33) Nature in the raw

A rather large but beautiful spider's web in the woods

We seem to have found ourselves rather (too) close to nature in recent days.  It certainly is quite out in the wilds here and we hear all sorts of strange noises around us - the barking of deer, the calling of buzzards, not to mention things buzzing about or hopping through the grass.

I try to take my camera with me as much as possible, but the other day on our way to our local market I forgot it.  As soon as we realised this, we said it'll be sod's law that we are bound to see something amazing.  Sure enough, on our way back, an enormous buzzard flew just yards (metres) from the car windscreen with a writhing foot (30cm) long snake in it's beak.  It was amazing.  The snake, we have convinced ourselves, was merely a grass snake - and thus perfectly harmless.

A picture is worth a thousand words.  How true (see side of van)

The other day there was great excitement, as I had finally got hold of the correct number for Mr Delsol, the assassin of guepes, frelons and all creatures great and small most of us wish the good Lord had not made at all (as can be seen from the rather terrifying, oversized image on the side of Mr Delsol's white van).

Our hornet's nest (taken on full telephoto - very quietly)

We discovered what I thought was a wasp's nest under the bolet (outside steps) leading up to the front door of the little house.  However, our fount-of-all-knowledge neighbour pointed out that, in fact, it was a hornet's nest (eeeeeeeeeeeek).  Our neighbour turned out to be something of a world expert on the subject of hornets (frelons), and he assured us that not only was it a hornet's nest, but they were Asian hornets (this was said with great gravitas and foreboding, and was enough to cause panic in even the bravest soul, let alone someone terrified of any live wasp in close proximity.  He informed me that they were tres dangereux and that if you went within ten metres of their nest they would surely attaque.  He cautioned me et Madame King to take extreme care.  Gulp.... Luckily,  our neighbour knew a man who could deal with them, and he gave me his number.  Unfortunately, in my state of heightened distress, I took down the wrong number.  I rang but there was no reply.  I left a rather garbled message in confused French saying something about a problem with un nid de frelons and I thought that the frelons were quite possibly Asiatique.  

There is great significance in the Asiatique bit because, apparently these little (actually rather big) devils landed in France (I think in Bordeaux) in some sort of boat and have, ever since, been preying on innocent beehives and causing untold havoc amongst the indigenous bee population.

Our friendly hornet killer kitted out for battle

It was thus my patriotic duty to call in an assassin to deal with this nest of predatory (and, according to our neighbour, pathologically crazed) creatures.  I tried the number again and got some bemused woman who asked if I was the Monsieur who had left a message about the hornet's nest.  Oui, oui, bien sur I said, greatly encouraged that she had got my message (though slightly surprised - I don't know why - to hear a female voice).  You have obviously have the wrong number she then said.  Merde!, I said to myself, and I apologized to the rather amused lady on the other end of the phone, who obviously did not fully understand the seriousness of the situation.

Having gone back to the neighbour (who had yet more horrifying tales to tell about the dreaded frelons), I now had the right number and, within about half an hour, Monsieur Delsol the exterminator, had arrived, complete with ubiquitous white van, an interesting array of death chemicals and (the very necessary) protective clothing.

It was all over in a few seconds.  First he punctured a hold in the nest, then in went the powder.  He assured me they would all be dead within three days.  I asked him if he could possibly come back to check.  He said that really wasn't necessary, but after I had pressed the point , he agreed.

Ominous tracks in the dust

We had also been wondering for some time what sort of creature (if any) lived down the quite large hole in the barn floor.  And I noticed the other day there were tracks leading to it.  I was having a coffee on the terrace outside the other night and I heard rustling in the undergrowth on the side of the hill.  It was obviously a creature of some size and at first I thought it might be a dog.  Then I saw it, bold as brass loloping across the lawn - it was a polecat.  Apparently, these rather beautiful creatures are now quite rare, so we are very lucky to have one, apparently living in our barn (though G is less than thrilled by the idea - rather like les frelons, les putois can be quite vicious too if they feel threatened.

