31) The removals men arrive

Our stuff from England arrived as a "part load" (it's cheaper that way) on a 16 metre, 24 ton truck.  This presented a bit of a challenge, as there is quite a tight turn from the rather narrow road into our drive.  It looked as though, at one point, we might have to organise a second vehicle to ferry things between the enormous (marooned) truck and our house.  Luckily the driver was quite plucky and, with a certain amount of encouragement, agreed to try my suggested route across the field.  I don't know what a 24 ton, 16 metre long truck costs, but we were all quite relieved to get it to the house without it tipping onto its side, collapsing into a hidden underground limestone crevasse  or even bursting a tyre and simply getting stuck.

Sixteen metres in English is fifty two feet - which is a hell of a long vehicle. The two blokes worked incredibly hard though and, by the end of the afternoon, all our things were safely in the house.

We had no idea how much stuff we had.  What the hell was/is it all??  There was also the problem of how much of it to unpack.

We knew that at some stage (we hope) builders will arrive in force to start knocking down walls, moving staircases and such like.  At that point it would be better to have as much stuff in boxes as possible - indeed, we even may have to move out for a few weeks.  However, if we were to make a claim on the insurance for breakages, it had to be done within two weeks - which meant unpacking everything to check if anything was broken.  It soon became obvious, though, that we were not as good as them at packing.  As we unpacked each box, we found it was quite impossible to get all the contents ( plus packing materials) back into the same box. All our things had been beautifully and carefully packed and there was a real danger that our amateurish interfering was quite like to damage things either now or in the future.

In the end, we decided to leave things alone.  This did present the additional problem of how to find the things we actually needed for now.  It would have been relatively easy IF each box had been marked as to its contents.  Although they are marked, the detail tends to be rather vague - "kitchenware", "books", "attic".  As a consequence, it has been rather pot luck what we have managed to find, and certain key items are still hidden somewhere in boxes (we hope) - such as all my drill bits for instance.  I have all three electric drills, but no bits for them.  We have also been unable to find any side plates (we know the French tend not to use them, but we do).

We are, however, grateful for small mercies and it is, for instance WONDERFUL to have a proper bed again (and pillows not made from a sort of foam rubberised asbestos which heats up your head in the night).

And it's still a great view to wake up to in the mornings..................................

30) A place is found in France!

We have finally moved in.  The acte de vente (the equivalent of completion) was signed a week before, so we had one week to get all the services re-connected, whilst we still had the comparative luxury of living in the gite (hot and cold water, beds, furniture, electricity etc.)  We did pretty well.  The water was turned on, and we arranged for a plombier to re-connect the hot water tank and by-pass the boiler (which doesn't look awfully safe).  EDF turned up on schedule to turn the electricity on, and the same afternoon an electrician came to test it was all (more or less) safe.  Orange even turned up (having rung to say their van had broken down) and we got not only a telephone, but also broadband as well (after we had managed to work out the access codes, which the engineer, who only spoke Occitan, clearly did not have the slightest clue about).

As a result, we felt very pleased with ourselves - for about a day.  Then there was a spectacular storm, which blew the electrics, various taps and joints started to leak, the second loo began oozing something vile from underneath its pedestal, and the water softener, which had sat stagnant for eighteen months, rendered our water non potable.


Luckily we had arranged to have lots of different artisans come round to look at the work that needs doing, and various of them came to our rescue.  Within a few days everything was pretty much sorted, and we are now very happy in our new home (albeit we have no furniture, or indeed anything).  We are off to the UK tomorrow for a couple of weeks, then our things arrive from storage at 8.00am the day after we get back.

There is likely to be yet another lull in the postings while we are away, but in the meantime here are a few photos to illustrate where we have got to.

At the moment we have no furniture so things are a bit bare

Lots of spare bricks have allowed us to construct some temporary  tables

Two foam mattresses on the floor act as a bed (notice the curtain material on the ceiling)

A great view to wake up to in the morning, though

More bricks and an old cupboard door make quite a good dressing table (notice the quiet good taste in wallpaper)

Wildlife seen across the field from our temporary dressing room

As our tools are in store, we have had to do a Heath Robinson  on the post box

Septic tanks are definitely the less romantic aspect of rural France

Our only method of cooking is a barbecue, but what the heck?

I am getting very excited about the prospect of the wood turning out to be rich in  truffles

Although everything's very beautiful, some of the wildlife is very BIG

There are lovely walks all around, and now  the sunflowers have come out

G is very relaxed about our first dinner party (the door has already been laid)

A good time (and an enormous amount of wine) was had by all

Proud owners outside their new home in France - now the work really begins

29) Off the air.....

