Al Jahom has a thoughtful piece up today on ex-pats.

British ex-pats never really leave Britain – they take a piece of it with them. Whether they spend their days in Linekers Bar, drinking Carling, watching ManU vs Arsenal and gorging on egg, chips and beans, or they listen diligently listen to Radio4 using a huge directional antenna, and scour the Daily Mail for evidence of woes being inflicted upon the dear Motherland.

In a way I can understand it. Emigrating to France wouldn’t change who I am and where my cultural roots lie, however much I immersed myself in the local culture. I love France. To a lesser extent, Germany too. But I can’t imagine ever making it out of bed without a cup of Twinings tea; and cold meat before mid-day is just plain wrong.

While I wouldn’t be seen dead watching football, there’s an element of truth in that statement. However, during the past year, Mrs L and I have immersed ourselves in the local culture and language. The language bit is still difficult although improving. We do, however, still watch UK television. Have you ever watched French TV? Try the game shows and you will see what I mean…

That said, do I miss Britain? Well, I return every few weeks to work and every time I return, I am sharply reminded of why, exactly, I moved to France. The petty, bureaucratic officialdom (yes, really), the cameras and the spying, and, the fucking traffic. I drive 500 miles through France in around nine hours without pushing it. Four hours from Portsmouth to the M4 is reality hitting home with a bang. The French, generally drive better, too.

Perhaps, most of all, for me it is the rural environment. I hate cities and this week, mooching around London is purgatory – not just the dire, congested traffic and the dinge, it is the crowds. I hate crowds, preferring wide open spaces and you don’t get much more wide and open than the Larzac. So each time I cross the channel to good old Blighty, my heart is longing for the foothills of the Cevennes. Yes, perhaps Al Jahom is right, I’m a little bit of Albion on the shores of the old enemy, but isn’t immigration supposed to be just that; a fusion of the existing with the incomers? And, yes, I do keep a weather eye on the political front back in my mother country. I don’t see how I could do otherwise – given that I return regularly (and pay my taxes here) I am still partially affected.

A fellow expat states the obvious.

British expats in France should at least speak half-decent French if they want to be happy

Well, yes, that is obvious…

Life in rural France is full of mysteries.

Indeed.

Even now, six years on, I am not entirely confident at what o’clock, or dimness of dusk, bon jour somehow becomes bon soir. I still have my doubts about which cheek to kiss first in greeting, and whether I should be sowing or planting during the new moon.

I am bemused that the birthplace of Renoir and Gauguin should be capable of producing such thin and dribbly paint, often with a monocouche label attached, as if one coat should suffice. Which, if you are applying it to Rice Krispies, it probably will. But the weirdest mystery of all is the French language. How is it that, no matter how long your average Brit lives in the French countryside, he fails to pick up the lingo as easily as if it were swine flu in a hospital?

Indeed again. I started learning French at the ripe old age of nine. I gave up when I was about thirteen. I didn’t pick it up again until I was in my twenties and have struggled with it on and off ever since. Now, as a French resident, I have the one thing that was missing on previous occasions – native French speakers on whom I can practice. Okay, so the outcomes are somewhat unpredictable at times, but hearing the language – and as my tutor points out (repeatedly) – hearing the pronunciation, is the best way of improving my own skills. She tells me that with application, I could be good at this. But, I have to say, it is still hard work and I wished that I had continued it when at school.

No one is going to mistake me for Baudelaire, admittedly. But I have stopped worrying about my accent, ever since I made the bewildering discovery that, to the French, a marked English accent can be beguiling and – I didn’t believe this either, when I first heard it – even sexy. 

I hadn’t heard this until my tutor told me. Apparently, it’s true. The French regard the English accent in the same way as we regard the French one. Boosted my ego no end…

And so we Brits abroad will lazily club together into a sad little clique. We will employ cowboy builders from home rather than skilled local artisans, so that at least we can understand them when they rip us off. And we will talk among ourselves, trying to cheer ourselves up by bitching about how our country has gone to the dogs. Because of all the immigrants. 

Mrs L and I made a point of getting to know our neighbours who are all French – and speaking to them in French even if it was painful. Then we met another expat who just happens to be a language tutor. She spends most of her time teaching English to the French (and having arguments heated discussions with them about such things as whether crème anglaise should be eaten hot or cold – hot, naturally). Now she is teaching us French. But, in general, we have not fallen into the trap of mixing with a clique of English people and we do try to get local artisans when we need them. The problem – as regaled at some length by Peter Mayle in his Provence books – is getting them to do the work. If British builders operate in a different time zone, French ones are in a different space time continuum. A neighbour told us that you tell the artisan what you need and he will give you half a dozen reasons why you don’t. The mystery is how they make a living…

I don’t know about you, but I cannot imagine living in a place where I felt always on the margins, barred by my inability to communicate from making the slightest contribution to local life. 

Yeah, I’d go along with that – and I do feel frustrated at my lack of fluency. That doesn’t stop us engaging with local events and chatting with the neighbours. It may be slow, but we will get there. Integration is the key.