48) Bathroom fittings

The downstairs bathroom and "en-suite" open-plan loo

Our two bathrooms currently leave a little to be desired.

The upstairs one (the one we use at the moment) has not yet got any heating and the shower has a mind of its own, oscillating without warning, and completely at random, between freezing cold and near boiling point.  It also does not appear to have a "U" bend so unsavoury smells from our (condemned) septic tank percolate into the small space of air trapped by the shower curtain - God I hate shower curtains; roll on the day when we get a DOOR.

The downstairs bathroom now has heating, but no door on one side.  The loo is in what will become our bedroom, and when the upstairs loo is flushed it sounds like Niagara Falls.  The light switch is suspended from a wire twelve inches off the ground, and any heat produced by the radiator rises up the old stair well into the un-insulated loft space where it dissipates into the upper atmosphere.  The cast iron bath takes the heat out of the hot water as fast as it comes out of the tap, and the plug doesn't fit so you have to hold it down in order to retain any water at all.

Loo roll holder for the super rich

We have thus been looking at bathroom stuff in keen anticipation of the plumber's arrival.  Generally the costs are more or less the same as the UK, but there is perhaps a wider gap between the cheap and the expensive, and little apparent reason why some items suddenly sore into the super-rich category.  Maybe we need to get out more, but we were fairly amazed to find a LOO ROLL HOLDER priced at 189 euros (about £165).  Do people really spend that sort of money on a loo roll holder?  Or perhaps it's the sort of opposite of a "loss-leader" - maybe it's a "profit-trailer".

The upstairs open-plan shower room with potentially valuable loo roll holder

When we got back we noticed that we had, in our upstairs (open plan) shower room a very similar loo roll holder which will now be going on le bon coin (the French equivalent of ebay) at the bargain price of 120 euros (plus postage).

Bog brush and holder for Royalty and the mega rich

We were equally, if not more, amazed (we get fairly amazed quite often in shops these days) to find a bog brush and holder priced at 201 euros.  If you paid over 200 euros for something, would you really want to stick it down a (by definition) dirty lavatory?  I was beginning to wonder if all of this was something to do with a contemporary interpretation of Marcel Duchamp and his urinal artwork.

The epitome of fine taste for the ultimate French bathroom suite

Happily we soon found exactly what we had been looking for.  A reproduction 18th century serpentine chest of drawers, finished in imitation gold leaf, and topped with a black plastic fake marble (or was it fake Corian) wash hand basin with a rather elegant modern "waterfall" chrome tap.  The whole ensemble was tastefully set off by a reproduction carved wood overmantle mirror in fake gold leaf.  I am now in the process of redesigning our bathrooms so that we will be able to fit one in each of them.

47) Wine, Pastis and Rum

We were rather chuffed to receive an invitation the other day to taste the new wine at our local vineyard, the Domaine de La Garde.  It took place in the wine making sheds and  was organised and hosted by several generations of the family (the patron and chief vigneron, Jean Jaques Bousquet, can be seen here in the centre of the picture).  The old mother is just like a previous Director of Abbot Hall, but her teeth are even more challenging.  She is completely incomprehensible, as is her husband, due to their very strong Occitan accents.  Despite the fact it must be pretty obvious we only get one word in ten, they are completely undeterred, and prattle on nineteen to the dozen.

Unlike Beaujolais (nouveau), the new Cahors and Coteaux du Quercy wines will not be drunk yet, and the better ones won't be bottled for a couple of years.  The new wine had just finished its second fermentation and had not yet been blended.  We were thus able to taste the individual cepages in their raw state.  There was Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon and, of course, the local, much coveted Malbec (or Auxerrois as it is sometimes called locally).  It was, indeed, pretty raw but that was no reason not to get well stuck in.

We seemed to be the only English there, but some of the locals seemed to be taking things quite seriously,   There was lots of swishing round in the mouth, sharp intakes of breath and other strange facial contortions so beloved by wine connoisseurs.  But somehow the French seem to appear less pretentious than the English when they take their wine seriously.  Perhaps they are not quite so earnest  And perhaps they take themselves less seriously.

We were surprised to see two unusually elegant ladies arrive (in the left of the photo above), and assumed they must be what passes for Cezac aristos.  Actually they turned out to be Dutch.

One of the reasons (other than the opportunity of free wine) we went along was to see the demonstration of making Pastis.  This is a Quercy speciality which we had seen for sale in the markets.  It generally sells for around 22 to 24 euros for one which would feed about eight people.  It is a pudding (that much we had gathered), but we didn't really know what it was or why it was so outrageously expensive.  Now we do.

