TWO loaves of bread, a lettuce, two brioches, one pat of butter, two bottles of milk, some soup, cheese, biscuits, a bar of chocolate, eggs, loo roll . . . Francis Lalane is reading out his shopping list. It’s 11am and the small supermarket in the centre of Landais, a village in Dax in southwest France, is in the thick of the pre-lunch rush. Locals are arriving two by two, collecting a little red trolley from the porch and making their way at a sedate pace around the shop.
“We take it in turns to do the shopping,” says Francis, heading confidently for the fridge, his neighbour, Véronique, in tow. “You see – we have our trolley, our list, et voilà.”
Sunlight streams in from the square outside. The village is peaceful, save for the sound of singing coming from the restaurant next door, and the gentle bustle in the shop. The shelves are stocked with all the usual essentials and little luxuries, from crates of apples to a small fridge boasting some nice cheese and pots of crème caramel. A blackboard on the wall announces there are brownies available today should anyone be inclined to pick up an afternoon treat; stock cubes, prunes and kitchen sponges are on order, arriving next week.
It’s the kind of scene that plays out every day in villages all over France. But look a little closer and you’ll notice some crucial differences. No money is changing hands, no one is in a rush to get their shopping done before a meeting, or fitting in a chore before children need picking up from school
