15) The intoxicating beauty of France

Argentat on the upper Dordogne

Although we may be becoming a bit cynical about French (and, to be fair, English) estate agents over here, we have been constantly bowled over by the breath taking beauty of France.  It is just everywhere, in the buildings, the landscape, and in the texture and detail of so much of what you see.

Sauveterre de Rouergue

One of the three hundred or more "Bastide" towns that were built in the 13th century to promote trade and re-invigorate the regions.  Many have these colonnades round a central market square.

Arcades around the market square in Sauveterre de Rouergue

Below is Cirq Lapopie, a perfectly preserved mediaeval town appearing simply to emerge from a rocky promontory above the river Lot.

St Cirq Lapopie on the Lot

We rounded a corner on our way to Bruniquel, and suddenly there was the Aveyron in the soft winter light

In the Aveyron valley near Bruniquel

On route to Gordon, north of Cahors, we entered an ordinary village only to find this extraordinary structure, part castle, part rock face, studded with troglodyte caves.

Gavaudun

Najac, south of Villefranche de Rouergue, is a mediaeval hillside town nestling in stunning landscape high above a hairpin loop in the Aveyron

Najac

Monpazier is another of the Bastide towns and, although perfectly preserved, it still seems to have its shops and cafes, as well as its weekly market.  In winter, however, everyone seemed to have left.  I suspect it is now a bastion of Brit ex-pats who only turn up in summer.

Monpazier

Estaing, whose most famous son was the President Valery (Marie Rene Georges) Giscard d'Estaing, is a most beautiful place on the upper Lot. We came to know it quite well, especially the tourist information office, which became our main source of internet access.  Actually, according to Wikipedia, old Valery seems to have had very little connection to Estaing.  Born in Koblentz in Germany, apparently he was not related at all to the noble Vice Admiral Jean Baptiste Charles Henri Hector, Compte d'Estaing (whose family had owned the castle in the photograph below).  It seems his yuppy grandfather added d'Estaing to the family name on account of a distant connection to another (less distinguished and morally challenged) part of the family.  They were descended (with two breaks in the male line) from an illegitimate line of the (rather lowly)Viscounts d'Estaing.  For some reason, though, none of this appeared in any of the literature we picked up at the Office du Tourisme.

Estaing

For our exploration of the upper Lot and the Truyere, we rented a little Hansel and Gretel cottage above Estaing, at an altitude of 2,500 feet.  When we arrived in mid January it was snowing, but within three days we were eating lunch outside in 15 degrees and bright sunshine.  At that height it got very cold each night when the skies were clear, and in the mornings everything was covered in frost.  The effect was magical.  It really did seem unreal, it was as if fairies had come in the night to sprinkle little diamonds all over the trees.  The camera can't capture the experience or the magic, but each morning we became almost numb with the beauty around us.

Near Le Nayrac, like a scene out of Narnia

The lauze rooves were a special feature of the Aveyron and the Cantal.  Below is a detail of the one on the little cottage where we were staying.

Lauzes on the roof of our cottage, Les Prunaques

Everywhere you find crosses and statues of the Virgin Mary.  Religion in France, though, almost seems to have a thread which runs parallel to Christianity.  Folklore and local tradition adopt elements of Christianity; each seems to borrow from the other.  Even the pilgrimages to Lourdes and to St Jacques at Santiago di Compostella perhaps have more to do with magic and superstition than Christian teaching and the Bible.  There is a yearning for the magic of miracles.  And many of the most important religious celebrations involve icons or relics being carried in elaborate processions through the streets, reminiscent of ancient rituals or rights of passage.  France has well over 600 recognised saints, but many are mythical figures from ancient fairytale stories, who have simply taken on the mantle of Christianity.  If anything, this heightens the sense of mystery, and there is certainly a wonderfully rich legacy of buildings and artefacts associated with religion.

Crucifix at Villecomtal

On our way to Gourdon, we rounded a corner and there was the commanding and powerful edifice of Biron.