It has nothing, apparently, to do with Pastis, the alcoholic aniseed drink, other than the word derives from an Occitan word meaning pastry (though what this has to do with the drink I have no idea).  Pastis (the pudding) does have alcohol in it, but rum not Pastis - all very confusing.

The demonstration took place in the vigneron's kitchen.  I was intrigued to see that our's was not the only house in the locality with a bare light bulb dangling from a piece of wire (see circled bit in the photograph above).  I noticed also that the wire had been rather cunningly looped round to reduce the likelihood of people banging their head on the bulb.

After rolling what started as quite a small ball of dough, it soon spread to become, first almost as big as the table, then bigger than the table.  She teased and stretched the elasticated dough from underneath so it became bigger and bigger, and thinner and thinner.

Soon it was draped over the sides of the table and the audience began to wonder when they too would become enveloped in Pastis pastry.  All of this took quite a long time, which is presumably one of the reasons it is so expensive.

Our Pastis cook then produced a very ancient (and rather grubby looking blow heater) which she propped up  precariously against the rolling pin in order to dry the pastry.  It looked as if at any minute the rattly old thing would tip over and set fire to the pastry, or possibly the table cloth and we would all be burnt to a cinder as the whole place went up in smoke (no running green men or fire exits here).

Before there was a chance for this to happen, however, the electrics blew.  Again I was reminded of our own house, and again I was rather comforted to know we were not the only ones whose electrics blow if you turn on more than one appliance at a time.

It took quite a long time to sort out the problem despite the numerous offers of advice from the audience (I got the feeling that this might be quite a common problem in the commune of Cezac - and probably in most of la France profonde).

Next a small girl was enlisted to paint oil on the now sail-like expanse of pastry.  Unfortunately, such a small girl did not have long enough arms to reach very far across the pastry so she concentrated on one small area which soon became saturated in unsaturated sunflower oil.  You will also notice that a few holes had started to appear round the edges.  Our demonstrator kept assuring us these didn't really matter, but it was quite obvious to anyone with the most elementary understanding of physics that they did.

Then we were all invited to smell the heady aroma of the diced apples which had been soaked overnight in a concoction of rum, sugar and spices.  They did look and smell delicious.  And this is probably another reason why Pastis is so expensive.

Having scattered the apple evenly across the pastry, sugar was sprinkled all over, and yet another attempt was made to repair some of the holes (which we were again assured were "pas grave").

Finally the whole ensemble started to be rolled up (notice how the holes now became a pain).

In order to roll the enormous spread all at once, our cook very skilfully lifted the tablecloth forcing the whole lot to roll slowly across the expanse of table.

Once this was done, the roll itself was rolled up and then placed flat in the dish ready for baking.

More oil, and into the oven at 180 degrees for an hour and a half - a real weight watcher's nemesis

And now for one I prepared earlier (see below).  A much smaller version was brought out for us to try.  But not before a syrup made from (more) rum and sugar was spooned with laudable generosity on the previously cooked Pastis.

The final version as it appears in the market (and the more discerning bakeries).  We now know why it is so expensive.  It takes over an hour to prepare (not counting the time peeling and cutting up the apples and soaking them overnight).  It is then cooked for an hour and a half.  You have, in the meantime, ruined a perfectly good tablecloth, blown the electrics in your house and very probably wrecked what was once a serviceable heater.  Copious quantities of rum, oil and sugar have been used.  And your stress levels have gone off the scale as more and more of those putain des trous keep appearing in the pastry.

Pastis is certainly a great treat if it's a good one, but G and I did feel it might be a lot easier simply to buy a good tarte au pommes and wash it down with a few good swigs of rum.

46) Building work continues

Our wonderful intrepid white van men hard at work

Good progress has been made over the past week or so, and we have been so lucky with the weather (particularly bearing in mind we have no heating apart from one open fire in the salon).

The citerne, where the new oil tank is going

The latest task has been to make a concrete base for the new oil tank in the old citerne.   Yours truly completed the massive task of clearing it out of forty odd years of leaves, dead trees, weeds and goodness know what else had fallen into it over the years. We are still living in hope that our new boiler is imminent (no news yet from the plombier despite my increasingly desperate emails to him).

