Funerals in rural France are a decidedly different affair

We never really knew the old lady who lived in the house behind ours. We used to see her being taken out in a taxi in the afternoon, and occasionally we would wave to her through her window.

It was important to us to go to her funeral, because we felt we had a link.

Her late husband was once the tenant farmer in our hamlet, and they had lived in the farmhouse that is now ours.

Her son, who also lives next door, was born in one of our bedrooms. Her grandson, who cuts our grass when we are not here, and her great-granddaughter live there too.

Claudette (not her real name) must have seen extraordinary changes in French rural life in her 94 years, not least the arrival of a British family who built a swimming pool on the site of her old pig sties.

Her family assured us we would be welcome, but we had never been to a French funeral before.

Our only previous experience was the cremation of a British friend in Cannes, but there is no crematorium near our rural home.

This was going to be a traditional village affair: church, followed by the local cemetery.

Our first surprise was how quickly the ceremony was arranged: Claudette died on a Sunday night, and her funeral was arranged for the following Friday morning.

The other surprise was how French mourners dress. Some had made an effort, but there were elderly men in jeans and one younger man was in shorts.

Claudette’s son and daughter-in-law, leading the mourners, both wore bright blue short-sleeved shirts. Her grandson had had a haircut but was still in trainers.

Some were in black, but they were mainly the younger ones, leaving us wondering if they had been influenced by TV and movies from abroad.

Everyone waited outside the 12th-Century church for the 10.30am start. The bell began to toll, and some mourners crossed themselves as four undertakers carried the coffin into the churchyard.

Family members accompanied the coffin into the church, followed by the rest of us.

In the 13 years we have owned our house, this was the first time we had been inside. It is an unspoilt gem.

Our next surprise was that the service was conducted by two women – one a cousin, the other a friend of the family – both wearing short grey stoles around their necks [editor’s note: a funeral service is not considered a sacrament, requiring a priest].

We had expected a priest, but they are in short supply these days. Our ‘local’ priest is apparently débordé (overwhelmed), with more than 25 churches in his care.

One of the women began with a brief account of Claudette’s life and, as she did so, people were still arriving and finding their way to seats.

Others continued to chat – funerals are an opportunity for a get-together.

Without a priest, this was not going to be a funeral mass, but it was still a Catholic service.

The family stepped up to place candles on the coffin, and the congregation was invited to file around it, some choosing to shake holy water over it in the sign of the cross.

After the Lord’s Prayer, the undertakers returned to remove the flowers then carry the coffin out of the church. It was just half an hour since we had all gone in.

Everyone lined up for a procession to the cemetery behind the hearse – a black van. It was a further opportunity for a chat with old friends, and for some to have a smoke.

At the cemetery we gathered round the family tomb, where Claudette was to join her husband, interred there 11 years ago. The marble lid had been removed, revealing a plain concrete interior.

The female undertaker spoke a few words, then switched on a loudspeaker with a USB stick in it.

This was another surprise: soft, romantic music began playing, then we heard Claudette’s voice. She told us she had enjoyed a life surrounded by family and love – and closed by reminding us not to shed tears, but to rejoice in life.

We processed round the coffin again, and this time shook hands with or kissed members of the family.

Then the four male undertakers lowered the coffin into the tomb with ropes. There were now two coffins in that concrete box, though the older one was shrouded in bubble wrap.

The whole funeral had taken exactly one hour. There was no general invitation to join the family for food or drink afterwards though a number of cars passed our house later heading for Claudette’s house; presumably family and close friends.

It had been an interesting experience for us and we felt we had integrated ourselves a little bit more into the community.

It was also a chance to speak to the ‘lady of the manor’, down from Paris, who once owned our house and still has a little château and much of the land we see from our window.

Was it a typical French village funeral? We have no way of knowing, but if you get a chance to go to one, don’t be afraid to take the opportunity.

Have you had any experience of French funerals? Let us know at news@connexionfrance.com.