Biron

Espalion has a wonderful market on Fridays, and is where we were first introduced to the pleasures of eating farcous in your fingers as you wander round the stalls.  We are determined to try and make it ourselves.  It is a kind of  thick pancake, made with blettes (Swiss chard) and parsely, which is fried on a hot plate in front of you, and is absolutely delicious.

Espalion

Everywhere the landscape is so large, sometimes stretching miles and miles from one mountain range to the next.  Just today we came to the top of a hill and there, a hundred miles away were the Pyrernnees.

Mist over the Lot , near Estaing

Mind you, one of the best sights we have seen recently was people sitting outside in the sun shine enjoying a coffee in early February, in Aurillac (which is reputed to be the coldest town in France).

Cafe culture, Aurillac,  Wednesday 9th February

14) Les Agents Immobiliers

A typical full and accurate description on an agent's details

We have now seen quite a lot of different houses.  Many of these, however, were never going  to be suitable in the first place, but because of the French estate agent’s reluctance to tell you much about them, you do not discover this until you arrive.  Les agents immobiliers are a race apart (and apparently even more despised than estate agents are in England).  As a consequence, French vendors will try to cut them out by doing a deal directly with the buyer if they can (this saves them about 25,000 euros, so you can understand why).  Life is made even more complicated by the fact that most properties are with about five or six agents, often at different prices (we were recently sent two properties, each of which was almost 100,000 euros more than we had seen them at with another agent).  Because there is so much money involved in each sale everybody tries to get a slice of the action, and any English person who has been out here for more than a year or so is constantly trying to make “introductions” to those renting their Gites (like us) so they can muscle in on a commission.

Locked outside, we begin the game of hunt the keys

We do, though, seem to be about the only people looking for a property in France at the moment, so the agents seem happy to drive us all over the place, presumably because they have nothing else to do and are bored.  There does also seem to be a (for us) rather aggravating game they play presumably, again, for some further amusement to offset the lack of activity.  The keys to the property are usually hidden somewhere, such as under a plant pot by the front door.  Often, however, they are not there because some rascally agent has either hidden them (deliberately) in the wrong place, or simply gone off with them in his (or her) pocket.  With the double gabled house above we drove some considerable distance to meet an agent who had driven a similar distance from the other direction.

This was definitely the fuse box, but where were the house keys?

He found the key under the plant pot and we got into the lobby.  The other set of keys were supposed to be in the (very dodgy looking)  fuse cupboard.  They were not.  So the game started, a sort of weird version of an Easter egg hunt in which every object that could contain or hide keys was looked under, turned upside down and shaken.  Georgi and I joined in with enthusiasm, finding the whole thing more and more amusing as the agent got more and more agitated.  Sadly /inevitably we never did find them.  Georgi and I were disappointed the game had to end in failure, but at this point the agent seemed to display signs of the onset of apoplexy.  He become grovelling apologetic and even started to cower.  I guess he was afraid we might attack him in a fury, which must happen quite often.  But Georgi and I are now fairly used to this, and we simply had to turn away so he would not see us giggling at his incompetence and discomfort.

A great studio ready to move into

On another occasion we went to see a house lived in by a couple of artists.  It had  lots to recommend it and a wonderful ready-made studio for me to create masterpieces in.  It even had an observatory (for some reason this was by the pool, which seemed a rather odd spot to choose for an activity which involves wandering about in the pitch dark).  Sadly the house seemed to be at the junction of two major roads.  The agent assured us there was virtually no traffic on them, but we couldn't help noticing large noisy trucks roaring by every 30 seconds or so.

One of the largest quarries in France, just down the road

We liked the house so much we went back on our own, only to discover the source of the trucks just down the road. There we found an enormous quarry, which clearly supplied most of the hardcore for construction in SW France.

A lovely little group of buildings nestling in the landscape, with stunning views

Another time we went into an agency in Entragues sur Truyeres where a very enthusiastic young agent told us about a superb "product" (he was very keen to practice his English) that was just 10 minutes away and was just what we were looking for.  It was indeed very charming, and in a superb setting with stunning views.

