The French word chasse means hunt or chase. Marée originally referred to the tide, but took on metaphorical meanings connected with an activity that was tightly linked to the time of high tide – the landing and distribution of fresh fish in shallow harbours before the days of refrigeration.

Chasse-marée – the man

Marée became the name of the load of fish landed at each tide, so chasse-marée became the job title of a wholesale fishmonger – a man who bought from the boats as they landed in coastal ports and delivered as far inland as he could while the fish remained fresh.

Chasse-marée – the cart

A pack animal such as a donkey or pony with a couple of panniers on its back couldn’t get the fish very far from the port where it was landed, so it was superseded by a specially constructed light cart – little more than a wooden frame for hanging baskets of fish – pulled by teams of four small horses driven hard in relays in the same way as mail coaches. Paris was the destination, and at its peak the network extended along the French coast from Fécamp to Calais.

Chasse-marée – the boat

In Brittany, particularly in the south around what is now Morbihan, sea fishing was a two-tier trade. Fast luggers bought fish at sea and carried it to the mouths of the Loire and the Gironde, selling their loads at markets in Nantes and Bordeaux. As Paris became wealthy in the 19th century, three-masted Breton luggers bought fish from boats operating further north and delivered it up the Seine estuary to markets in Rouen.

As you can see from Remi Jouan’s Wikimedia Commons photo of Corentin on the left, the rig of some of these boats was modified to make them handier when moored to crowded quays. Both bowsprit and bumpkin can be raised out of the way when not in use – quite a space-saver on a 50-foot boat.

Have you seen the Millau viaduct? When the tall ships join in the annual Armada festivities on 4 and 5 July this year, Rouen will open yet another record-breaking piece of French civil engineering – the Pont Gustave Flaubert. This is now the world’s highest lifting bridge and in Rouen the Cathedral is the only taller building.

The French sail training ship Belém paid her respects in April – the above picture is courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Work started four years ago, and 50,000 people have already visited it. If you are in the area, enroll ahead for a free visit (Fridays only) by calling 02 35 58 55 55. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding it.

Forget Dr Fu Manchu. The western world is being turned upside down by China without any malicious intent on the part of the Chinese. It’s the sheer size of what has been introduced to the world’s markets that causes the problem.

In France, I’ve seen a few examples over the past year or so. I live in the Limousin, an area which grows a lot of apples (not just Golden Delicious – they do grow some more interesting varieties as well). Last year, I saw several growers rip up some of their orchards and not replant them. The farmers tell me it’s because the Chinese started exporting apples – even if their production costs were similar to ours, the sheer volume of extra apples on the market would depress prices.

Over at RopeySoles we sell espadrilles and berets made in the foothills of the Pyrenees. Where once there were over a hundred manufacturers, there are now only two or three – all trying to find ways to differentiate their output from the Chinese equivalents which sell for less.

Recently, I was talking to the proprietor of my favourite knife shop. Even he has a few Chinese hand-finished clasp knives in stock, whose prices look very competitive at first glance.

In each case, you can tell the difference if you know what to look for – but it’s not always inferior manufacturing quality. For example, the Chinese don’t have sheep that produce the same quality of wool as the French do, so the felt of a cheap Chinese beret is noticeably inferior if you put one side-by-side with a French one.

The difference in the knives is perhaps more subtle. My knife man showed me a Chinese clasp knife, and pointed out that the blade, spring and side plates were of excellent steel, well finished – but the wood was not in the same class. The Chinese don’t have beautiful olive, juniper and other woods with interesting grains and a density that lets them take a silky polish.

It’s a bit like the early days of Japanese products – copies that vary in quality sold at low prices – but China produces a much bigger volume than Japan did in the early days.

Exchange rates will eventually adjust to reduce the Chinese advantage, and increasing awareness of the outside world will drive up workers’ expectations and salary levels. But nothing will reduce the sheer volume of their output. The world market is undergoing a permanent change.

