I always find it a rather strange thing that scent can trigger particular memories; for me scent is the most powerful tool for recollection.
This morning I as I picked a generous bundle of mint, the sweet potency transported me back in time and I was assailed by memories of my first French tractor.
I guess for most girls a French episode and especially a ‘first’ does not generally revolve around a piece of farm equipment.
My first French tractor was not so much about a steel body and four oversized tires but about my naiveté and inexperience in the French way of negotiation.
The purchase of our farm, Mas de Bérard took some time to reach completion, but when the stressful negotiations were finished and the fine print was done and dusted, we were able to breath a sigh of relief. It was over – the property was ours.
The vendors departed contentedly and we arrived ecstatically.
Like all purchasers, we had anguished over the details, paid a little more than we wanted, but the dream was ours.
The question of inventory was another matter.
I passed on the offer of a ‘special price’ for all the working equipment.
Like all newcomers embarking on an adventure, we wanted to stamp the property with our own mark and that meant new hardware.
We were establishing an olive grove in abandoned fruit fields and modern machinery was needed to clear, plant and tend the land. The owner assured me that he understood our feelings and that all would be in good order at the time of the handover. It was.
The farm was immaculate, the outbuildings had been completely emptied and the fields cleaned of any ancient debris (picture my excitement).
In pride of place, standing in front of our new home stood a small faded red tractor.
This was not the John Deere of tractors; it was a tiny enamelled relic from yesteryear with a few gears, a rusty seat and no air-conditioned cabin.
‘It is absolutely imperative that you have this tractor to work the farm,’ the owner gestured, enraptured by his own generosity.
We thanked him profusely for his gift and continuing goodwill and promised to put it to good use, knowing full well we would be hard-pressed to start it, let alone work with it.
We managed to fire the ignition, drive the tired old objet d’art a few hundred metres before it poetically puffed a few belches and conked out.
The French tractor performed as poorly as expected yet I still felt overcome by the owner’s thoughtfulness.
A handwritten note delivered the following week congratulated us on our wise decision in PURCHASING the tractor.
He assured us of his sincerest thoughts and heartfelt intentions whilst wishing us a long and prosperous life with many happy times at the farm. Attached was a small piece of paper: an official invoice.
The French tractor sits there to this day, a shrine to my enthusiasm and un-worldliness….I wouldn’t have it any other way. xv