Something the agent had omitted to mention

What he had omitted to tell us, however, was that there was a f***ing great pylon in the middle of the garden, right in front of the view.  When we arrived back at the agency, the other agent asked young Matthieu what we had thought.  "Ah, le pylon!" he said, and they both looked knowingly at each other.  Clearly everybody they had shown the property to had been somewhat put off by le pylon, and we were just more clients who (rather unreasonably) saw it as some sort of a problem.  We were not quite sure if they thought we might not notice it, or whether we might embrace the idea of it as some sort of symbol of modernity and progress.  Actually, we just thought it was a terrible eyesore, might well give off harmful, cancer causing radiation, the constant buzzing might eventually drive us mad, and it would make the house completely unsaleable if we ever wanted to sell in the future.

Pierre shrugs off his paucity of navigating skills.  We did, of course, find it in the end (he shrugs)

Pierre, seen above, is definitely one of our favourite agents.  However, as well as sharing the trait with all other agents immobiliers of being a terrible driver, he also regards sat navs as some sort of threat to his manhood and social standing.  We are constantly amazed at how often agents get lost and yet none of them use sat navs.  Thousands of extra miles get driven, gallons of unnecessary fuel gets used, tons of extra CO2 gets dumped into the atmosphere and hundreds of man hours are wasted, all because les argents either refuse, or don't bother to think of using sat navs (this equally applies to the English ones as well as the French).  On the occasion we visited the house above Pierre was giving us a long lecture on how people had become reliant on gadgets like sat navs, and how they ruined your sense of direction and diminished your knowledge and understanding of the position man held in this vast and constantly changing landscape (which was France).  It was at about this point in his eulogy that he realised he was completely lost.  He was so completely convinced by his innate sense of direction he hadn't even brought a map with him.  We then spent about half an hour meandering up and down valleys, pausing at crossroads to reappraise the situation, and being reassured that the house was just over there, and it was simply a case of finding a road that would get to it.  Which, eventually, we did.

Mas de Vernhet

This house was near Villefranche de Rouergue, and was one we rather liked.  It was in a village but had about an acre of garden and was not too overlooked.  It had no pool and neither of the barns had been converted, so there was still quite a bit to do (and money to spend).  When we saw it first it was foggy, but we were assured there was a lovely view over the valley behind, and it was "protected" so couldn't be built on.  We have come across this sort of assurance before in France and are aware that, if you happen to be friends with the Mayor (or perhaps have something on him), more or less anything can get through.

Just beyond the house, we stated to notice homemade notices stuck in the ground

We were staying near by so we decided to go along for another look.  As we approached the house we saw that, in reality, the view was really not that great.  We decided to drive on a bit further to check out the village and we started to see little placards all over the place saying things like "Non a la rocarde!" or "Preserve la Nature!" and "Pensez a nos enfants!"  Alarm bells started to ring, and out came the dictionary as soon as we got back to the gite.  Rocade nf  1. (de deviation) bypass; (circulaire) ring road, beltway US 2. Mil transversal route.  We were not quite sure what a "transversal route" was, but we certainly got the jist of a "beltway".

13) The search continues

A magical little chateau we spied just outside the village where we were staying near Orleans

On our way south we stayed in a chambre d'hote we hadn't been to before, at Clery St Andre, just SW of Orleans.  After our last experience, when we arrived only to find the one near Chartes all locked up and completely deserted, we were a bit apprehensive.  This time, though, our hosts were there to greet us and all went well.  We had a meal with them, which got us back into the swing with our French and, apart from the fact I developed a stomach upset which lasted several days (I think it may have been the local sausage speciality, which Georgi and I decided must be an acquired taste), it turned out to be a really good stopover place.  We have re-booked for our return in March, but we are going to skip the meal.

Looking down on Cahors, with the three towers of the old bridge showing in the top left corner

The first area we wanted to check out on this part of the trip was Cahors, with its spectacular fairytale bridge, nestling in a loop of the river Lot.  The gite we had booked, again turned out to be fine, and the surrounding area was stunning.