Soon we will have our own walnuts

Both girls have been out here over the past couple of weeks so posts have taken a back seat.  We have also been busy doing drawings (and French translations) for the artisans, so that we can get updated quotations (devis) for the house renovations.

The land the farmers are deciding not to buy

We also seem to have been lurching from crisis to crisis as we inch slowly towards securing the house.  Solicitors over here (despite the rather grand title of Notaires also cock things up just like they do in the UK).  There is a somewhat bizarre rule in France that, if a property being sold has more than 0.6 hectares (about 1 ½ acres), the local farmer’s union has the right to buy it.  They have to buy the whole property (including the house) at the same price that has already been agreed.  This would make the cost of the land on its own very expensive, so they never do.  But they have two months to decide not to buy it.  During this time the sale cannot go ahead (until the farmers have made up their minds).

The French have the same expression as us - sous la table

The seller’s solicitor, it turns out, forgot to send off the form – for a month.  This means that the earliest we could now move in is 6^th July.  As we have to move out of our gite at the end of June, we may have to sleep in the car for six days.  Could be hot, could be cold, no loos, no shower and potentially very uncomfortable.The good news is that for a “consideration” of around 300 euros the farmers will (surprise surprise) make up their minds not to buy - almost instantly.  We are hoping it will be sorted out soon so we don't have to sleep in the car (see post below), with the errant notaire picking up the bill.

A bat in the cave of the new  house

We are going over to see our friends, the Bats, in the Massif centrale for a couple of days tomorrow.  We then have a sort of outdoor music festival in our local village, being held just below the dongeon (hope there is no sinister relevance).  After that we hope we may sign the acte de vente (completion), and then on the Saturday it is the fête de St Jean. 

As a result, it may be a while before the blog is updated.  There is, though, quite a bit to relate - the idiosyncrasies of British and French banking (and the assumption that everyone is an international criminal laundering money), the French attitude to zebra crossings and, of course, the wonderful phenomenon of village fetes and religious festivals.

28) A French car

Renault Estate partly for disguise, partly for loads of luggage

As part of our efforts to “blend in” we have now bought a French car.  For the past few years I have had German cars - Volkswagens and Audis.  Like any cars, they do occasionally go wrong, but I like the reassuring, understated clunk as you close the door, and the lack of rattling or grinding sounds from the engine or wheels.  It has thus been a bit of a challenge to move to a Renault.  We thought long and hard about the decision but, in the end, we felt if we are going to embrace the life of France, we will have to take the rough with the smooth.   German cars are incredibly expensive both to buy and maintain over here.  We also suspect there might be a slight modicum of resentment against buying a non-French car when Peugeot, Citroen and Renault are so much a part of the French psyche.  And when the car gets old and its warranty has run out, we will want to use a toutes marques garage (they are half the price of the main dealers), and they are bound to know the ins and outs of French cars better.

Our landlord's (fairly typical) French car, showing some of the scratches, dents and holes

It’s difficult to know how long we’ll be able to keep the new car scratch and dent free.  The French seem to regard the body of a car as simply a device for keeping out wind and rain.  It, therefore, doesn’t really matter what shape it is, or whether it’s scratched or not, just as long as it doesn’t leak (too badly).  When we bought the car, part of the deal was that all the minor scratches and dents would be fixed (there were just four, as it was only a year old).  When we came to pick it up there was one they had forgotten to do (though it did seem to be in a slightly different place).  They didn’t make a fuss, and what we both realised, but didn’t say was that, actually, this one was an additional scrape that had been picked up in the garage itself while the others were being fixed.

We are, of course, quite used to driving in France now, but there are still a few little oddities we have yet to learn about.  You have to carry with you in the car the insurance certificate and the carte grise (which oddly is not actually grey, but more a kind of orange).  You are not supposed to leave them in the car on the basis that, if the car gets stolen and then stopped by the police, the thief cannot produce the right documents.  However, until you get used to all the chopping and changing there is a very good chance they will be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or simply get lost altogether.

(Semi) pedestrianised main shopping street in Montauban

While our new (second hand) car was having the additional scratch taken out, we were given a replacement with a full tank of fuel (usually courtesy cars have the flashing light on, and an annoying bleep telling you you are about to run out of fuel).  We, therefore, decided to go for an extended drive down to Montauban, a largish town about 40 miles away that we hadn’t yet been to  .It was a lovely drive but once we arrived it was all one way streets and we couldn’t find anywhere to park.  We thus drove round and round getting more and more lost, and more and more agitated (I thought I was staying quite calm, but not everybody agreed).

A French police car, just like the one that nearly hit us

Suddenly, as we were driving down what I regarded as a fairly main street, a maniac in a blue and white car shot straight out in front of us from a side street to our right.  With great dexterity and skill, I managed to swerve round him, thus avoiding what would otherwise have been an expensive collision (in our borrowed car, for which, incidentally, we had none of the requisite papers).

