grand Marnier. Individually, they are all very lovable people, but en masse they can be quite daunting. I have joined them quite a few times but don’t feel totally comfortable in their midst. I can’t quite put my finger on it.
    The locals I have come to know remain as delightful as ever. My neighbour Madame Thomas always stops for a chat on her way to the
boulangerie
, and Christian and Christianne, who run the corner bar and the small cafe at the lake, always welcome me with open arms. I feel totally comfortable when I am living in my little house, but I’m aware that no matter how hard I might try, I will always be a foreigner. I remain
étrange
– strange – to the people here. I’m a married woman who comes to her house but doesn’t bring her husband. I’m an author who has written a book about a local restaurant and also made a documentary on the same subject (which few of them have seen). Yet I don’t drive a flashy car or live in a chateau, which I think is also viewed with some curiosity.
Ton Ton
Raymond (Uncle Raymond), one of the characters in my documentary about Madame Murat’s restaurant, expressed dismay that I was living in such a modest cottage, slap bang on the main road, in the