Friday in Normandy

As I stepped off the Eurostar at 9am on Friday I wondered if I'd recognise my friend Francky, who I hadn't seen for about five years. I needn't have worried. As I passed through the exit I spotted his hat. You see Francky is a Cow-Boy, a French Cow-Boy. He wears the full outfit, much to the amazement of many Parisians. He frequently gets odd looks on the Metro. Francky loves the attention and even if he wasn't wearing his cow-boy get up, people would still be staring.

I met Francky in 2004 on a ranch in Wyoming. Since then I'd promised to visit him in Paris. This weekend I decided it was time I took him up on his offer.

So on Friday morning I found myself being given the guided tour around Ecole Militaire where Francky is part of the French Cavalry. The stables were full of beautiful horses, all cared for immaculately. It was clear (even with my basic knowledge of French) that Francky is well respected amongst his peers, as they all stopped to say hello and he gave them instructions for the day.

After my tour and a quick cup of tea we jumped in the car and headed out of Paris, to Normandy. Francky switched on the CD player and Cotton Eye Joe blasted out of the stereo. I couldn't help but giggle.

As we got towards Deaville, Francky started to tell me, in his broken English, about the 6 years he had spent there. He told me a story about jumping out of the local girls school window, narrowly escaping getting caught by one of the Nuns. This is the first of many stories involving Francky's conquests. He's a true Frenchman with a great love of women. I should know, I was one of his victims all those years ago in the Wild West...!

We arrived at a run down, typically French farmhouse and I was introduced to Mr Baccush and his wife. I was mistaken for an Italian. I have no idea why. From what I could gather Mr Baccush asked the Cow-Boy if i could ride well. The answer was yes, very well. I smiled at Francky and Mr Baccush asked in a heavy accent "you jump?" "Oui" I answered, as this is pretty much all I can say en Francais. That seemed to be all the clarification he needed.

We rode out towards the coast in the sunshine. My horse was called Urhold and Francky remembers him from years gone by, when he was working at the farm and teaching adults and children to ride. I was astounded to hear that Urhold was 24 years old. He didn't look it and certainly didn't feel like an old horse as we reached the beach and began to canter. It took all my strength to hold him back.

The weather was perfect for riding on the sand, with blue sky, bright sunshine and a cool breeze. With the wind in my ears and surf spray in my face we galloped along the deserted beach. I was grinning so much my cheeks hurt. As we gave the horses their heads a few solitary people watched as we swept down the shoreline. The horses began to race each other. My elderly steed and I won, of course, much to Francky's amusement.

Sadly as the horses began to tire and the sun lost it's battle against the oncoming clouds, we returned to the stables. Dominique, Mr Baccush's son, helped me hose Urhold down and started talking to me in French.

"Je ne comprends pas..." I say sheepishly.
"ah, Italien?"

Erm no, I'm still not an Italian... I told him I was English and he started to pick out odd phrases he knew. "Good horse, bad dog, London and pretty" seemed to be his words of choice. I smiled and nodded. His English was far better than my French!

After some long-winded goodbyes, we climbed back in the car and started on our journey back to Paris. Conversation became easier as Francky became more confident with speaking English. He told me about his family, his brothers and sister. We touched on Teresa, his American girlfriend, who sadly passed away suddenly last year. She had a sick heart, he tells me.

We talked about his life, how he feels like his friends only ring him when they want a shoulder to cry on, and i asked him who he called when he needed comfort. He tells me he prefers to be on his own. He's seen three psychiatrists, one he didn't like, the second was too expensive and the third...well she was a pretty girl. Needless to say she became more than his psychiatrist! Francky asked about me and my life and I told him the watered down version. For some reason I don't like talking about myself that much.

We made good time and as the sun began to set we entered the beautiful city of Paris. I gazed out of the window at the Seine, and at the passers by, wondering why I hadn't come to visit sooner. We stopped in traffic and the Eiffel Tower illuminated as darkness descended on the city. The Tower started to do it's sparkly dance as a Country and Western song played on Francky's car stereo, "My baby left me and she stole my heart too".