Why the French Hate (British) Children

I’ve been bringing my (definitely British) children to France for close to nine years as my mum and stepdad live in the campagne between Bergerac and Bordeaux. Every few months we make the trip south - via planes, trains and automobiles - and arrive at our home from home. We’ve made a lifetime of their memories here, but it’s also been the arena for some of my hardest parenting moments. For us, the Dordogne is less a holiday and more like real life with a different backdrop - a place which has seen the good, the bad and the ugly of childrearing.

Some of my most challenging times - or at least the experiences which have created the most anxiety for me as a parent - have been caused by the cultural differences between the French and the British in respect to how we believe children should exist in public. I will totally hold my hands up to the fact that my boys are no role models when it comes to their behaviour. I work hard on table manners, and they know how to hold their knives and forks. As we own a family restaurant, they have a lot of experience with eating outside of the home. But they come with Duracell batteries and - something which continually proves a problem in France - a high decibel level.

This week while staying at my mum’s, we ate at a local, very low-key spot. Within five or six seconds of our arrival the waitress had put her hands to her ears as five children took their seats. ‘Est-ce qu’il y a un probleme?’ I enquired courteously. Since there was an accordion player belting out a jolly ditty, you’d think she wouldn’t notice the sound of children laughing while taking their seats. But apparently, that is not a pleasant sound here. I should have left right at that moment - she’d told me everything I needed to know: we were not welcome.

Over the next 45 minutes, a comedy of errors - almost John Cleesian in proportions - ensued. One of the children is terrified of wasps and in trying to bat a little stinger away from his face, managed to smash a glass. No matter that a group of elderly women were flapping their fans around like lunatics to shoo away the same menace, the infraction was received with total shock - almost as if he’d dropped his trousers to take a wild wee on the table. As the menu was limited to meals which were distinctly non-child friendly (think pork in a prune and Armagnac sauce), I asked if the proprietor could possibly accommodate by serving us a side dish - plain pasta - as a meal and we’d happily pay the full price. Non. Of course, we all wish our 5-year-olds were gourmands, but as my son often eats ‘potato wedges in a roll’ for lunch at school, culturally we are just not set up to achieve duck a l’orange by reception class.