I’ve been messing around in France for nigh on twenty years. In that time I’ve bought, restored and sold several properties (invariably to my cost, but that’s another story). I’ve learned to adapt and adopt, to go with the flow and eventually managed -most of the time- to avoid making grown men and women cry with my mangling of their language. I have even learned to put up with the Gallic version of baked beans.

But there is one aspect of everyday French activity into which I had failed to integrate until recently. Up until last month I had never owned a French car. I had happily driven the equivalent distance to the moon and halfway back on the roads of every region of the country, and always with the steering wheel on the right-hand side. Which of course to me is the right side. Then, my ancient British-registered Volvo died, and I decided it was time to go completely native.

It seemed to me the advantages would include cheaper insurance and no more road fund tax to fork out for my occasional visits to Blighty. Another plus would be that the French version of the MOT lasts two years, and I would not be forever fiddling around with sticky-back tape to try and align the headlights properly. Not only would I at last be sitting in the driving seat on the middle of the road, but I would instantly cease being a target for French motorists with a grudge against foreign invaders or wishing to show off their superior driving skills. I would also avoid being the victim of any Anglophobe cops looking for an excuse to earn a few hundred extra euros for the national pot.

Given the normal pace and complexity of French bureaucracy, the process of buying a new second-hand car was actually much simpler than I had anticipated. The garage took care of all the paperwork and paid the several hundred euros for the ‘grey card’ change of ownership registration. Although the price of my five-year-old Renault was about a third dearer than I would have expected to pay in Britain, the deal also included a full service, replacement of any dodgy parts, two new tyres… and the cost of taking away and dumping my old Volvo. Then there was the superb year-long warranty covering all moving parts, and a free 24/7 recovery service. This deal included the use of a hire car while mine was in dock, and healthy compensation if it was stolen. Obviously, the Fourth Republic is very much on the side of the motorist. Overall, I reckon the exercise worked out much better and cheaper than I had anticipated.

But there has been a startling revelation since I started driving a car with a local number plate. For a couple of decades I thought that all that overtaking on blind bends and hump back bridges, tailgating and generally aggressive treatment from French drivers was because I was a foreigner. Since I have begun posing as one of them, I have been in much greater peril. I now realise that rather than picking on me, my fellow road-users were actually making allowances for my being a stranger to their roads, and were treating me with their idea of due care and consideration…

POT POINT

The final proof of our common perception that most French drivers are either mad, bad or completely incompetent comes with the official statistics. France is approximately seven times the size of England and with about the same number of motorists travelling the same mileage each year. Ergo there is much more room on the roads, yet France suffers double the amount of fatal road traffic accidents.

So if you are thinking of buying a French-registered car, it might help to put a GB plate or union jack on the bumper, or even wear a bowler hat when driving to declare your true country of origin. Or you could follow Mike Kingdom-Hockings’ example and re- register your RHD British car in France. Not only does the combination of French plates and steering wheel on the wrong side confuse other road users, but Mike loves approaching an oncoming police car with his hands on the bottom of the steering wheel – and his wife Phyllis at his side, casually reading a copy of Paris Soir in what les flics (and other motorists) assume is the driving seat…

On other occasions, a large dog takes Phyll’s place in the front passenger seat. Mike is toying with the idea of buying one of those plastic dummy steering wheels.

If you check the website for the Biscay resort town of Les Sables d’Olonne, you will learn that the port is the starting and finishing point for the Vendée Globe – a single-handed, non-stop, no-outside-assistance round the world sailing race.

You will also learn about its history as a port: its creation in 1218 as a replacement for the irretrievably silted-up Talmont, its promotion to France’s main seaport around the time of Columbus, its heady days as a whaling and cod-fishing port, its decline during the Napoleonic wars, and its reincarnation as a resort full of bathing machines in the 19th century.