Unfortunately, the said maniac turned out to be a policeman.  Instead of congratulating me on my driving skills which had saved an expensive claim on his precious car and mine (or at least the garage’s), he turned on his flashing blue light and siren, and started chasing me down the street.  I was already lost, and couldn’t find anywhere to park, so this was really the last straw.

I was anxious not to stop too suddenly and cause an accident

The next problem was that I then couldn’t find anywhere to stop.  For a few seconds ("which seemed like an eternity..."), I agonised over whether I should stop immediately in the middle of the road and almost certainly cause an accident, or keep going until I found somewhere safer to stop and risk the crazy policeman thinking I was trying to outrun him (which might mean he would start shooting).

I found somewhere safe to stop and he stopped alongside me in the middle of the road.  He wound down his window and started shouting something about Respectez la priorité.  I in turn, started babbling all the words for apology I could muster in French (looking as meek and contrite as possible).  They soon realised (though I’m not quite sure how, given our disguise of the French car) that we were English.  His female colleague obviously thought the whole episode was hilarious, and soon he saw the funny side too, and off he drove with both hands off the wheel in a classic Gallic shrug (Bah!).

I am sure that we really did have priority on that occasion, but you don’t argue with police carrying guns.  Perhaps he was saying that POLICE had priority (however badly or dangerously they may be driving).  As it turned out we had stopped right next to the only parking space in Montauban, so he’d actually done me a favour after all.

Cleverly marked cycle lane in Cahors

We are also somewhat bemused by the proliferation of cycle lanes in France.  You find them not only in the towns, but even in all-but deserted bits of road, miles from anywhere in the countryside.  The odd thing is that no one seems to cycle anywhere, at least not in this part of France.  This could be because all the cyclists have been killed off by their fellow countrymen who drive cars, or perhaps it’s simply too hilly.  You see lots of would-be Tour de France types in multi-coloured lycra, but they always travel in packs.  Presumably this is on the basis that if they are mown down by a car, at least one of them is likely to survive to sue the driver and get compensation for the widows (they are always packs of men).

Someone with very little regard for his life

Quite near to where we are staying we did spot one brave soul using the cycle lane (without a helmet I might add).  We assume he was foreign (that is to say, not French), and most probably English.  In fact, when I looked at the photograph later (which we took on the move), it seemed to look very like Vince Cable.  He has obviously had a hard time of late, what with having to chummy up to the Tories (who he obviously doesn’t like much) and getting trounced on the PR, AV (or whatever it was) referendum.  As a result, he may not be too concerned with survival, and this may explain the extraordinary risk he is taking.  The lack of crash helmet may even be a typical Vince well-thought-through-stratagem.  If he gets hit by a car, even by a Renault or a Citroen, he is likely to be severely maimed.  But without a crash helmet, he will probably be killed.  No more Cameron, no more Clegg, no more lying about policies he doesn’t believe in.  No more misery.

27) Spring and Summer arrive all at once

White Campion

Spring and summer seem to have arrived all at once in the Quecy Blanc.  The swallows arrived on 7^th April, the swifts arrived on the 6^th May and, as in the rhyme, the cuckoos are singing all day (they have been throughout April).  Yesterday we saw (almost ran over) a red squirrel, the day before we saw (almost ran over) a hoopoe, and each night after dark we listen to the nightingales singing to each other across the valley.  We have also seen what we think might be an eagle.  There are lots of buzzards and kites soaring on the thermals over the valley, but this is bigger (and more eagle-like).

Oak tress (Latin name Quercus) across the valley from our gite balcony

I gather the weather in England has been very hot during April, and it has been the same here.  As it is our first year in France, we are not sure what to expect or what is normal.  One thing that did astound us, though, was the way the oak trees came into leaf, all at once, on the same day - the 11^th of April.  It is very chalky here, and everywhere there are wild oak trees (hence the name Quercy Blanc).  We sat and had breakfast on our balcony in the morning and, by the evening we noticed all the trees had come into leaf.  The whole landscape thus changed overnight (overday?).

Vines in the field next to the gite

The other change to the landscape is the vineyards.  Gnarled and brown when we arrived, they are now turning a lush green as their runners shoot out along the vine wires.  There is lots of activity in the vineyards, with the most extraordinary machines trundling precariously over the vines, as their guardians shower them in a fine dust of noxious chemicals to keep at bay the bugs and beasties that could damage the precious crop. 