The reinforced concrete base being formed for the new oil tank

I reckon we could build a life size replica of the Empire State building on this.  Still, as the blokes pointed out, when it is full of oil, the tank will weigh over two tons (Empire State Building = 365,000 tons) - but better safe than sorry.

My studio showing the chimney for the wood burning stove

Several people have asked us to keep the pictures of the building work coming (I think it makes them feel good to see how much chaos somebody else is in).  Now that most of the destruction phase is complete, there will be less dramatic change, and the photos may tend to look rather similar.

I thought, therefore, I would do a walk round every room of the house as a sort of guided tour.  We start above with my studio.  I am hoping to link a wood-burning stove to the existing chimney which currently comes from the kitchen.

The opening for the new stone staircase

I have been planning the stone for the staircase which comes up from the hall to just outside my studio.  We think we now have everything sorted and are on the point of agreeing the devis with the stone yard.

The luxurious new spare bedroom with the new bathroom beyond

This is a new bedroom, and the ceiling has been exercising our minds of late.  Again, we think we may have cracked it.

The new family bathroom (before the walls have gone up)

On the floor in this photo you can just make out the masking tape lines which indicate where the shower, bath etc are going.

Looking back from the upper tower bedroom to the new family bathroom

The en-suite shower room to the upper tower bedroom

All our loos and bathrooms (all two of them) are rather open-plan and draughty at the moment.  This one has one doorway with a door, and one doorway without a door, as well as a strange internal window without any glass.                                                  

The upper tower bedroom/current store/place where we sleep

The top tower bedroom is probably the only room in the house where no walls are either coming down, being built, or having doors moved round.  It does have this bizarre paisley patterned fabric on the ceiling in between the exposed rafters, and despite all our feelings for conservation, this will almost certainly have to go.

The salon . 

Down the wooden staircase (which is going to come out) in the corner of the salon to the only room we can really use during the day.  Even this can get pretty noisy and dusty so we spend most of our time outside on the terrace (luckily the weather has been exceptionally warm and sunny).  The dust sheets go on each morning and then off in the evening once the builders have gone.

The lower tower bedroom which will become our bathroom

The current downstairs bathroom which will become our dressing room

Our luxurious new bedroom (which still has some way to go)

At the moment our new bedroom has a loo in it and an open staircase down to the basement.  When the builders are here G has to be a bit careful using the loos as this one has no door to the basement stairs (where the guys keep their tools), and the upstairs one has a door opening which, as yet, has only been half bricked up (as well a the strange internal window which has no glass).  Loud whistling is essential.

Looking from the front door to where the new stone staircase will go (kitchen door to the right) 

The future utility room (currently storing several packing cases) looking towards what will be the under stairs cupboard

Our beautiful kitchen with its beautiful fake wood units and (now) un-matching  floor tiles

 
Out of the void...............

44) Armistice Day 11.11.11

The other day we received an invitation in our post box from the Mayor to attend an Armistice day memorial in our little village commune of Cezac.  We decided we should go.  It was almost 20 degrees and the sun was shining in a clear blue sky.  The invitation was for 11.30, which we thought was a bit strange.  But, of course, France is an hour ahead of England, so 11.00 there is 12.00 here.

There were about fifty or so people outside the tiny church, many of whom now we know.  First of all the Maire, Maurice, said a few well chosen words, and then he read out a speech from the President de la Republique Francaise.  It was as if Maurice had become the President of France, right there among  us.  Very touching, and very moving.  And the Mayor of Cezac sounded much more sincere and convincing than Monsieur Sarkozy ever could.

Presumably there were mayors all over France reading out that speech all at the same time.  An amazing, and rather wonderful, thought.

Then a young girl read out a poem she had written in memory of those who had died.  To my very inadequate French, it sounded very good, and well beyond her young age.  She read it without fault or hesitation, and afterwards coyly acknowledged the applause.

Then the Maire thanked everyone for coming and invited all to join him in an aperitif.  It was a serious occasion, but not sentimental or stuffy or even too grave.  Despite all the flags, there was no pomp and ceremony, no medals, no uniforms, and no glorification of bravery or war.  It seemed just right, sincere, genuine and civilised.

43) Building work begins

The tremis (hole in the floor for the staircase) begins to be formed in my studio

The builders were due to arrive last Monday.  They rang to say that it was Tout Saints on the Tuesday and most people were taking a pont (bridge day) on the Monday, so everything would be closed for two days.  They would therefore come on the Wednesday.  They then emailed to say they had been delayed by a man digging a trench (which they had to fill with concrete) and they would, instead, be with us on Thursday.  And on Thursday 13 Brumaire an 220 de la Revolution (3 November 2011), they actually turned up.  By now we weren't really expecting them ....

