“Et alors?” sighed the long-suffering pharmacy assistant in Menton as I lurked by the Roche-Posay shelf for the third time in a week.
I’d been sent there by my skincare obsessed daughter. “French skincare, honestly mum, where have you been?”
— obviously implying that I resemble a hand-woven basket most days.
France hasn’t entirely shaken me off
Now I’m back in Scotland, after a few years living in Thollon in the Haute Savoie. But I realise that France hasn’t entirely shaken me off, in fact, it appears to have followed me home.
That effortlessly chic, well-groomed look with the radiantly healthy glow might be everywhere in St Tropez.
Here in Glasgow though…. chic is what you buy in the supermarket when you can’t afford the whole chicken. As for grooming …well, let’s not go there.
Assistants look at me as if thinking I’d be better in the bricolage department.
But who cares?
Some of those habits acquired living above Lake Geneva are apparently hard to leave behind.
On the language front, nothing much has changed. I still have moments when I’m completely baffled, but a nod and a smile work in both countries.
Don’t get me wrong. I love being back in Scotland for all the usual reasons — the hills the lochs, those soft misty mornings and muted colours.
That’s the Scotland of the tourist brochures and it’s stunning.
For me, however, it’s the slightly sharp corners in the street art, the humour, the forgotten stories and the architecture.
Very different countries… but equally loveable.
But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t still a strong link between Scotland and France. The connection runs deep — right back to the days of the Auld Alliance — and somehow it still exists.
Luckily for me too.
A little ‘je ne sais quoi’ in Glasgow
On those days when I need a little ‘je ne sais quoi’, I know that I can touch base with France, even in the heart of Glasgow.
Yes, even here there are pavement cafes where you can sit in those little French bistro chairs sipping your early morning espresso with a warm croissant.
Slip into the French Patisserie and you can be transported to a Parisian bakery, where cakes sit like jewels on clean white trays.
Where the baguettes jostle for position in neatly ranged wicker baskets and the smell of freshly baked bread fills the air.
That exists here, in Glasgow, too.
But it’s those little, almost subconscious, things that make me realise France is still very much a part of my life.
It’s noticing when you go shopping, you’re the only one carrying a basket.
“Bag for Life” madam?
“Er … no thank you, I have this incredible straw basket with soft leather handles. Hand-woven in Yvoire by a rugged French artisan wearing a fetching beret”.
Well, the beret bit is true anyway. The basket … probably imported from China.
The fact that I end up carrying most of the shopping under my arm, because nothing actually fits in the basket, is entirely beside the point.
It’s French.
Fresh flowers are another thing. Not supermarket carnations wrapped in crackling cellophane but huge showy peonies, heavenly scented gardenias and old fashioned French roses.
I suspect it’s a perfume thing.
A little cream with that?
And that French skincare has followed me home too. The iconic A313 …. which sounds less like a beauty product and more like a motorway — now arrives by post from The French Pharmacy in London.
And then there’s Embryolisse, my latest miracle cream. The tube bears an unfortunate resemblance to my toothpaste, which has led to understandable confusion on more than one occasion.
I’ve even caught myself squeezing a Camembert in the cheese shop. Much to the horror of the shopkeeper who said something Glaswegian that didn’t sound entirely encouraging. I refer you back to the nod and smile strategy.
Tiny rituals
Perhaps that’s really what I miss most about France — not the big dramatic things, but the tiny rituals that make ordinary days feel just slightly more beautiful.
And if you’re ever in Scotland, in Glasgow in particular, I’m the person in the striped t-shirt with the M&S baguette crumbs under my arm.
- And I don’t care
