The French word for weekend, I vaguely remember from school and have just confirmed in the Robert-Collins Dictionnaire, is vacancelle. Which makes sense: a little holiday. (French Candians have an even more logical phrase, fin de semaine.)
But in a lifetime of visiting France and a few years of long summer stays, I have never heard either expression. Nor have I seen them written. Because, despite all the efforts of the Academie Francaise, the French for weekend is weekend.
Le weekend is taken seriously in France. The exhortation to have un bon weekend will usually follow any transaction or farewell from around 3pm on Friday. But in St Quentin, it starts early.
Friday is, as you may recall, the main market day in St Quentin. This means that very little work gets done on Friday, as the St Quentinoise mingle with tourists and ex-pats from throughout the Uzege. The erection of the stalls in the Place du Marche and the opening of the Bar du Marche is, in this village at least, the start of le weekend.
Jill and I dip in and out. But for those of you who have asked in the past, "Yes, but what do you do all day?", here's a brief synopsis.
Friday am: the market. Couple of coffees, some shopping for vegetables (the asparagus is in season and remarkably good value). Plus a roast chicken, tomatoes, peppers, artichokes. Then a pichet of rose at Momo's. It's here that we realise what we will be doing this evening.
Friday pm: Resto/Pizzeria la Marine is known as Momo's. Momo is the owner. This evening, he has a blues duo - Limousine Blues - playing: they don't come from Limousin, but from our very own village. In fact, the singer/guitarist is le Professeur. And he's good.
Archie and Linda join us and we settle down to a great gig, with copious quantities of rouge to keep us occupied. We're right at the front, so even if we wanted to talk, we couldn't.
Saturday am: As we left Momo's last night, I announced my intention of walking into Uzes for the Saturday market. Readers of Elizabeth David will know of this marvellous weekly event - the smells, the colours, the food, the wines, the cheeses, the music: the noise my dear, and the people!
Jill leaves early on her bike. Archie and I have a leisurely coffee in St Quentin and stride out the almost three miles into Uzes in 45 minutes or so. I had enough goose rillettes for a few days so we head directly for the Suisse d'Alger, our favourite bar a vin, started years before our time by the excellent Jean-Louis, a Swiss guy from Algiers, who lives in St Quentin. Jill is already there. Archie orders a pression; Jill and I our pichet of gris. Charlie and Anoushka join us and we talk restaurants and history. Comme normale. Archie and I set off on the walk back. Suddenly, it's chucking it down. But round the corner, in a slightly ancient vehicle, comes the waiter from MoMo's: "Taxi" he shouts and stops.
Saturday pm: At leisure. Jill has decreed an evening in after the surfeit of wine last night and a busy day tomorrow. No, we didn't watch the Eurovision Song Contest.
Sunday am: It's the village vide grenier (literally, empty attic) - a sort of car boot sale without the cars. I'm after a high chair for the forthcoming visit of grandson Max, so I have a mission. But nothing. We retire, without success, to the Bar du Marche. A quick coffee and we're away to Uzes, where there is a glorified vide grenier called, I think, debardage - literally an unloading. It's huge; crammed into every square inch of the boulevards, rues and ruelles. I get my high chair, with a token negotiation earning me a euro discount. Jill gets her painting, or rather its frame, for just 3.70 euros. Result. And we wander off in search of lunch.
At Au fil de l'eau, run by French Italian Paola and with cooking by her French Vietnamese husband Olivier, we had a great meal. Nothing special: just le menu. Lobster bisque to start, a choice of cod with asparagus or veal liver with crushed new potatoes (one of each, s'il vous plait). Dessert is a fruit tart, a real melange of synthetic cream and fresh, delicious fruits.
17 euros a head. A half-litre of Costiere de Nimes wine, and a couple of coffees, brings the bill to 47 euros - service compris.
Sunday pm: Back home. Some token pruning of the trees in the courtyard, a perusal of the English Sunday papers. And a little bread and pate for supper. An early night - we have things to do tomorrow!
