By Els Mahieu “Bonjour,” the mayor says.
“Bonjour,” we confidently reply, as if we belong here; as if we haven’t just arrived days before with suitcases still half-unpacked.
We’re at the opening of the brand-new village café in Trémolat, a small village of 600 inhabitants in the French Dordogne region. In a place like this, a new café isn’t just a business venture; it’s an event: free food and free drinks have been promised to everyone. It would have been rude not to go.
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Long tables stretch across the square, crowded with neighbors greeting each other. We hover awkwardly, clutching our glasses, but the awkwardness dissolves quickly. Between the delicious Cabécou goat cheese, crusty bread, and slow sips of chilled wine, conversation flows easily. The crowd is a blend of lifelong French residents and British expats who arrived years ago and never left.
All of a sudden, song sheets are passed around. There is no announcement, no explanation, just paper thrust into our hands and a guitar. Before I know it, I’m belting out French refrains with theatrical enthusiasm, while Trevor decides to stick to the English classics. Voices grow louder and wine glasses lay empty. We feel like part of the community already.
We’ll be living here for three months, caring for four cats. We aren’t tourists rushing between sights: we shop where residents shop; we learn which days the bakery closes and which stall at the market sells the best strawberries. One of the greatest joys of pet sitting, for us, is this opportunity to slip, however briefly, into the rhythm of local life.
And in summer, there is no shortage of life in these little French villages. One of the most brilliant traditions has to be the French night markets. They’re not really markets at all, at least not in the conventional sense.
They are more like open-air food festivals where the entire village gathers at long communal tables as dusk settles into night. Vendors line the edges of the square, each specializing in one dish: duck confit, golden “frites” salted to perfection, fresh oysters prized open on the spot, or crêpes folded and dusted with sugar.
You buy your meal from whichever stall tempts you most, then carry it to the tables where strangers quickly become tablemates. Bottles of rosé are shared and stories exchanged.
A band sets up in the corner and soon the music carries across the square. Couples sway, teenagers spin each other recklessly, children weave between chairs long past their usual bedtime, and someone inevitably attempts to teach us the steps to the local dance. This is exactly why we came here.
Trémolat is a gorgeous little village and the main square looks like it came straight out of a French movie set. Turns out it did! Trémolat and its inhabitants served as the backdrop for the iconic 1969 French cult movie, Le Boucher.
This psychological thriller used the real streets and real residents of Trémolat to bring its unsettling story to life. More than five decades later, the connection remains a point of local pride.
As fate would have it, our visit to Trémolat coincides with a festival celebrating the director and the movie’s legacy. On a rainy evening, we join a steady stream of villagers heading to the community hall for a special screening. The entire village is present, apart from our neighbor Gérard, who is still bitter that his brief scene was cut from the final edit!
The community center is filled with chatter and laughter as villagers recognize themselves or familiar faces on the screen, and there are murmurs of nostalgia for those no longer there. What a heartwarming experience!
We may only be here for three months, temporary custodians of four cats and a house with pale blue shutters, but in moments like this, we feel an unmistakable sense of belonging. Even if we know that in a few short months we will pack our bags again.
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