fencing in Paris

I was walking by the Seine when I saw them - children in masks and tabards practising l'escrime. I think it was a first attempt for them. The instructors explained the rules, made sure the kits fitted, furnished the children with soft swords and set them off.

Worried that my interest would be misinterpreted, I explained that I fenced at home and added, wistfully, that I wished I could join in. The instructor sympathised and said that, if I found another adult, I too could fence.

It would have been good to fence in Paris by the Seine, even with a play-sword, but I was walking alone and wasn't sure of the etiquette for challenging a stranger to a duel. (I also feared I might do rather badly.) So after watching some more, I headed off, walking almost the full length of Paris Plage - the summer beach that closes a main road in Paris so that Parisiens can exercise or bask in the sun.

It was my second day in Paris. The night before I'd visited the Comedie Francaise to see their production of Cyrano de Bergerac. I'd been rereading the play in French since I boarded the Eurostar and was glad I'd done so - I can read French fairly easily but was out of practice at dealing with the speed of the spoken language.

I've seen Cyrano on stage before, notably with Derek Jacobi and Sinead Cusack, as well as seeing the film with Gerard Depardieu. But this production was different. The British productions I've seen have worked to establish the 17th century detail and have tried to create an entirely realistic setting, even though the play is - I hate to admit it - not entirely plausible and the characters speak in verse. I'd expected something similar at the Comedie Francaise, which used to have a reputation as a guardian of tradition - or, to put it another way, as a producer of staidly conventional productions. The photos outside warned me to expect something different. Some of the characters seemed to be wearing top hats and surely Roxane was flying ...

Of course, the French have a greater familiarity with Cyrano and other French classics than the British do and I imagine the play is performed much more frequently in France. Directors and companies are bound to discover new ways of presenting it, just as British (and other) directors explore Shakespeare in different ways. At first it was strange to see Cyrano at the theatre encountering 19th century gentlemen, but it connected the play to the time of its author, Edmond Rostand. The production explored layers in the play, showing stage pictures which presented the emotion of the characters, so that Roxane really did fly when listening to Cyrano's words on her balcony. The buildings retreated and she hovered ecstatically in mid-air. (Later she flew in a more familiar sense, arriving at the siege with Ragueneau in a primitive flying machine.)

There's one scene in Cyrano which I've never really enjoyed before - the scene in which Cyrano converses with de Guiche about the moon so as to delay him while Roxane marries Christian. But in this production, Michel Vuillermoz as Cyrano was enthralling in his comic techniques, which seemed to draw on traditions going back to commedia dell'arte. The production as a whole made more of the comic elements than I expected. It was moving too - and for the first time I really felt for Christian, in love with Roxane and frustrated by his lack of eloquence.

While in most production Cyrano has been handsome apart from his long nose, at the Comedie Francaise, the contrast between Cyrano and Francoise Gillard's Roxane was so clear that his love for her really did seem hopeless from the start. The miracle was her final realisation that she had loved Cyrano for his language.

But even so, as he dies, Cyrano sees himself only as what he lacks - the genius of Molière and the beauty of Christian: "Molière a du génie et Christian était beau!" In his final line, Cyrano links himself only to the white plume of the Gascony cadets - his panache.

I'd have liked more on-stage fencing, of course, but that's almost always the case. It was a wonderful evening and I'll try to write more about it elsewhere, when I have time.

new bruises

"It doesn't hurt, does it?"

I've lost count of the number of times non-fencers have posed that question. The majority of people seem to assume that hitting being hit with a sword doesn't hurt because the point is covered - and fencing clothing provides 100% protection. They're a bit shocked when they see the bruises.

Most sports hurt. Just watch runners' faces when they're doing the London Marathon. Even the gentlest sports involve aching limbs while muscle-damage is a frequent problem. Years ago, my daughter lost the use of her right arm for weeks after a teacher urged her to try harder at the shot-putt. (She was 12 and small for her age with no idea of the technique required.) I experienced hockey at school and would say that fencing is less dangerous. My best technique at hockey involved lurking in the pavilion to avoid being hurt - or volunteering as a back on the strongest side. I've been hit by a hockey ball and that was far worse than any fencing injury. Friends and colleagues who go to the gym return worn out and often gasping for a drink.

I suppose what alarms people is the idea that fencers set out to damage each other - that we see bodies in terms of target areas.







But no good fencer sets out to damage or wound an opponent. The aim is to land a secure hit, with just the right degree of force, attaching the blade - although sabres are different because they employ a slashing movement which cuts, usually lightly, to the head or torso. Sometimes I don't even feel the hit scored against me - but that's usually when my opponent is an expert using minimal force and maximum accuracy to score the point.

Bruises happen when a fencer uses too much force or when a fencer moves toward the attack, often to launch her/his own attack. Because of the number of hits in an evening's fencing, bruises are an inevitable result. Sabreurs display red slash-marks on their arms, foilists have small, circular dots while epeeists have larger, darker bruises because of the greater weight of the weapon and the greater force required to score a hit. Often I have a bruised area - usually on my right upper arm - where I've been hit repeatedly. This should tell me about problems I'm having with my guard.

It's quite possible that I cause worse bruises than I receive because I'm a less-practised fencer than most of my opponents and weaker at blade control. Although I'm often advised to be more aggressive, I sometimes move in too fiercely in an effort to attach the point. My opponents are almost always polite and say "sorry" if they think they've hit too hard.

This week I have a blue-purple splodge on my arm just below last week's yellow-green. As summer has arrived, I may have to explain the bruises.