It sounds like hell, doesn't it? Bon weekend.
But in a lifetime of visiting France and a few years of long summer stays, I have never heard either expression. Nor have I seen them written. Because, despite all the efforts of the Academie Francaise, the French for weekend is weekend.
Le weekend is taken seriously in France. The exhortation to have un bon weekend will usually follow any transaction or farewell from around 3pm on Friday. But in St Quentin, it starts early.
Friday is, as you may recall, the main market day in St Quentin. This means that very little work gets done on Friday, as the St Quentinoise mingle with tourists and ex-pats from throughout the Uzege. The erection of the stalls in the Place du Marche and the opening of the Bar du Marche is, in this village at least, the start of le weekend.
Jill and I dip in and out. But for those of you who have asked in the past, "Yes, but what do you do all day?", here's a brief synopsis.
Friday am: the market. Couple of coffees, some shopping for vegetables (the asparagus is in season and remarkably good value). Plus a roast chicken, tomatoes, peppers, artichokes. Then a pichet of rose at Momo's. It's here that we realise what we will be doing this evening.
Friday pm: Resto/Pizzeria la Marine is known as Momo's. Momo is the owner. This evening, he has a blues duo - Limousine Blues - playing: they don't come from Limousin, but from our very own village. In fact, the singer/guitarist is le Professeur. And he's good.
Archie and Linda join us and we settle down to a great gig, with copious quantities of rouge to keep us occupied. We're right at the front, so even if we wanted to talk, we couldn't.
Saturday am: As we left Momo's last night, I announced my intention of walking into Uzes for the Saturday market. Readers of Elizabeth David will know of this marvellous weekly event - the smells, the colours, the food, the wines, the cheeses, the music: the noise my dear, and the people!
Jill leaves early on her bike. Archie and I have a leisurely coffee in St Quentin and stride out the almost three miles into Uzes in 45 minutes or so. I had enough goose rillettes for a few days so we head directly for the Suisse d'Alger, our favourite bar a vin, started years before our time by the excellent Jean-Louis, a Swiss guy from Algiers, who lives in St Quentin. Jill is already there. Archie orders a pression; Jill and I our pichet of gris. Charlie and Anoushka join us and we talk restaurants and history. Comme normale. Archie and I set off on the walk back. Suddenly, it's chucking it down. But round the corner, in a slightly ancient vehicle, comes the waiter from MoMo's: "Taxi" he shouts and stops.
Saturday pm: At leisure. Jill has decreed an evening in after the surfeit of wine last night and a busy day tomorrow. No, we didn't watch the Eurovision Song Contest.
Sunday am: It's the village vide grenier (literally, empty attic) - a sort of car boot sale without the cars. I'm after a high chair for the forthcoming visit of grandson Max, so I have a mission. But nothing. We retire, without success, to the Bar du Marche. A quick coffee and we're away to Uzes, where there is a glorified vide grenier called, I think, debardage - literally an unloading. It's huge; crammed into every square inch of the boulevards, rues and ruelles. I get my high chair, with a token negotiation earning me a euro discount. Jill gets her painting, or rather its frame, for just 3.70 euros. Result. And we wander off in search of lunch.
At Au fil de l'eau, run by French Italian Paola and with cooking by her French Vietnamese husband Olivier, we had a great meal. Nothing special: just le menu. Lobster bisque to start, a choice of cod with asparagus or veal liver with crushed new potatoes (one of each, s'il vous plait). Dessert is a fruit tart, a real melange of synthetic cream and fresh, delicious fruits.
17 euros a head. A half-litre of Costiere de Nimes wine, and a couple of coffees, brings the bill to 47 euros - service compris.
Sunday pm: Back home. Some token pruning of the trees in the courtyard, a perusal of the English Sunday papers. And a little bread and pate for supper. An early night - we have things to do tomorrow!
It sounds like hell, doesn't it? Bon weekend.
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