The French cherish many things—long lunches, fine wine, and a passionate argument over politics, but nothing strikes more deeply at the heart of the national soul than the public holiday.
So when Prime Minister François Bayrou announced a plan to scrap two of France’s beloved jours fériés in a bid to rein in the country’s finances, it was less a policy proposal and more a declaration of cultural war.
Delivered with the polished detachment of a Macron protégé, Bayrou’s announcement came cloaked in the language of economic necessity. France’s debt has soared to 112% of GDP. The deficit is heading for 6%, twice the EU limit.
“This isn’t about abandoning our traditions,” Bayrou assured the nation. “It’s about securing our future.” But the country isn’t buying it. In cafés and town halls from Paris to Provence, the reaction was swift, and furious.
Though he declined to name which holidays are on the chopping block, sources suggest lesser-known religious holidays—perhaps Whit Monday or Assumption Day—could be sacrificed. That, in theory, would spare national staples like Bastille Day or Armistice Day. But even hinting at cutting any of France’s 11 official holidays is like threatening to dilute the wine.
Public holidays here are not idle luxuries. They are a thread in the French national tapestry, woven from centuries of Catholic ritual, republican defiance, and a love of repose. Whit Monday may not stir the blood like July 14, but for many rural communities, it marks local markets, church gatherings, and family meals. Remove it, and you remove a rhythm of life.
The government’s economic case isn’t baseless. Analysts at Institut Montaigne say each holiday costs the economy around €2.5 billion in lost productivity. Multiply that by two, and the numbers begin to look tempting to a treasury under siege. With Brussels pressing for fiscal discipline and Macron’s centrist bloc weakened in the National Assembly, Bayrou likely hoped this would be seen as a bold stroke—a signal of responsibility.
What he got instead was a populist backlash. Trade unions instantly condemned the move, warning of strikes. Outside the National Assembly, banners went up. On social media, guillotines were Photoshopped onto calendars. Satirical or not, the symbolism was potent. The last time French elites tried to tinker with the calendar, Robespierre was involved.
And it’s not just politicians stirring the pot. Across the country, ordinary citizens bristle at the suggestion that their hard-won rest days are expendable. “They want to cut our holidays? Let them try,” said one Parisian waiter, mid-pour. “We’ve marched for less.”
Behind the uproar lies something deeper: a growing unease with a government seen as increasingly technocratic and disconnected. Macron’s years in office have been marked by reforms that, while arguably necessary, often land like thunderbolts—fuel tax rises, pension age increases, now this. Bayrou’s calm delivery masks the volatility of a country never far from upheaval.
There is, of course, a broader European backdrop. France is not alone in its budgetary pain. Germany is trimming welfare, Italy is eyeing tax increases. The post-Covid economic hangover, energy instability, and tightening EU fiscal rules are squeezing every government. But only in France could a debate over bank holidays ignite such existential angst.
Unlike in Britain—where workers make do with a measly eight bank holidays and grumble politely about it—France elevates leisure to a principle of civilisation. Where else would a holiday falling on a Tuesday prompt an entire nation to “make the bridge” and take Monday off too? (Belgium! – ed)
Bayrou’s proposal must now make its way through a hostile National Assembly, where Macron’s coalition lacks a majority. “Consultations” with unions and employers are promised, though few expect real compromise. More likely, the government will try to quietly retreat or water down the plan, hoping the summer heat dulls public rage.
But that’s a risky bet. Macron’s team can ill afford to alienate voters already tired of austerity. In a country where political identity is forged on the picket line as much as at the ballot box, holidays are more than perks—they’re symbols of dignity.
The government insists this is a rational response to hard numbers. Perhaps it is. But in France, reason rarely trumps sentiment, and sentiment is currently with the people clutching their calendars like family heirlooms.
Bayrou may win the argument on spreadsheets. But in the boulevards and bakeries of France, he’s already lost the room.
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