I went to a market recently in the Cévennes, in southern France. It was piled high with things that in principle I’m interested in, but wouldn’t want to own – giant Victorian scissors, tomatoes in the shape of a heart, 70s airline trays, carafe after carafe for the distribution of Ricard, art deco atomisers and vintage cycling tops.
It wasn’t purpose-built entertainment for the wide array of family preferences. My brother has an attention span – he can lose an hour talking about a cheese cloche and he doesn’t even speak French – and I do not. My sister likes to amass giant volumes of fonts that may be ancient, but are also available on a computer; my brother-in-law does not. My niece likes to pick up every single thing and put it back down again; my other niece does not. We were reconciled to conducting most of the expedition solo, so I was already on my own when I walked in and met a pig.
It was black, about the size of a short-legged pug; when you scratched it, it lay on its side and snorted with joy. It belonged to a woman selling sweets to raise money for an animal shelter. After I’d stayed as long as I could politely for only €7-worth of lavender pastilles, I moved on, texting my sister: “THERE’S A PIG THERE’S A PIG.” I sent her the location, then went to look at some candlesticks and two stallholders having a fight, before hurrying back to make sure my sister didn’t miss the pig. I found her surreptitiously giving it a kiss.
I deployed enough of my meagre French to make out the shelter lady saying: “The pig is not for sale,” and saw my niece buying some lemon-and-honey sweets. The 5G coverage was patchy in this mountainous region, so I had to choose whether to send a picture to my daughter, who wasn’t with us, or Google: “Do teacup pigs make good pets?”
The answer is no, terrible pets, for reasons that you can find on Reddit if you have an entire day. Absolutely first-class sightseeing, though – no notes.
• Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist
