It’s 9.30am, late September, northern Brittany. Serge,the rotund caterer with splendiferous moustache andwilling cohorts have swung into action, so Stuart

can stop pacing and get himself ready. Gabrielle,meanwhile, his bride-to-be, is adding the finishingtouches to her outfit.

By ten, the distressingly pink skewered pig isturning on the spit.The British guests mill aboutexpectantly. Most of them seem to have come overfrom Brighton, where Stuart and Gabrielle metcomparatively recently on the site of a communityecological building project.

Suddenly the limpid air of the countryside is rentby the wedding march played on a bombarde: a nativereed instrument that sounds like a clarinet in pain.Notoriously hard to play, they can reputedly inducecerebral haemorrhage.

The music is emanating from the instruments ofmembers of the Cercle Poudouvre de Quévert, thegroup of musicians and dancers that haswelcomed Gabrielle and her fiddle into theirmidst. Everyone chats about the big bash tocome. Brittany weather is notoriouslychangeable, but the sun is shining andwe feel blessed.What a beautiful day fora multi-cultural variation on atraditional Breton wedding.

Half an hour to go and we are itching

to march. Big Tab, an old friend of the bride, resemblessome fearsome warrior in his ancestral kilt, earringsand army boots. Gabrielle emerges like an exoticbutterfly from the converted hangar that serves as theirhome till they build their straw bale house.‘Tu es bellecomme un cœur, Gabrielle!’ hollers Christian, who plays akind of diatonic soprano sax with the Cercle.Asbeautiful as a heart…

Stuart marshals the troops.‘Right, you lot! Let’sshow those Frenchies what the British are really like.’And we’re off at last, through the hamlet and along theflat road that leads past the cornfields to St-Maden.Around fifty of us. My whole body tingles withemotion as the musicians in their traditional finery ofcummerbunds and tunics and white lacy coifs play inunison on their hurdy-gurdies and piercing reeds.All those haunting minor keys. It’s music so ancientand so… well, Celtic.

Stern assistantThe mayor is there to greet us on the steps of hismairie. Local motorists are happy to wait as the Cercle

line up to usher the couple inside.The mayorbeckons guests to squeeze into the office, to the

apparent consternation of his stern assistant.Clearly touched by the occasion, he then reads

through Stuart’s impressive translation of his‘background’ notes: leaving ‘Briggaton’ and his new

When Gabrielle and Stuartdecided to get married in their

adopted Brittany, theydiscovered just how much thecommunity had taken them to

its heart. Mark Sampsonjoined in the celebrations

www.livingfrance.com22 Living France JANUARY 2008

Our big fat Breton wedding

ALL

PHOT

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ON

living!france

Traditionally thewedding dress wornby Breton womenwas black

Didyouknow

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amoureuse, Stuart spent a ‘miserable winter’ alone in adamp mill in Haute-Vienne, while Gabrielle stayedbehind for her daughter’s final year of school. Once re-united, the couple toured France to find the mostconducive location for their smallholding dreams.Brittany seemed ‘lively and welcoming’ and, resolvingto become Bretons themselves, they settled in LaHaute Houssais,‘along with their sheep, pigs, goats andchickens, welcomed by their new neighbours andthoroughly at home’.

However, I know how assiduously the pair hasworked at integration and there is a fitting round ofapplause to accompany a note of thanks from thevillage schoolteacher to Gabrielle, her periodicvoluntary assistante, for her ‘devotion, kindness, smilesand good humour’.

Following the exchange of vows from the civil

code,‘Madamoiselle Gabrielle Son-dares’ and‘Monsieur Stu-art On-dare-son’ are declared man andwife.Time now for the legal documents. Stuart’s quipabout prefacing his signature with ‘lu et approuvé’ earnsthe guffaws of all those privy to the foibles of Frenchformality.

Finally, the exchange of rings and kisses. Cuemass applause, flashing cameras and much dabbingof moist eyes.We file out to a Yiddish weddingmarch played by Tab and Nick, another old friend,on their guitars and pass through the guard ofhonour formed by the Cercle’s cummerbunds.TheBreton musicians then prompt strange, metronomicdancing in the street before leading the swollenprocession homewards.The return journey is longerbecause the dancers stop periodically to repeat theirroutine. ‘Look at all these people!’ Gabrielleexclaims. ‘They’re all coming to our house. Howscary is that?’

Back at the Andersons’ smallholding, the poor pigis noticeably less pink and it’s time for the customary vin d’honneur followed by a chance to take your glassand nibbles and mingle among the animated crowd.‘They’ve thrown themselves into French life,’Gabrielle’s mother tells me proudly.‘If you want tobe a true local, you’ve got to do that.’ Chatting totheir new friends from the Cercle about theextraordinary musical instruments, someone revealsthe evident truth that Breton people love to party.

Yet it’s true what I have heard: local acquaintancesnot invited for the meal instinctively know exactlywhen to put their glasses down and slope off. Lunchunder the agricultural lean-to is a chance for theBrits to chinwag and for the French to appreciateand evaluate the pork and trimmings à lamoustachioed Serge. Many are the bemused asidesabout the cranky Brits who forego such pleasures ofthe flesh for Gabrielle’s vegetarian options.

Pyramid of profiterolesAfter the cheese course,Tab and Nick – withChristian on his quasi-soprano – are leading choruses of The Wild Rover, until it’s time to despoilthe stunning pièce montée or pyramid of profiterolesdelivered in a trailer by the local confectioner.Traditionally, the bride and groom remove the top twopastries. Stuart calls in jest for a trusty French Opinelpocket-knife.‘You ain’t got an ’ope in ’ell, mate!’retorts a quick-witted wag.

Champagne glasses are charged for the speeches.It’s typical of an evident attention to detail that Stuart delivers his bilingually in parallel paragraphs.‘Ma femme et je…’ provokes a chorus of cat-calls.It seems that Paul, his neighbour and witness, hasmischievously misled him. Of course it’s ‘moi’!Following Gabrielle’s speech, the French contingentincites a matrimonial kiss with chants of ‘vive, vive la mariée! Le marié doit t’embrasser!’ Stuart breaks off to read out his mother’s text message with the

www.livingfrance.com

Gabrielle emerges like anexotic butterfly from theconverted hangar thatserves as their home tillthey build their straw bale house

JANUARY 2008 Living France 23

Opposite page, top: Gabrielleand Stuart Anderson celebratetheir marriage in their adoptedBreton village Bottom: Gabrielleand her daughter, Christina,emerge to mass applauseCentre: Christian gets theprocession under way with musicfrom his quasi-soprano Thispage, from top: Musicians fromthe Cercle Poudouvre de Quévertlead the march to the mairie; theofficial business is complete; letthe celebrations begin Bottom:Gabrielle’s smile has won thehearts of locals

breton wedding

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Arsenal result. Perhaps it’s the prevalent joie de vivre, butthere seems no discernible gap before the eveningparty begins.

The mayor and his wife are there among a crowdthat’s bigger than ever before. Gabrielle’s new matesfrom Les Gourganes, another local musical association,arrive and she joins them to sing their ribald Bretonsea shanties as they shuffle rhythmically around aroaring bonfire that’s warding off the nocturnal chill.When Christian puts his soprano down for a breather,I manage to collar him about cultural integration. If, ashe suggests, the Andersons have managed it sosuccessfully, what is their secret? ‘Il faut sourire ets’ouvrir,’ he tells me – which translates, prosaically, as‘you have to smile and be open’.

I know myself that it’s not quite as simple.Astrideour straw bales, I chat to Gabrielle about the obstaclesshe has encountered.‘I miss my mother and mydaughter, of course.And when I came here, at first Ijust felt invisible. I’d been someone before, andsuddenly I was no one. But that changes.The hardestthing is the language. I know I’m making progress, butI worry that I can’t be a real friend to my newgirlfriends until I can really express myself.’

A firework display interrupts us.After oneparticularly pyrotechnic rocket, Stuart steps into theadjacent enclosure to check on ‘the boys’: their pair of pint-sized Kune Kune pigs from New Zealand.The torchlight reveals them still rooting aroundunperturbed.As guests drift away, Nick and Tab leadrenditions of English folk songs.A French friend ofGabrielle’s joins in expertly on her accordion. Later, asI slip off to my tent, I observe the two girlfriends inanimated conversation and am reassured aboutGabrielle’s confessed struggle with self-expression.

‘Such a perfect day.’ It was the best of British andthe best of French.We showed them our best qualitiesand they showed us theirs.The next day, Stuart andGabrielle would open their presents from Britishfriends.The next week, they would travel to Barcelonacourtesy of the customary monetary contributionsfrom French friends.

It might have been less administratively onerous tomarry in the UK, but the Andersons wanted to getmarried at home – and Brittany is their chosen home.The affection in which their adoptive communityholds them is touching and genuine.They’ve workedhard to achieve much in a short period and, if the sunshone blissfully all day long, then it was nothing morethan they merited. !

24 Living France JANUARY 2008 www.livingfrance.com

This page, from top right:Gabrielle chats to her mum, right,on the walk back to the reception;

the wedding feast is served; andnow for the pièce de résistance...;

guests line up for the officialphotographs; Gabrielle and Stuart

propose a toast; the Kune Kunepigs tuck in to the left-overs

Stuart andGabrielle’s

tips forsuccessful

culturalintegration

" You have to learn thelanguage. Everything followsfrom this. Don’t give up; you

will improve

" You can learn a lot aboutyour new culture by joining

one of the manyassociations on offer – evenif it’s only a rambling group

" Consider some form ofvoluntary work. It will earnyou considerable respect in

the community and helpwith the language

" Exploit the apéritifconvention. It doesn’t

commit you to a meal, butmakes you converse in

French – if you resist thetemptation to invite fellow

Brits as a safety net

" Keep an open mind andbe curious. Don’t be

judgemental; there’s somuch to learn from other

people and other traditions

breton weddingliving!france

Contact: Stuart and Gabrielle Anderson:www.brittanycountrygite.com

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