The Front Row Union

If you ever get the chance to observe one of the little intricacies of French life, then stand in the car park of a supermarket or a small town square and watch the French park their cars. Perhaps it’s the rising cost of Gazole but they arrive in one imperious manoeuvre parking their little Citreons and Renaults in a sweet little move - handbrake, switch off ignition and alight from vehicle. Were it gets interesting is when they leave, having loaded up with the wine, pack of beer and fromage and have to reverse out. Any counter attack by an incoming car is met with the briefest of stares, a Gallic shrug and before you can say United Nations, resolution ensues. Had plenty of time to observe this little phenomenon of Gallic flair spending an inordinate amount of time in supermarket car parks while her nibs did the shopping aided and abetted by the daughters.

The French continue to provide solid material for analysis. The briefest of tours round the Normandie D-Day beaches throws up interesting conundrums about France’s role in the second world war. Comfortably confounded when you visit the village of Oradour Sur Glane, the scene of one of the worst individual massacres of World War 2.

Here time stands still in the little village which was surrounded by the Waffen SS, its inhabitants murdered and the buildings burnt. The main street is preserved as if embalmed for all time, except for the contemporary presence of visitors whom stroll mainly in mute respect past the silent, shattered buildings. The farm implements and the sewing machines standing as testimony to an ordinary life terminated on a warm June afternoon. Even the ancient Citreon cars remain immobile rusting in the passage of time, unmoved since the day the Germans came to town.

Once again one is confounded when you discover that Alsace French took part in the massacre and were later pardoned in the interests of French unity for their part in this brutal event. Silence is overwhelming though when you wander round the little village which by all accounts had a peaceful Second World War up until June 1944. Life stopped that day and though a new village has sprung up nearby, the name Oradour is forever a symbol of the vicissitudes of war the world over.

Silence too was prevalent when the Le Tour wound its way through the sometimes undulating landscape of France, interspersed with frenetic bursts of energy as the sprinters, the power men of the cycling world, contested the end of the flat stages. The Alps and Pyrenees provide the spectacular backdrop for the exhausting and enduring scenes of man on two wheels against the steepness of the mountain pass followed by the exhilarating descent to the valleys below.

This year for me it has been the sprint finishes which have captured my imagination as the teams vie to launch their man to the finish line. In a helter skelter of whirling pedals, high geared momentum and arcing elbows the heavyweights of the biking tour collide in a high frisson burst of energy and pumping muscle. Filmed by helicopter as they manoeuvre into a position to break for the line, the mass of cyclists look like an evolving mass of energy, frequently changing shape as if the metamorphosing of time itself.

The silence on the tour though has hilariously come from Cadel Evans of the aptly named Silence – Lotto team who despite having a ‘yell for Cadel’ on the side of his personal team car has been less than effervescent by Aussie standards. Cadel was the pre race favourite based mainly on his time trial ability but as the race evolved so Cadel’s equilibrium has dissolved culminating in him retreating behind the tinted windows of his ‘yell for Cadel’ viz a viz Silence - Lotto cab, without a sound emanating from his pursed lips.

Cadel lost ultimately. He finished second and in sporting terms that’s not winning and is relative anonymity. The Tour was a winner with the cheats expelled and all the contenders gasping for breath as they made their way round a whole country in 3 weeks. France was a winner but in the cosmopolitan world of cycling a Frenchman didn’t win Le Tour yet again. I like France but cannot warm to the French. They remain, for me, like the language, an impenetrable race every bit as insular as yer man from the back streets of Belfast who rarely goes beyond his corner local.

The hole in the ground that was Le Paul’s potential pool last season now resembles a turquoise sea of tranquillity. A quick dip in warm conditions confirmed its viability but the URSC in France conference barely got past selecting an Ireland XV in which few Ulster players featured. Our hearts weren’t in it and it being the off season there was too much focus on other matters to have rugby on the big agenda. Its why there is almost total abstinence from rugby in this last pre season blog.

Rugby made an appearance in the shape of a ball which we bring with us on holiday. The two adult daughters have an interest in rugby as does Ollie so we chuck the ball about as a means of relaxation and invariably at the place we stay it attracts the interest of the Dutch kids and occasionally the adults. The sight of one Dutch kid trying to teach his compatriots a mangled version of the spin pass having borrowed the ball was touching if hilarious and perhaps the reason I’m not a coach. A Belgian guy staying at the place spotted my UR cap and revealed he’d once been a social second row for all of two seasons at the University of Ghent. The sport is alive, if a little unwell in parts the professional game doesn’t reach - how reaffirming.

Reaffirming was the sight of the French going one way and the English speaking population going the other for Bastille night for what was supposed to be a meal by the whole village. Interestingly Mike an exile from Norn Iron’s wee town by the sea Donaghadee was there, right in the heart of rural France. The world continues to grow smaller every year as despite its lowly 1.7million population our wee country has one heck of a diaspora - how reaffirming.

All good things come to an end after 3 weeks of by and large relaxing holiday and renewed acquaintanceship with both our fellow countrymen and the Dutch. It was time to pack up and go home. Not all has been left behind because we will be forwarding a recipe for the Le Ulster Fry now renamed ‘the sailing breakfast’ to the owner of the gites we were staying at after treating him to a soda/potato bread, bacon and egg breakfast. Ah, ‘zat is a sailing breakfast’, he proclaimed after downing hearty portions of everything.

Hope to see you all at the barbecue next week and look forward to quizzing our new arrivals on their innermost thoughts and then regurgitating it all for my readership of two.

Incidentally the response to my competition to name a XV to play my Provincial Political XV has been every bit as exciting as I anticipated. Getting a nil response so far despite the offer of an FRU prize for best team put forward. I’m going to start the ball rolling so to speak, by naming my Provincial political XV plus a very strong bench. Reckon the Coronation Street XV might feel a little nervous when they see Iris Robinson on my bench as an impact player!!!! Look out for this exciting team in the next blog plus another potential competition to name a famous French front row and back row player.

Au revoir, see you all next week and the week after that and…..