A European Polecat (not my picture - it was too dark and he/she was too quick)

It turned out that the hornet assassin was also an expert on les putois.  Rather resignedly, he told me he was unable to kill it (I hadn't actually asked him to but I fear this assumption has something to do with his job) because in France they were protected (they must be about the only animal that is).  He assured me, however, that they didn't like humans - their smell (he added rather pointedly).  Probably it had moved in when the house was unoccupied, and the chances were that it would move out of its own accord, now there was the smell of humans around.  Otherwise it might move to the attic once the weather got colder, and here it would be real nuisance, nibbling away at things, making noises in the middle of the night, and to cap it all they themselves smell terrible.  We have decided to not wash for a month and keep our fingers crossed.

32) The silly season

Summer might be thought of as the time for tourists, but in this part of France it is the village fêtes that hold far more importance.  However small the community, each seems to put on some sort of do.  Clearly (as will be seen later) health and safety concerns have not yet smothered local enthusiasm  and, generally speaking, they are rather a hoot.  They often involve dancing, and are a chance for the local lotharios  to show off their skills (taken very seriously), and perhaps start a new illicit relationship (see photo above).

They are also a chance for people en masse (mainly women) to make complete arses of themselves in a spirit of group delusionism (perhaps partially brought on by the consumption of large amounts of cheap/free red wine).

The food, though, is often very good.  This Paella (now adopted as one of France's national dishes) was delicious - and there was lots of it. The ticket price varies from about 6 to 15 euros and always includes three courses, as much wine as you like and, of course, whatever "entertainment" is on offer.

Very relaxed, very friendly, and a good time had by all (or most, depending if you were hoping to get lucky or not).

This was a kind of music festival held at the bottom  of the spectacular "donjon" at Montcuq.  As far as we could tell, anyone with any pretensions at all with regard to singing was able to get up and have a go.  There was a group of worthy middle aged folk, more reminiscent of a bridge club, who sang a medley of Occitan songs, a number of aging ex-rock musicians, a few karaoke hopefuls, as well as lots of children, both individually and in groups.

Amongst the local school choir, there were some excellent singers.  It was just a pity the teacher hadn't bothered to turn up to lead them.  They needed leading.  And the two boys on the left, being rather overwhelmed by girls, definitely needed moral (and vocal) support.  In the end, the show was completely stolen by a young girl of about thirteen, whose singing might have made even Simon Cowell lost for words.

The most memorable fete we have yet been to, though, has to be the fete de la St Jean in the tiny commune of Fargues.  Originally this was apparently a pagan festival to mark the passing of the summer solstice but, like so many other rituals in France, it became Christianised.  It now is supposed to signify the coming of John the Baptist and the bonfires associated with the festival, represent the light of Christ coming into the world.  We were told that, originally, it was a time for the young men of the village to select their maidens, or for the maidens to select their young men.  Various stories abound about the village girls showing themselves off as they dance round the flames of the bonfire, or boys demonstrating their daring and prowess by leaping over the flames of the fire. Yet again, it all seems to be about getting lucky - or not.

The bonfire may be an excuse to wait until dark, but the enthusiasm of the bonfire builders at Fargues meant that it was simply (and dangerously) too big, and too (dangerously) close to everything that was going on (or might go on).  Luckily the meal took place before they lit the bonfire.  Once it took hold it became an inferno.

People abandoned their places as the plastic cups started to melt and smoke began to drift up from the now smouldering tables.  The whole thing had been set up in a field just outside the village, and the field was tinder dry.  Clearly, even by French health and safety standards, things were beginning to get a bit dodgy.

An enterprising young farmer quickly got hold of a tractor with a slurry tank attached and started to spray the burning grass (with slurry).  This did the trick.  At least, that is to say, it prevented the fire from spreading out of control.  It didn't, however, do much for the romance of the evening.

Soon the whole place was enveloped in a steamy cloud of foul smelling atomised slurry.  All notions of ardour were extinguished along with the flames and, being by now almost impossible to breathe, people started (quite rapidly) to drift away, and the evening sadly came to a premature end.  It could only happen in France.

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.