Sir, – Once, hitching through a rural part of southwest France, there were next to no cars. Just crickets and heat. I had walked the feet off myself.
So when a car slowed down beside me, grateful, I jumped in right away.
Their southwest accent was tough going, and they seemed more taciturn than the typical people who would give you a lift (who generally self-select as very chatty and friendly), but I gleaned that they were farmers, and we spoke about livestock. They spoke in particular about their hens.
Several miles in, as I became more used to their accent, the penny dropped. They hadn’t been offering me a lift at all.
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Their hens had escaped, and they had been driving very slowly down back roads looking into hedges for them, when, to their alarm, un dingue with a backpack suddenly ran up and jumped into their car.
Seeing my incomprehension, they essentially had shrugged, and were driving me to my destination, just to get rid of me.
Normally, you’re keen to communicate as well as you can in your rusty French, but on this occasion, I decided not to, er, chicken out, and to maintain the facade of ignorance.
As with certain modern politicians, I realised that the dumber I could be, the further I’d get. – Yours, etc,
SEÁN MacCANN,
Trillick,
Co Tyrone.
