Village funerals in France

Village funerals

Our first funeral in the village, after we moved from England, was something of an eye opener. The population of the Midi are quite relaxed about funerals. Our neighbour told us that someone who originated from the village, and who had moved away, had died, and was now to be returned to the village for his funeral. Normally the Church was only used once a week when a visiting Priest came, and a half dozen of the village women would attend.

Not wishing to cause offence by continuing with our building work, we decided to clean around the front of our house, which was adjacent to the Church. Having cleaned and washed in front of the house we decided to continue along the street for a short distance and also in front of the Church Porch. The whole area looked spotless. We then hid away indoors as the time of the funeral approached.

When the mournful ringing of the church bell started, we couldn’t resist, but look to see what was going on. Peeking out of the window, we were amused to see the coffin being carried along the street by a couple of wine farmers, the baker from the next village and the two men who worked on the dustcart, whom by now we had christened Bill and Ben.

The road in front of our house, and church was too narrow to allow a normal car to drive along, and this was the only way of bringing the coffin to the church. What was so amusing about this solemn occasion you may ask? Well, all the men were still in their working clothes. The farmers covered in blue copper sulphate, the baker with traces of flour all over, and the dustmen who had parked their vehicle a short distance away, to perform their task, were still in their dirty ‘french blues’.

The women of the village were inside the church, but all the men remained outside, in groups, chatting about the vines, and the weather, and hardly looking up as the coffin passed.

When the ceremony was over, the coffin was carried, the two hundred yards to the cemetery, by the original pallbearers, and the mourners left. We then exited our house to find that our spotlessly clean street, had turned into an open ashtray, where the male mourners had been standing, and so we had to start over again. This continued with all funerals during the ten years that we lived there.

Our village was a satellite village of a larger village, and there, they had an old Peugeot 504 estate car that doubled up as the school bus, and hearse. It was painted black with the name of the village emblazoned along its sides. It had certainly seen its best days, and the parents were getting anxious about its condition.

Things came to a head when several children arrived home, one lunchtime, each one clutching a small bunch of flowers. When asked where the flowers came from, the parents were told that they had found them in the back of the 'school' car. There had been a funeral that morning, and the parents became suspicious of their origins. The village was subsequently forced to purchase a small bus for the school children.

Throughout France at the end of October, roads are clogged with traffic. Families are moving about in preparation for the 1st November (All Saints Day), when it is traditional to lay a large potted chrysanthemum on the graves of departed family and friends. Outside all cemeteries there will be someone selling chrysanthemums and the colour is wonderful.