My fitness and fencing are recovering slowly, though I was no match for the chef, who has returned after a couple of weeks' absence. "I'm not fit," she assured me, moving easily through footwork practice, and showing off the depth of her lunge. (The dancer has a brilliant lunge - the lowest I've ever seen. He was showing it off before sabre practice. Sadly he's deserted the epeeists for a couple of weeks, just because he wants to prepare for a competition.) Of course, it took me a while to land a single hit on her and, when I did, most of them were doubles.

Still, I fenced, I managed some hits and one or two of them pleased me. Between bouts, the chef told us of her planned move to Paris in the autumn - where else would chefs go? I offered her a job swap. I'd have liked to work near the Isle de St. Louis. But negotiations broke down. I was prepared for a salary swap, so long as I kept the cat and she looked after and maintained the teenagers. For some reason, she didn't think this a good deal. So I shall continue fencing in England while the chef will be cooking - and, I hope, fencing - in France.

She came to watch me getting on my bike with sword-bag, rucksack, handbag and water bottle. "You need a mounting block," she remarked. "A girl's bike would be easier." But I love my sturdy bike despite its cross-bar. It cost me £45 in a second-hand bike shop some years ago and was one of the best purchases I ever made. Somehow I managed to mount the bike without a block, at which point the chef noted that I'd forgotten to turn on my rear light. She turned it on for me. Then she said, "If I were your children, I wouldn't let you ride like that."

I said goodbye, wobbled a little, and cycled off into the night.

steaming on

The rain continues. Being British, we all talk about the weather in a "mustn't grumble" sort of way, reminding one another that the crops need it. But nostalgic memories of April sun creep in.

I'm writing this while the adrenalin works as pain relief. I just noticed that one of the hits to my right arm drew blood - just where they apply the needle at the blood donor clinic. It's going to be bruised too and I suspect it will start hurting badly in half an hour or so As I enjoyed all my bouts, it was worth it.

The hall was packed and several epeeists had returned after absence. One had been in Paris at the same time as me. She'd been in the Place de la Bastille on election night, even though she knew Segolene Royal was unlikely to be celebrating there. "Did you burn any cars?" I asked eagerly, having heard about the disturbances. But she hadn't. There was just a fairly tame demonstration in French terms - perhaps with a couple of fireworks - until the police started throwing tear-gas at everyone.

We discussed the elections during footwork - annoying, I expect, but it was a while since we'd seen each other. It wasn't good for our footwork either - we kept forgetting which lowered arm called on us to lunge and which to step-lunge. But then I succumbed to foil and, after that, quite a lot of epee.

I wasn't particularly good or strategic, though every so often there was a hit that pleased me. But I enjoyed it a great deal. The evening ended with a steam bout (which we decided half way through should go to 20, since there seemed enough time). Epee is the easiest weapon to ref on electric and the hardest on steam. Refs have to be persuaded and cajoled into giving it a go. "Please ref for us ... we'll make it easy for you."

"Could you please hit each other on the side nearest me?" our ref pleaded, as we turned to her for a decision. "I can't see if a hit lands."

Then, "Do you think he hit you before you hit him?"

Later I pointed out that she'd missed my hit ... possibly. "But he's more likely to get a hit than you," she explained, "so if I watch for his hits I've got more chance of seeing them"

"That's not fair," I complained. "I'm not so good as him so I need the extra points. Look for my hits and don't worry about his."

By this time we were both giggling so my opponent offered his help. "Why don't you give her one hit for every four you give me? That would be about right."

I'm not sure about the scoring - none of us was - but 4 to 1 overstated it. My opponent won 20-9 which seemed about right.

soggy shoes and suicidal snails

At the weekend I had two days with friends in Paris. I've been blogging about that elsewhere but there wasn't any fencing involved, although I did think the Place des Vosges looked like the sort of place where d'Artagnan and friends might hang out. It was sunny in Paris.



Back in England, everything is busy at work and it's raining. After the extravagance of Paris I couldn't justify the cab fare - I grew up reading Noel Streatfield's wonderful book Ballet Shoes, in which the splendidly independent and economical Fossil girls were brought up to "save the penny and walk" rather than taking the bus. So I set out to walk the mile and a half to fencing.

Before you get worried, I did make sure I could keep the swords dry. My feet were another matter. I could hardly wear the smart work shoes I need tomorrow, my walking boots take half an hour to lace and sandals or plimsoles are simply stupid in the rain. That left the cheap trainers with holes in. I squelched all the way there, with my kit stuffed into a back-pack, doing little jumps to avoid the snails on the pavement. The chief occupations of British snails seem to be sliding on pavements in the rain, being crunched into slimy, crackling messes and eating one another. French snails have a more interesting life according to Microcosmos but I suppose lots of them end up on a dinner plate.

I don't suppose I avoided all the snails but I did enjoy the wonderful smell of wet hawthorn. It's in full blossom just now - deep white or intensely red - and it's always been my favourite.

However the walk into the leisure centre across the hall was less happy. I left a damp trail - luckily the health and safety people weren't watching. Then I slipped out of the soaking trainers, revealing sodden fencing socks. Saving time by changing socks at home is not always a good idea. At least I hadn't tried to walk in full fencing kit.

The fencing was much as usual in that some things worked, some didn't. I was a little more successful that I'd expected and thought I was planning more (sometimes) and thinking more strategically. Unfortunately thinking strategically didn't always coincide with good hits. But I felt just a little fitter and faster than in previous weeks - probably the Paris effect.

And I got a lift home!