FRANCE’S WAR ON TERROR, AS SEEN FROM LANGUEDOC:

A village friend, an upstanding citizen and vigneron who has carried a tiny utility knife in his pocket since God’s dog was a puppy, had it taken off him the other day by the police, who have charged him with carrying a weapon under the state of emergency. This is the same minuscule knife carried by everyone who works with wines and vines. It’s about as lethal as a biro pen.

And what are we supposed to do about the terrorists? Throw a croissant at them? . . .

Here in my corner of France, we’re still a long way from sauve qui peut (a beautiful French expression, roughly translatable as “every man for himself, “or perhaps more colloquially, channeling Dad’s Army’s Private James Frazer, “we’re doomed.”). The prime topic of conversation is instead the expectation of a much smaller harvest of grapes than usual, with less juice, as a consequence of no rain.

But there are some exceptions. There was an angry man at our table at the village fête. ‘The Muslims, they should get out,” he said, over and over again, jabbing his thumb in the vague direction of the Mediterranean. “Out,” he repeated: (Dehors !) Nobody was paying much attention to him.

Well, yet.