26 MARCH 1983, Page 39

Postscript

L'Inspecteur calls

P.J. Kavanagh

V ears ago, before the Common Market referendum, I was on a radio discus- sion programme when the chairman sud- denly announced that nobody with any sense could possibly vote 'No'. Everyone agreed enthusiastically except me, who asked him why he thought so, and they all looked at their fingernails, embarrassed; it was like a low-key H.M. Bateman drawing. I was probably rather puffed up at the originality of my reason (which they did not ask me); it was not Little Englandism but the reverse, an affection for small French farmers whom I feared our entry would cause to be 'rationalised' into larger units in which they would have to work for somebody else. It would mean the end of a manner of living that looked hard but satisfactory, and there would be fewer of those delicious fresh vegetables one saw in the markets and enjoyed in the simplest restaurants. (I gather this has not happened, despite our squeals. I should have known the French could look after themselves.) France, the first 'abroad' I saw, has always been a dream place for me: no dreary licensing laws; cafes that stay open all day and half the night; lovely food, climate, landscape. But I was unprepared for the sudden mood of national self- abasement in the Britain of that time. Over- night, from being the most arrogant of European nations (after the French) we were the most humble; at the expense of our own we praised continental cooking, business, education, postal services, police — police, for heaven's sake! — even sanita- tion, until one wondered if anyone in England had ever been abroad at all. Nevertheless, despite the absurdity of all this, France remained in my imagination as a good place to be. We had changed, and I frequently wondered whether France had changed too. I heard tales that le Wimpy had arrived there but I discounted these, some travellers make a point of returning swathed in gloom. Certainly, while we were

busy pulling everything down, the French were showing more sense. That was evident from the few visits I made, brief ones, usually passing through on the way to somewhere else. 1 had one or two disap- pointing experiences, but nothing impor- tant; the general impression remained of a lucky and intelligent people who knew how to conduct themselves.

Only recently did the opportunity come to go and have a proper look, alone, able to sit at my leisure at those ever-open cafes, sample those splendid foods and wines (nothing grand, you understand), admire the women and the landscape. What I have to report is disappointment; the image of a lifetime had no real foundation. The food was not particularly good (perhaps those farmers have indeed been swept into some state-owned prairie) and had to be eaten more or less alone, early. There was nobody about and every restaurant seemed to be on the point of closing. It was worse than England! And I realised with a pang, another prejudice of a lifetime up the spout, that what was wrong was the absence of something I so much detested in England: licensing hours. Admittedly, this was the north of France in September but in the north of England in December there would be somewhere to go after 8 o'clock .... In town after town — some of them quite large — there was nowhere. Every cafe was shut, and everyone at home, presumably watching television.

In one town I trailed, defeated, back to my hotel at 9 o'clock and sat in the bar, alone — watching television. (That was bad too.) I ordered a brandy from the sad young patronne (perhaps she had had bad news; her husband sat all day in a little of- fice the size of a sedan chair, muttering over his accounts). At 9.30 1 ordered another — after going in search of her. I was nearly in tears by this time but a man can't go to bed at 9.30 on his first solo visit to la belle France for 20 years. I had just had time to sip it when she pulled out the plug, with no warning, from the television set and all the lights in the room. I stood in the dark with my barely touched drink, incredulous. I was a guest in the hotel! Not even in England ... . I couldn't think what to say so I called `Merci beaucoupr venomously into the empty dark. As a riposte it lacked something.

Upstairs in my room I brooded. Something had to be done, but what? A small idea struck me; very small, but it helped me to get to sleep.

In the morning they handed me an af- fiche to fill in. I did it in front of them, making sure they watched. Under 'Profes- sion' I wrote in large letters 1NSPECTEUR D'HOTELS' and pushed it towards them making sure they read it, and then, nose in air, stalked out. A minor triumph, certainly, and marred by a sudden thought that perhaps it should have been 'Inspecteur des hotels'.

Finding a hotel in Calais was difficult too. It could not have been more difficult (or worse) in Dover.