France in Foment.

We are back home at last after a period of touring parts of Europe, where we observed stark cultural and agricultural differences between the adjacent parts of France, Southern Germany, Austria and Northern Italy that we visited. The scenery was outstanding. Since then we have been trying to adjust to a quieter life back home. Last night we resumed our much-loved winter habit of heading to Montpellier for an evening concert in the beautiful Comédie Opera House. But if we thought that our lives were settling back into their usual pattern, we were soon to be disabused. Below are the words that I wrote on returning home last night, accompanied by some of the pictures that I took.

Two weeks ago we crossed the Brenner Pass from Austria into Italy.

Sunday night, October 17th. France It is eight thirty pm as we drive back through our sleepy village and up into the adjacent pine forest, where lies our home. Enormous black clouds had been gathering over the silhouetted hills of the Massif Central as we drove north from Montpellier, and the waxing crescent moon, seemed to bear a face which looked down on us now. “Ah, the folly of man," it seemed to say. For sure, we had just witnessed this very thing.

Three hours earlier we had set off down the same forest track, planning to enjoy an evening of music in our local city of Montpellier. The Corum, our modern concert hall had been disrupted by recent flooding, but this concert was to be held in the nearby Comédie, our beautiful opera house. We parked in the underground car park at the Corum , planning to walk from there along Boulevard Charles de Gaulle, past fountains and an avenue of plane trees towards the Place de La Comédie. The opera house sits at the far end of this enormous square, surrounded by elegant Haussmannian buildings. We have passed this way many times over the past twenty-five years, for Montpellier offers a cultural balm that we lack in our isolated country retreat. We would not trade it for anything. This evening we had Brahm’s violin concerto to look forward to followed by Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite. Our concert was due to start at seven p.m.

We seemed to be walking against a crowd. Not the usual inter- generational mix of concert goers, cyclists, shoppers and families with young children. Everyone who passed us this evening was young. They were mainly men, dressed in hoodies and dark clothing. When I noticed an array of abandoned cardboard posters, I deduced that we had recently missed a demonstration. Alas , looking ahead , a large crowd was still gathered. A young boy , no more than sixteen years old, stopped me then. “Don’t go there,” he warned. “Be careful. There’s gas.”

We wavered, for we had been here before. On attending a concert at The Comédie some years ago, we had encountered a demonstration of Gilets Jaunes in this very square. . It had been well controlled, and we had passed by on the edge and mounted the steps to L’Opéra without any problem, even though the start of the concert had been delayed. We hoped that this evening would be the same. We knew another route, whereby we could come across the opera house from behind, and avoid any demo. No hassle. We set of through narrow streets , but still, we were surrounded by throngs of people walking towards us. The average age seemed to be about twenty, and the larger proportion were male. Many of the men wore masks of dark clothing pulled up to their eyes. Many of the young women's faces were draped with a sleeveless tee shirt, only revealing their eyes through an arm hole. A couple of elderly septuagenarians like ourselves must have stood out like Mount Kilimanjaro in The Kalahari Desert. I began to feel decidedly uneasy, but B. urged me on. We both dreamed of reaching our beautiful opera house where we would pass through security and find ourselves mounting the sweeping marble staircase towards a small box in the first gallery. There we would shut our eyes and be soothed by the strains of a violin. But then reality struck when I heard a loud crack followed by a bang. When I looked down an adjacent alley, I saw an even larger crowd,. An eerie cloud of blue gas rose around them , filling the air. Suddenly a young girl was shoving plastic pipettes into my hand. Put them into your eyes, she mimed. For sure, my eyes were beginning to sting. The liquid immediately brought relief. A middle aged man thrust a blue mask into my hand too, and indicated that I should wear it. I immediately obeyed. But who had been organised enough to purchase these things? By now, I just had to persuade Brian that our dreams of a musical escape were in ruins. Yet more loud cracks and bangs filled the air, and crowds blocked the way ahead. I panicked, and turned back.

Three young people were looking at us in consternation, and determined to take us under their wing. “Are you tourists?” one asked. We told them that we had parked at the Corum, and they insisted on accompanying us all the way back. Along the way, we fell upon another large gathering of people . An ambulance rushed past, lights flashing,

Almost there, and blue gas floated above the pavement ahead of us, blocking the pedestrian access to our carpark. “Let’s take that route instead,” B. shouted, pointing to the road that ran beneath us. We had taken this same route an hour earlier in our car. In spite of reassuring our young friends that we were now safe, they insisted on accompanying us all the way underground to where our car was parked. When we said farewell, we learned that Lucas, Maia and Anisie were students in Montpellier.

This evening, as I record the alarming events that we have just experienced, I feel a large amount of confusion. Protest is a necessary means for people to make their views known. And yet what, exactly, did this evening's chaos achieve? Moreover, many of the young people we passed, seemed more intent on having a good time, as they laughed and joked amongst themselves as they passed by.

Yet some of the youngsters we met showed a social responsibility that would shame many of us adults. Yes, our friends had come to protest. That was evident from the large plastic swimming goggles that one carried, and which she insisted that I should wear for a time instead. I feel that I must respect their cause. But they had acted responsibly, and pulled back from contributing to the chaos.

Bravo to them, and my undying thanks. Oh yes, and we also wish them ... Bon Courage!

P.S. Once safely home, I opened up my computer. We had received an email at 5.47p.m. , just as we had been setting off for Montpellier in our car. It stated that because of ongoing protests, that evening's concert had been cancelled. Alas! Too late!

This morning, my newspaper writes: "Buildings set ablaze and more than 1,800 arrested as police clash with protesters across France" France, our home for the past twenty five years, is indeed in foment.