You will not learn about the man who made its name notorious, François Naud. His origins seem uncertain, and some say his real name was Sean David Naud, but he was known as François l’Olonnais (Francois of Olonne).

Born in France, he was sent to Martinique as an indentured servant while still a child. Once he had served his time, he joined the buccaneers on the island of Hispaniola (now known as Haiti). This motley collection of international refugees included other indentured servants as well as escaped slaves and transported criminals, and their name comes from the Caribbean French patois boucan, originally the name for the fire pit and grating over which meat and fish were smoked, but later used for the strips of smoked flesh from the wild cattle the boucaniers hunted for much of their food.

L’Olonnais signed on as a seaman, but soon his courage caught the attention of de la Place, the governor of the island of Tortuga, who provided him with a ship and sent him out to seek his fortune. Although many of them were expert seamen, the buccaneers’ notorious exploits generally took place on land. In practice, sea battles were less likely to bring rich rewards.

At first, the young Olonnais was very successful, capturing or robbing several Spanish ships and returning with rich booty. However, he rapidly gained a reputation for cruelty towards his prisoners that was exceptional even among his kind, and eventually his fortunes changed.

His ship was wrecked off Campeche, on the Yucatan peninsula, and all hands came safely ashore. However, a group of Spaniards attacked and killed most of them. L’Olonnais, wounded, smeared himself with blood and sand before lying among the corpses of his crew and feigning death.

After the Spaniards had left, he cleaned and dressed his wounds, changed into Spanish clothes and headed for Campeche. There he recruited a small band of slaves, promising them their freedom, and stole a canoe.

Meanwhile, the Spaniards interrogated those crew members whom they had taken prisoner, and became convinced that their tormentor had been killed. Seeing the resulting celebrations, l’Olonnais and his ex-slave crew put to sea in the canoe and made their way back to Tortuga, whence he set out to re-establish his fortunes.

In two canoes, he approached the shallow harbour of the tobacco, sugar and hide producing village of los Cayos, on the southern coast of Cuba, but was spotted by fishermen. The villagers sent a message to Havana requesting support from the governor. With some misgiving (he had already received notification of the death of l’Olonnais from Campeche), the governor sent a ten-gun ship with a well-armed crew of ninety men, which anchored in the mouth of the nearby river Estera. They had been given instructions not to return until they had captured l’Olonnais and hanged all the remaining pirates. To this end their crew included a Negro nominated as hangman.

Instead of hiding, l’Olonnais captured two fishermen, forced them to navigate his two canoes into the river in the middle of the night, and boarded the warship from both sides simultaneously at daybreak, battening the crew below. He then brought them up one at a time and decapitated each in turn until he came to the hangman, who pleaded for his life in exchange for information.

L’Olonnais interrogated him at length, then killed him. He spared only one member of the crew, whom he sent back to the governor of Havana with the written message:

“I shall never henceforward give quarter to any Spaniard whatsoever; and I have great hopes I shall execute on your own person the very same punishment I have done upon them you sent against me. Thus I have retaliated the kindness you designed to me and my companions”

L’Olonnais had returned, and had developed a pathological hatred for all Spaniards. Joined by Michael de Basco, an experienced soldier turned pirate, he set out for Spanish America, determined to pillage and burn wherever he went. Eventually, he sacked Maracaibo and nearby towns, staying in the area for two months and returning with an immense fortune. He became even more vicious – when one prisoner failed to tell him where to find the treasures he was convinced his victims had hidden, he cut the man’s chest open, ripped out his heart and started to eat it, threatening similar treatment to the next person unwilling or unable to cooperate.

The next time fortune turned against him, he didn’t recover. Running ashore on a sandbank by the Islas de las Pertas near Honduras, he ended up dismembering his ship and building a longboat in which he set out with half of his crew for Nicaragua River, where they planned to steal canoes with which to take off those they had left behind.

When he landed, local Indians literally tore him to pieces.
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