During our “Dordogne Farm Holiday” in France with our two young daughters, we spent the first week enjoying life on the farm pretending to be farmers but mostly wandering round exploring the farm, picking fruit, stroking animals, chasing chicken, watching cows being milked, feeding their calves and so on.

Finally, we decided to get in the car and begin to explore the surrounding area.  We explained what we planned to do to our farmer hosts who tried their level best to explain something to us but we didn’t quite understand so we made the working assumption that they said something to the effect: have a great day, enjoy yourselves and see you later.

It was Easter Sunday.  We drove off at around 11:00 in the morning and descended down the winding mountain road and joined the mainstream traffic of the Dordogne Valley.  We headed towards Doissat; found there was some sort of a gathering with colourful decorations and a minor festival.  We parked the car and milled around with all the locals but the entertainment value was pretty low for children and adults alike so, we abandoned that little scheme and piled back in to the car for further exploration.

We drove around for a while longer, found pretty villages with streams running through them, got out and let the girls splash in the water for a while.  The girls complained they were hungry and seeing it was approaching 1:00 pm, we decided to find somewhere to eat.  Not the most challenging of tasks in France, you might think!

So, we drove through one village after another, through minor and main roads, we checked every conceivable type of eatery and without exception, they were all closed.  We could not believe that a nation of foodies would have nowhere to feed you on Sunday lunchtime, until we worked out it was Easter Sunday!

After more than an hour and a half of searching, the girls were by now very vocal in their complaints and we were getting edgy as we were running out of ideas, even ordinary grocery stores were closed that day.  I began to pray for a McDonald road sign to suddenly emerge in the distance.

Finally, we came across a building set in the middle of a large expanse of land with many cars parked outside.

Wife: This looks like it might be a restaurant

Me: Or a church or a cinema or a barn

Wife: There are no crosses or bells or signs saying “Cinema”

Me: Or signs saying “Restaurant”

Wife: Well, let’s stop and find out

My wife opened the door to get out and we could hear sounds of people laughing and singing so, that was encouraging.  She walked over to the front door and knocked.  After a few seconds she turned around and beckoned to us.

Me: Is it a restaurant?

Wife: I think so

Me: You think so?

Wife: Well, I asked the man who opened the door if we could eat here and after saying something about “Syndicat des agriculteurs” which could mean something about a restaurant for farmers or something; he said “oui Madam” and asked me to wait a minute.

Soon a middle-aged woman came to the door, inspected us then the girls and declared: “tres jolies filles” and invited us in.

The building turned out to be a huge expanse of largely a single room, which was likely a village hall for community functions.  The room was set up in a U-Shape table arrangement with no less than 150 people sat on either side of the configuration with food and drink laden table top.  In the epicentre of the U-Shape a table for four was being set up and we were invited to take that table.  The merry atmosphere we heard when we were still in the car had been replaced by silence as 300 plus eyes were trained on us trying to fathom who the hell we were.

To say we were self-conscious would be a huge understatement.  But we sat down and a couple of young men came through a side door and brought four plates of food for us.  The girls lost their initial shyness and tucked in to their food, leaving etiquette matters to their parents to deal with.  The silence continued until our middle-aged hostess went to the large table, fetched a bottle of red wine, walked over to us and filled our glasses then waited.  My wife and I picked our glasses and raised them to her; she beamed at us, thus displaying a minimum number of teeth, and walked back to her seat amongst her fellow farmers.  Suddenly, the room came to life again with chatter, laughter and singing and we joined the girls eating our food, albeit very self-consciously.

A few minutes later another man stood up, picked a bottle of wine and came over to us to refill our glasses.  The food was absolutely delicious; the wine was the best we had in a long time so much so, we decided to ask our hosts where we could get some to take back to England with us.

Having been fed and over-wined, we somehow worked out that we stumbled across a private farmers union function and inadvertently gate crashed their Easter celebration.  As is the case with almost all farming communities anywhere, our French hosts were generous people who welcomed us in and would not hear of being paid for the meal we had just consumed.  We asked where we could get some of the delicious wine and they gave us a whole case to take with us.  After a great deal of money thrusting and pushing back they accepted a relatively paltry amount.

That day was another highlight of our Dordogne holiday made memorable by the generosity of local people for which we were very grateful and appreciative.  With the huge amount of unnecessary luggage we brought over from England, my car-loading abilities were tested to the limit to try and fit everything, including the various things a couple and two young children acquire on holiday, not to mention our prize possession of a case of delicious Dordogne red wine.  I was prepared to throw anything away provided I fitted the wine case in.

One Saturday night after the girls had been fed, washed, story time read and sent to sleep, we decided to open a bottle of our “special wine”.  With a great deal of anticipation, I opened one of the bottles of wine and poured two glasses.  The fact that the bottle was a plastic one with screw top should have given us a clue.  We settled down in front of the television and began to reminisce about our amazing French holiday.

Wife: yuk!

Me: What’s the matter?

Wife: This wine is disgusting!

Me: Are you sure?  Christ, this is vinegar

Wife: Open another bottle!

By the time we tested the 12th plastic bottle, we realised our “really amazing wine” was one of those wines you need to drink within days, it was not for storage.  Or at least that was our positive spin on what had happened.  The following morning I went to the recycling plant to throw away 12 empty plastic bottles of French wine, bringing me back to earth with a little sense of disappointment.  Nothing is ever perfect!