Ma Folie Française (My French Folly) by Marisa Raoul Page A

replied, patting her gleaming paintwork affectionately… By the way Gilberto , have you ever met this famous Fernand ?
    â€˜ Non … but I can’t wait. He iz a legend around here and Thibault has told me so many funny stories about him.’
    â€˜Okay … are we all ready?’ called Thibault , leaning from the window of his sporty, black Renault as he pulled along side.
    â€˜ Allez … let’s go,’ shouted Gilberto , as he sprinted towards his vehicle. ‘See you zere Marisa .’
    â€˜ Bien ,’ called Thibault. ‘Let’s get ze show on ze road, as you people say.’
    As our modern day cavalcade departed, one shiny sports car after another, our friend Pierre Lacoste , stood twisting his luxurious moustache between his thick fingers, a knowing smirk hovering above his stubbly chin. Following Thibault through the mountain roads, proved more difficult than we had anticipated. He drove like a maniac. No, I’m serious this time … the French have a reputation for driving well beyond any allocated speed limit, but Thibault drove like he was playing Russian roulette … for keeps.
    â€˜My God, Jean … we’ll never keep up at this rate. Is he insane?’
    â€˜ Non, Chérie … he is just so used to the roads. He’s been driving on them all his life. He’s a great driver actually.’
    â€˜You would say that … you men are all the same … how could you possibly say he is safe, when is driving up the middle of the road like that? Now look … he’s waving to all the passing cars as if he knows them all.’
    â€˜He probably does,’ Jean chuckled. ‘Remember this is Corrèze ; the population here, isn’t that big.’
    â€˜True. Though I can hardly believe he knows everyone. Look at him waving like a raving lunatic,’ I smiled, shaking my head.
    We passed through hamlets and lieu dit of such miniscule proportions, you could barely imagine the presence of modern day man surviving in such places. The odd waft of smoke rising from a crumpled granite chimneystack seemed to be the only visible sign of human existence.
    â€˜Can you believe people still live out here? This is what I call the quiet life.’
    â€˜You can say that again … and they are probably living in exactly the same way that their ancestors did. I bet some of these houses don’t even have electricity. You know, I’ve heard stories of people living out here who don’t even realise that World War 2 is over or that we won.’
    â€˜Unbelievable. In such a technologically advanced country, you’d never suspect it.’
    As Thibault continued on his merry, albeit homicidal way, Jean and I did all we could to keep up, while still enjoying the magical scenery. We had never travelled on such remote roads in France and the journey was proving visually unforgettable. These were ‘wild boar’-filled hills, rugged untouched slopes where ancient, pristine forest engulfed remote outposts of humanity.
    After we had passed an innocuous sign for Faux la Montagne our vehicular parade came to a grinding halt. This town wasn’t sleeping: it was comatose.
    We slipped from our vehicles, keen to rendezvous with Thibault for an update on our expedition.
    â€˜Is this it?’ I queried, seriously doubting the existence of a functioning café in such a dull and dingy village.
    â€˜Zis iz it!’ he exclaimed joyously. ‘Izn’t it wonderful?’
    â€˜It’s probably the most morose place I’ve ever been to,’ I answered, sending Thibault and the others into fits of laughter. ‘I was right. This is a joke!’
    â€˜A joke? Not at all Marisa . Zis is a great place. Almost heritage listed. Just wait and see.’
    â€˜You’re having us on, Thibault … for once I agree with Marisa,’ added Jean.
    â€˜Have faith, mes amis (my friends). I promise you, this will be a day to