Stockholm Syndrome et al

I have never been very good at foreign languages.

I did take French and German to 'O' level although that was way back in 1979 and with the natural evolution of language that would probably mean that any attempted conversation with Nationals now from those two countries would sound positively Medieval.

Even at the supposed peak of my linguistic capabilities having laboured over them as a student I did make some huge and, in retrospect, humorous mistakes although at the time nothing could have been more excruciatingly embarrassing. 

In a packed school playground in a Parisian suburb, whilst on an exchange trip aged 16, I meant to say to a group of female french students that I liked music but it came out, unfortunately as "I love you" in a collective sense. 

In the second week of the same trip I was whisked away by my host family to the Brittany Coast. 

I still contend today that I was kidnapped and that behind the scenes some diplomatic mission secured my release and repatriation with fellow students and teachers. It was of course in the days pre-mobile phone and I am not really sure if my parents were informed about the arrangements for that extra=curriculum seven days.

I have, on a number of occasions since pored over a map of Western France to try to work out the route that we may have taken from a Parisian suburb and across a sizeable portion of the French countryside. All I can recall from the very cramped confines of a small Peugeot saloon car was a signpost for Le Mans.

The destination was the family retreat, a white painted cottage, in a small agricultural hamlet appearing to be a typical seasonal arrangement for Parisians as a get away from their everyday apartment living. Within a few hours of arriving in Brittany all of the host household were either struck down with Mumps or had to dedicate their time to looking after the swollen and irritable leaving me to make my own entertainment. 

I found an old rusty bike in the shed behind the cottage and took to riding it around the beautiful countryside perfecting my french pronunciation of "Une biere blonde s'il vous plait"at various roadside and beach-side cafes, bars and tabacs.

A bit like my experience of Cornwall it was a picturesque area of narrow, high hedge hemmed lanes, green meadows with dairy cattle and secret bays and coves with gorgeous unspoilt yellow sands stretching for mile upon mile.

When the family were able to raise their swollen forms from their convalescence we did all go to the nearest resort towns of Piriac sur Mer, Guerande and La Baule and I sent a couple of postcards to try to alert those at home to my incarceration. One memorable joint event was wading along the freshly exposed shoreline at low tide and, with our toes, digging out shellfish which filled a whole large saucepan for that evenings meal to nourish the invalids. 

Otherwise, as long as I turned up for the roll-call at the evening meal no-one seemed at all bothered about "l'Anglais'. 

I did cycle many miles between the small rural village where I was staying to the quaint harbour side towns and through the dunes of broad white sandy beaches but did not seem to improve in terms of fitness at all. It was probably down to my new found fondness for chilled, bottled beer.

That very hands on experience, albeit a bit blurry and sweaty in a Breton late Spring, gave me the motivation to knuckle down for the final few weeks on return to England and I got through my 'o' level oral examination with a credit using my rather crude, colloquial and somewhat boozy description of what I did on my French holiday.