Advertisement
Published: April 26th 2013
Edit Blog Post
Francois had never married never even got near to it instead he became wedded to the local bar. There was nothing unusual in that since many both married and single men in Central Finistere spend the greater part of their life propping up the counter of their local bar. When Francois did eventually roll home from the Ty Anna is was usually to drink more and over the years he had perfected a simple routine, no matter how plastered he had been the night before he always managed to rise early and as the sun lifted itself over the neighbours hedge the front door would open and Francois would have a good cough, for inevitably being of true Breton stock he smoked and with this early morning wrenching cough came the vomiting. At this point one would be excused for thinking Francois was not long for this world, however his father had also been a drinker and he managed to reach 94 years old before the church bells tolled for him. I saw the old man rarely but when he did appear at the front door he looked more like Francois older brother, the same square head and squat form, his
bandy legs always in long-johns. Father and son lead a spartan existance with the old man sleeping downstairs to the right of the front door while across the passage was the kitchen/dining room which had the bare minimum of furniture, peeling blue paint and the current years calender hanging from a nail. At the weekends there would be drinking sessions when large drunken voices would boom out from the empty echoing house. They would eventually spill out into the yard and drive away in cars and vans that showed the scars of previous drinking bouts.
When Francois father eventually died it left the door open for 24hr drinking and a year or two after when Francois retired from his job as rubbish collector for the local commune this could indeed be put into practice, there was no longer a stucture to his drinking and with a retired buddy they spent their days and nights happily drinking. The death of his friend from falling down the stairs seemed to have little effect on Francois until he himself fell ending up in hospital for five terrible days unable to drink or smoke. They told him he would last long the way
he was going on and so on his return there was a calmer air about the place. It didn't take long before he resumed his old ways and drifted back to the Ty Anna bar. I would hear his little white van leaving early each morning and returning at mid day the engine revving as he tried several times shunting back and forth to make it into his driveway. He even spent an entire night and half the next day stuck in his car, the landlady of the Ty Anna found him having been concerned when he didn't show up for his morning session so she phoned the fire brigade and he was finally released. I couldn't help wondering in what position he had managed to get stuck in and why he couldn't simply have sounded the horn for help. His deterioration continued until he found himself back in hospital but this time in need of a replacement hip. They would not allow him home unless he agreed to the operation but never the less it took four days with the official paper beside his bed awaiting his signature before they got him on the operating table. Meanwhile the Mayor organised work on the house so that on his return Francois would have an inside toilet but then it was discover that there was no septic tank and for now a chemical toilet would have to do however modernity would have to follow. Francois returned and settled back into his daily routine trip to Plouye and the bar but his little white van then started to give trouble so each day, morning and afternoon he would give it a good ten minutes full revving which he assumed would keep things in order as far as the battery and starter motor went. Another year slipped by and now Francois having got his new toilet and septic tank had reached the age of 73 but not without a daily visit from the district nurse. The neighbouring house had been sold to an English couple and over the Easter holiday she came round to ask me why so many cars were parked outside Francois house and why the fire brigade and police were park in her courtyard. It turned out that Francois had died that night Easter Sunday, the nurse had found him perched on his nearly new toilet as good a way to go as any and I wondered if he might not rise again the following day to give his white van just one last revving. On the Tuesday afternoon the sad slow toll of the village church bells marked his passing and a couple of weeks later the family were round to clear the place out and get ready to sell. They had their work cut out as Francois had done nothing for years and the accumulation was impressive. A large heap was made down in the field alongside the new septic tank and that afternoon it was set alight, an entire life on the fire, a gentle breeze wafted the acrid stink of Francois sad existance throughout the village nothing left but memories to drift into oblivion.
There are thirteen houses in our semi-abandoned hamlet of which four are inhabited by five people. Twenty years ago when I first arrived here we were fifteen in the village since then eight have died and apart from two holiday homes there have been no new arrivals. Finistere continues to loose its population as the centre slowly dies out to a point where it is now less than a third of what it was a hundred years ago. So anyone looking for a quiet existance where you can drink yourself to death need look no further.
Advertisement
Tot: 0.125s; Tpl: 0.011s; cc: 12; qc: 52; dbt: 0.0669s; 1; m:domysql w:travelblog (10.17.0.13); sld: 1;
; mem: 1.2mb