Rubble and dust are the inevitable result of all this destruction

Luckily G was not leaning out of the tower window with no clothes on fastening back the shutters, as she was when the three young blokes arrived to cut down a tree the other Saturday morning.  Great progress has been made over the past week, though it has mainly been demolition.   Apart from the DUST and the NOISE, it is a little bit alarming to see our (once) beautiful house being partially destroyed.

The staircase opening progresses

One of the biggest, and most testing tasks, is to re-locate the staircase.  Initially, this has involved cutting and bashing a rather large hole in the (pot and beam) floor.  Almost all houses in France that have, at some stage, been rennovated in any way at all seem to have these "pot and beam" floors.

Now we are connected to the attic

They put a series of reinforced concrete beams in, drop in honey combed brick "pots" in between the beams, then they pour concrete over the whole lot to form a rigid floor. We were a bit sceptical as to how effective these were but, having now seen how difficult it was to make our tremis in the floor, we are rather impressed and dedicated converts.

Part of the reinforced concrete beams from the "pot and beam" floor construction

The sitting room becomes the main store room

In order to get on with the job of destruction (which takes place in all over the house) we have had to move most of our things into two rooms - and cover everything in dust sheets during the day/periods of destruction. All the kitchen units had to be dismantled and moved into the sitting room, which then made it even more difficult for me to remember where things were (not my greatest attribute at the best of times).  Making a cup of tea became a major project.  First find a mug, then the tea (which container has Earl Grey and which PG?), where did the fridge go for the milk and why the **** is the sugar not next to the tea bags?  Having finally located the kettle, the bloody lead is too short to reach any of the sockets, and then into another room to fill it with water.......

Wall paper stripping in the new upstairs bathroom

While the builders have been knocking down walls and making holes in the floor, G  and I have been stripping off wall paper.  Both of us have become quite expert at this, but our approach is quite different.  I try to get a whole section thoroughly damp and then, very slowly, peel of a complete strip all in one go.  G seems to prefer to pull lots of little strips off one at a time which, in my (humble) opinion takes much longer in the end, and causes an awful lot more mess.  However, in the interests of domestic harmony, I have conceded that this is an equally legitimate methodology.

The wallpaper before we stripped it off

I have a slight worry in the back of my mind, though, that "one day" someone will tell us that we have destroyed part of the l'histoire culturelle in stripping off this jazzy wall paper.  No doubt we will be visiting a museum sometime in the future, and there will be a recreation of a chambre typique from the 1970's which is the spitting image of our house before we destroyed it.

Noise and dust as the destruction continues

The electrics become shockingly exposed

The electrics have become a bit of an issue.  Obviously as you knock down walls, hidden wires become exposed and the switches and sockets once embedded in the plaster no longer are.  We therefore now have lots of trailing wires and electrical bits floating precariously around the rooms.  Very important not to wander about at night with the lights off (though half the lights are not connected any more).

The other thing is the power of the builder's tools, particularly the angle grinder, kept blowing the fuses.  Needless to say, the first time this happened, we discovered we had no spare fuses (trip fuses were evidently not invented, or hadn't been introduced to France, when the house was originally wired).  Once we (they) had blown several of the new fuses we decided to rig up their more powerful tools to the cooker socket.  This seems to have worked.  The only downside is that we can't cook whilst they are working, not that we have really got a kitchen anyway (see photos below).

The ghostly remains of a dead mouse and its newspaper nest

When we moved the old kitchen units it became evident that a family of mice had once lived behind the kick-board for many years in some previous era - yukkkk.

Not so easy cooking in a kitchen full of rubble and DUST and NOISE

The wall is almost down between the old larder and the kitchen

The guys told us they were going to knock down the wall of our temporary clothes cupboard, so we moved all our stuff into our temporary bedroom (about the only place not having a wall knocked down).  Unfortunately they ran out of time, so we had to move all the stuff back again before we could get to our bed (and then, of course, back again the next day so they really could knock the wall down).

The only access to the studio is blocked up before they make a new doorway to the left of it

An interesting sort of open plan en suite loo in what will become our new bedroom

We keep telling ourselves it will all be worth it in the end and we hope, if we do this often enough, we might actually start to believe it.