​As regular readers of The Mag may know, I am a British expatriate living in rural southwest France. My home sits in a tiny hamlet of about 20 families in the Charente département, roughly an hour and a half inland from Bordeaux. When we bought the place 22 years ago, the locals were puzzled by so many Brits decamping to what they called the French equivalent of the boondocks. Yet they welcomed us with open arms. In truth, during those two decades we have never felt unwelcome or treated as outsiders—except, perhaps, under a few very specific circumstances.
During the Six Nations, the particular nerves of our corner of the world are unmistakable. In this part of the country, rugby is not just a sport; it is a shared obsession. Everyone—men, women, and children—lives and breathes it. The natural enemy, to many, is England. If France win against anyone, it’s a triumph; if not, the stab of defeat is aimed squarely at the English. When the Six Nations games are on, you can be sure that as soon as a waiter, diner, or shop assistant realizes you’re English, you’ll be treated to running commentary, especially if England are losing. The tirade is usually directed at the English, but the sentiment doesn’t always feel reciprocal or fair, and it can feel a touch—for want of a better word—fishy or playful malice depending on the moment.
Ironically, that same fierce competitive spirit does not spill over into football. The French adore their football and cheer “Les Bleus,” but the fervor isn’t quite the same, not, at least, among the women who revere rugby heroes with a passion that sometimes surpasses the football romance. Driving around my patch of the Charente, you wouldn’t necessarily know the World Cup is underway. National supermarket chains carry “Les Bleus” promotions, and a bar here and there might show games, but the intensity of interest I recall from England is noticeably absent. My two nearby towns are Jarnac, three miles away, and Cognac, seven miles away. On my drive there yesterday I spied two tricolours flying toward Jarnac and none in Cognac—no banners or posters to be seen in either town. I anticipate that, with France’s progress to the semi-finals, those numbers will rise; the locals do enjoy backing a winner, even if they tend to savor the moment and avoid getting carried away, unlike some Britons who erupt with declarations that “It’s coming home” after a narrow victory over a mix of lesser opponents in qualifying.
The French attitude toward my own patriotism is, to put it mildly, curious. I’m a daft Brit, and whenever a football or rugby tournament kicks off, I proudly raise a St George’s flag at the bottom of the garden, where it overlooks one of the village roads. England flag at the bottom of the garden, France in the view. For football, there’s never a problem, but rugby brings a different kettle of fish. My England rugby flag—its corner crowning a small rose—has been stolen twice and then returned, though never quite in pristine condition. It’s a reminder of how our sporting loyalties can become points of playful contention in this corner of France.
In short, Les Bleus (round and oval) and high jinks at high altitude are part of the texture of life here. The charmed tension of watching a game, the joy of a shared local identity, and the occasional mischief—these are the small prices paid for living as an expat in a country that makes you feel both welcome and a little conspicuously foreign at once. The affair of the flag—its removal, its reappearance, the lighthearted SEO byline it acquires in the process—speaks to the unpredictable theater that is life in the French countryside during the rugby season. And so, as the semi-finals loom and the villages lean into a collective cheer, I’ll keep waving my flag, enjoying the banter, and celebrating the stubborn, stubborn love of the game that binds us all—albeit with a few good-natured jabs along the way.