Mum’s Gone to the Dordogne – Flirting with Frenchmen

We had paid for our tickets at the booth and they were marked with the word Anglais so the chap on the boat would know to give us some headphones for the English commentary. Now there’s one thing I’m bloody good at and that’s a decent French-sounding Bonjour. I have no idea why it sounds so authentic but it’s definitely not a British “Bon-joo-er”, more a guttural, speedy Gallic “Bon-jur”. It gets me into all kinds of trouble in restaurants and hotels when French people assume I’m “Le Real Thing” and bombard me with a whole load of French I have no hope of understanding. Getting on the boat that morning was no exception. A rather attractive, rugged monsieur helped me embark; as I said Bonjour and handed over our English tickets, he was stopped in his tracks.
“Mais, you are not French?”
“Non”
“But your accent, Madame, eet eez so good”.
“Oh, Monsieur, eet ees nothing. I know a leetle French, un peu…”

At this point, as we were both shrugging and flirting, I felt a definite propulsion from behind as my spoilsport husband felt it was his duty to move the queue along.

“He thought I was French”, I giggled, as I drifted towards our seats.
“You mean you fell for all that flannel?”, countered a smirking husband.
“Was not flannel!”
“Was!”
“Wasn’t!”

Tired but content following our day exploring the Dordogne Valley, we headed home by the scenic route and I spotted an orchard.

“I wonder what they are growing there?” I said as I pointed the trees out to Dougie.
“Oh they’re apples, or maybe pears, or plums…..peaches?”
“You don’t know, do you?
“No”
“Well thank you for that, Mr Del Monte….”