I’ve dreamt of that for years, but my schoolboy French has got rustier and rustier. And so, this year, the plan was to put it right, set a good example for my kids and equip them with the necessary tools so that they didn’t have to stumble into language barriers their whole life.
Potential help was at hand: total immersion. The theory goes as follows: going to a French school, in France, where French teachers refuse to speak anything other than French is an effective way of, you guessed it, learning French. This is not a new concept — but doing it with the whole family is.
The one-week family course at the Coeur de France Ecole de Langues offers tuition for you and your children in one classroom. It sounded unlikely. I haven’t dusted off my dubious vocab since I was 16. My wife, Wendy, got a degree in languages 20 years ago, but the girls — Kiah, aged 8, and Imogen, 6 — are complete beginners. Four people of differing age and ability in the same room. With only one week in hand. But anything was better than nothing.
Convincing the girls that it was a good idea was tricky. We smoothed over the “Girls, what we’re doing this school holiday is going to school” confession with promises about horse-riding and goat-petting — just a couple of the family-friendly excursions on offer at Coeur de France.
After that, we were off, and things started well. The school is not in some prefab classroom on the outskirts of a monotonous town, like my old school. Two hours south of Paris, it’s based in a 16th-century mansion in the medieval hilltop town of Sancerre, in the Loire. Sancerre is a town of witch’s-hat turrets and lute-playing gargoyles, and a great place to get lost in.
We were shown to one of the mansion’s three apartments, elegantly decked out with oak floors and lacy curtains, velvety wallpaper and chandeliers.
Living on the grounds had an obvious advantage — no school run — so getting ready in the morning was a breeze (families know the importance of this). On the other hand, we had no excuse for being late for class.
“Remember to speak French at all times. This is cultural immersion.” That’s what it said at the very top of our programme, in big, bold letters. Seventy-five per cent of us couldn’t speak French at all.
MONDAY MORNING was all-round excitement, as we ran down the stone spiral staircase from the apartment to the classroom. The girls were giggly with anticipation at seeing mummy and daddy in school. This was their domain, and we were the new kids in class.
Bonjours and oui, ouis flew around at an alarming rate (I wanted to show confidence, as an example to the girls). And then: “Bonjour Seemon, est-ce-que vous avez bien dormi?” Marianne, our host and tutor, looked at me expectantly. I just knew I’d be picked first, but my mouth stopped working. We’ve all been there, scrabbling around in every cranial compartment, desperately seeking pre-viously held knowledge. I could only sit there looking blank, sweating profusely.
Wendy bailed me out, but Kiah and Immie had taken note. I’d have to endure their “Oh, poor daddy, couldn’t do it” jibes for the rest of the week. They had nothing to lose: elbows on table and perky little heads in hands, they were into je m’appelle and un, deux, trois in as many seconds, and the pile of exercise books and pens they were given drew big grins. At least part of the family was having a great time.
After that linguistic baptism of fire, we headed straight to the Café des Arts, on the square. French daily life was buzzing, and despite being compromised in class, I was determined to be a part of it. I downed an early pastis (French courage) and took Wendy’s special brand of mocking humour on the chin.
