I had a few more days of London venturing before I flew to Poitiers. London felt familiar and homely, on ,my second visit there, and I really didn't want to leave, but the prospect of France eased my remorse, with excited jitters and cheese and wine soaked thoughts.
So I went to stay with the Svarc family, and gave my tired suitcase a rest. They were all I could have hoped for, French to the core. They lived in a little town called Bagnizeau, in a massive old farmhouse that was crumbling elegantly, and I had a bedroom with a little pink bathroom and a view over the fields.

Driving to their house from the airport, Marie had said sunnily, 'So how much French can you speak?' They took my answer of near none very well, and said no more. When I asked how much English the children spoke, they looked at me as I'm sure I must have just looked at them and echoed my own answer of none. Merde!

The twins, Anna and Arthur were eight, with curly brown hair and smiling eyes, and they welcomed me as only children can. Anna took my hand and introduced me to the horses, the donkeys, the peacocks and the dog, and Arthur shyly demonstrated his English prowess. They looked at me expectantly, as though I were about to break into song, and I hated to disappoint them.

So it was an interestingly new experience, trying to look after children who just looked at me blankly when I said anything, and my wild gesticulations must have made them think me mad. Arthur spoke a little, thankfully, and I think Anna knew more than she was letting on. She seemed to understand things like 'It's time for dinner', and do you want to help me make a cake', whereas, 'homework' and 'time for bed' where strangely lost on her.

Oh, the food!They served me meals with four courses and thought nothing of it. The children ate like adults yet were thin as whippets. One day for lunch, Marie set before me a pizza which I assumed was to share, but no, I was to consume a family sized pizza all by myself. And the worst thing is, I did. I fell for Roquefort cheese, and gouda, a sausage that they told me as I finished the last of it, was made of blood. Raclette, a cheese death-inducing feast made me bulge, and the breakfast croissants were as they should be, soft and melty in the mouth.

I went to the kids Christmas fete, and served mulled wine to old men who glared at me when they discovered I couldn't speak their language, and others who promptly tried to teach it to me, and were surprised when I wasn't fluent bythe time they'd downed the wine. I visited a mustard factory (moutarderie) with every imaginable flavor of mustard, and was introduced to every English person around. They also took me to a few village gatherings, and I stood as people spoke French all around me, and sometimes at me. There was one lunch I went to, full of broken toothed old locals who ate and ate and ate some more. The two English ladies beside me held back laughter, watching an old lady rapidly fill her plate for the fourth time with meat and cheese, scowling at her husband whenever he tried to get between her and the food on the table.

There were fireworks and policemen, childrens authors and up and coming football stars, spicy mulled wine and mince pies. Chattering children, frost over everything, pain au chocolats, escaped donkeys running for their life down the road and neighbours with dogs that could eat you with a glance. It was a fun few weeks, and my French improved to the slightest degree, so that I felt a little bit accomplished at something. When I asked one lady how long it took her to learn the language after she moved there, she said seven years, so I didn't feel terrible that I hadn't managed to discard my English barrier and that I wasn't discussing politics and philosophy in a French tongue. Who knows, maybe next time I go back there I will be...