MY TITLE PAYS ITS DUE respects to Mrs “Fanny” Trollope, wit and raconteuse of some standing, who gave the continent of Europe a good literary hiding before going on to do something similar for those foolhardy colonials who had opted to declare themselves independent of the Crown in 1776. Fanny, among other delicious tit-bits of wit and observation, pointed out that one of the most distressing aspects concerning English people visiting the mainland of Europe was its foul smell. I, of course, would never suggest that such a thing as a single foul smell for Europe existed.
AS I WRITE THIS, sitting in the café-bar of the magnificent St Pancras Station in London, about to depart for Paris on the Eurotrash train under the channel, I expect that the effect of the smell will be even more overwhelming than I remember it being when I was thirteen years old, sitting in the back seat of my parents’ car on a beautifully bright and clear Summer day waiting to board a hovercraft from Dover. That clarity on that day, in late July 1972, made it one of the rare occasions when one could see on the horizon a shimmering image of France, for me a land of mystery, charm and seduction. I imagined, as one might imagine a thirteen-year-old boy would imagine, a land full of fun.
OF COURSE NONE OF THIS WAS TRUE – when I was thirteen, at least. Nor do I expect it to be the case later on this evening, when I am booked into a grubby little hotel near Austerlitz railway station, from which I will be in touch later, with a report on the smells I encounter. As an Englishman I am often asked why my countrymen hate the French so much, and I suppose the answer might have to do with statements of mine in Sunday Mornings passim. But more particularly it is because France just does not do what it says on the tin. Or the Tin-Tin.
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