Cahors wine is somewhat of an acquired taste.  It is very dark (it is known as the black wine), and tends to be quite strong and heavy.  Peter the Great of Russia apparently once declared that the official communion wine should be Cahors wine.  Apparently this was because it travelled well (presumably because no bacteria could survive in it – God knows what it’s doing to our stomachs).  The best of it is very good, but quite expensive.  We have, however, found some very drinkable local wine in the markets, which you can buy direct from the producers for around £4 a bottle (and, of course, you can buy it en vrac at around 1.50 euros a litre).  In due course, we will travel round the vineyards themselves on a serious wine tasting exercise to discover where it’s best to buy.

This chalky area is also wonderful for wild flowers.  They are everywhere, and there are so many different varieties.  April and May must be two of the best months to be here, and yet no one seems to arrive until the summer holidays, when so much of the best will be over.

Aptly named Bee orchid

Another type of orchid

I didn’t have to worry too much about the orchids being cut by the chap who mowed the lawn at our new house, as they too are all over the place.  So far we have found at least nine different varieties, and several plants we have spotted have not yet come into flower.

Butterfly on lilac at the new house

A rather beautiful lace winged butterfly seen on a walk near our gite

We have also seen some amazingly beautiful butterflies, and the other day an enormous moth turned up on the doorstep. 

An enormous moth

Underside of the moth with 50 pence piece (unfortunately it died)

The down side to all things that fly about and buzz, is that they are not all as welcome as butterflies.  There are also some enormous hairy black things which buzz slowly about at high volume, and one of the giters the other day said they had seen a hornet (gulp – I am neurotic about wasps, let alone monster versions with a reputation for violence).

A rather blurry picture taken with a hand shivering with fear of an imminent strike

On a walk in the delightful village of St Vincent, G and I were watching the fish in a crystal clear stream when slowly (and rather menacingly) a small pointed head emerged from the weeds, followed by the beautifully (but chillingly) marked long lithe body of une vipère.  Luckily, (and I really do want to believe this) things such as adders and hornets are not much interested in humans and, in fact, are rather scared of them (the feeling is mutual).  In the grand scheme of things, French drivers (or for that matter, English drivers) are undoubtedly far more of a potential threat, and certainly they are far more dangerous.

Lauzertes market where we bought strawberries

With the advent of summer, the markets have expanded, as has the range of produce for sale.  Strawberries are out in abundance, and they actually taste of strawberries.  This area is renowned for melons too, but the local ones don’t seem to be in the markets just yet.

A rather shady character in Monsempron Libos market

Monsempron Libos market on a Thursday was a real discovery, the biggest we’ve yet found.  Here they had stalls (several) just selling asparagus, and on Sunday we bought some white asparagus for the first time at our local market of Montcuq – what a treat (and virtually no calories).

26) Post script to the Royal Wedding

In the end we couldn’t avoid watching the wedding as it seemed to be on all the UK channels at the same time, all of the time.  I must say, I thought William and Kate (whom I don’t really know, but everyone seems to call them by their christian names) did very well.  The thought of being on close up cameras, being watched by a billion people is enough to make anyone freak out (particularly if you knew lip-readers had been employed to check out anything you may say out of earshot).  What happens if you suddenly need a pee (or worse)?  Perhaps the geeks at Porton Down came up with some sort of imodium for bladders?  Or perhaps there was a stand in Kate-look-alike actress that took the part in the Abbey?

Kate’s sister looked very pretty, but they had wrecked her hair from when we saw her arriving at the hotel. Perhaps they did this so she didn’t outshine Kate (or the stand in actress) on the important day.

I thought the trees in the Abbey looked crap.  Whose idea was that?  I heard one reporter saying it brought a modern touch to the event.  It didn’t.  It just looked crap.  Gothic cathedrals are wonderful.  They can also look great with modern art in them ( Henry Moore in Salisbury, Sutherland in Chichester, or the Gormley in the crypt at Winchester), but trees just don’t work, they simply look crap.

I did feel a bit sorry for the RAF, though, with William choosing to wear an army colonel’s uniform.  Admittedly, it was a very striking red colour, and had much more pizazz than the T Mobile Utube version, which had William in RAF garb.  Then to add insult to injury, he had sown his RAF wings onto a sash.

I think there ought to be a sort of Royal uniform, which doesn’t have a connection to any of the forces.  Something perhaps like that of Black Rod, but with the addition of a crown.  Why no crowns?  Kate, who wasn’t even Royal until the “I do” bit had a tiara, but no crown for the Queen and not for the Prince either.  Shame.

Coverage in France built up to a bit of a crescendo on the actual day, but they dropped the story like a pomme de terre chaude the day after.  Back to normal now, with not much news about England (I think the recent election was just far too muddling for them).  Of course, the most famous Englishman over here is Arsen Wenger.