La Chasse

A few weeks ago we sensed the shifting of the seasons in Province. We woke up to, what we thought was, the celebration of some obscure French holiday with fireworks. The blasts continued all day, and the next. Not only until we opened up the local newspaper, the Var Matin, on Monday to pictures of men in tweeds holding dead, partridge-like birds, did it dawn on us that hunting season had started, and we were living amongst some serious chasseurs. Welcome to life in the French countryside.

Now we barely raise an eyebrow when, hurtling down our lane in the car, we pass by a hunter with a rifle folded in the crook of his arm. His dog (in the off-season a run-of-the mill small house-pet) is usually snuffling nearby, wearing the requisite bell, so, we are told, he does not get shot by his owner. The hunter nods at us, and we nod at him. The girls, riding in the back of the car, subsequently want to know why people want to shoot things, and then Bronwyn declares that she likes eating goat cheese, because nothing has to die.