View of the setting sun from the balcony of our gite

We saw lots and lots of houses whilst we were staying near Cahors, partly due to the fact that our (very nice) landlady turned out to be an ............estate agent.  She was really sweet, just as chaotic as all the others, and a terrible driver, but a great help and we are going back there again (more of les agents immobiliers later).  Quite quickly, we also came across another (French) estate agent who more or less adopted us.  He was great (also a terrible driver) and we may well end up buying a house from him.  So two very good contacts in Cahors, quickly made, and what better way to check the place out than a trip to the Saturday market.

Saturday market in Cahors

It turned out to be a really good market, but our romantic naivety almost cost us dear.  At this time of year there are not a great many tourists, and G and I do our best to try and blend in with the locals (chatting to each other in French, saying Bonjour! to everyone we walk past, keeping the camera and town maps out of sight, and constantly making derogatory comments about Parisians.  Most of the time it works well, but every now and again we are clocked.  You generally know when this has happened, because someone starts talking to you in English before you have even opened your mouth.  We had just entered the square, and I think our mistake may have been to pause, stare in rapture at the wonderful array before us, and take a photo.  Immediately we are engaged in conversation by a fellow who looks just like the black market spiv, Joe, in "Dad's Army".  He is selling ewe's milk cheese (brebie), and gives us a slice to try.  Then he offers us a sliver of another type and then another.  Breakfast was not that long ago, so we make our apologies and escape without buying anything.

Freshly made crepes, Cahors market

Soon we find a woman making crepes.  Georgi orders one in spy-grade French, and I have a waffle.  All responses are in the local patois, so we wish her a bon journee, and continue our wanderings as we slip deeper and deeper into a delicious sunny morning torpor.  We start to feel guilty about eating so much of Joe's cheese and decide to go back and buy some (it was, after all, very good).  He seems delighted to see us.  As we notice he has no other customers, we begin to feel rather sorry for him and are even more pleased we decided to return.  We say (in our best French) we would like une petite tranche of his fromage.  His knife hovers over a slice big enough to feed the entire dining room of the Tour d'Argent, and weighing several kilos.   Ever so gently we indicate we would like somewhat less, and after several adjustments, he finally slices a small portion just big enough for a little soupcon.  On to the scales, and out pops a bill for almost ten quid.  Completely nonplussed, our patois at this point starts to unravel as we splutter incoherent cries of astonishment.  With a rather annoying nonchalance, Joe points to the notice with the prices on, 49.99 euros a kilo.  We may be English (despite hiding it fairly well), but we know that even a very very expensive cheese is never more than 25 euros a kilo (average prices range from about 8 to 15).  Joe has clearly been on the lookout for suckers, and we have been caught hook line and sinker.  Time to use our Englishness to our advantage.  We look innocently at him, throw in a few words such as desole, domage, moins chere, n'ai plus de fric, give an inane smile, a Gallic shrug and walk calmly away without looking back.

We soon merged back into the crowd

12) Back to France (and back on the internet)

Leaving the White Cliffs behind once again on 16 January 2011

We have now been back in France for over three weeks, but because of difficulties with internet access, we have also been blogless.  Inevitably lots has happened in the meantime so it is difficult to know where to pick up the trail.  Rather than a blow by blow account, therefore, I will swiftly bring things up to date, and make a few random observations on our life out here.

Driving South to the sun

One thing we decided to do before we left, was to go to the France Show at Earl’s Court.  We had been told about this in France by Charlie, the estate agent who had taken us to a rather liquid lunch, after chickening out on a visit up some rather snowy mountain roads/passes to see a house.  It was supposed to be a show extolling the virtues of all things French – holidays, activities, wine, food and, of course, property.  We thus thought it might be a useful , and a chance to meet yet more of the charming agents.  Actually, it was merde!  If I had been the French ambassador and had happened to go, I would have been desolé.  It was small, badly organised unprofessionally put together and with rubbish food.  We went in for a competition to win a lifetime’s free Channel crossings, but as we’ve heard nothing, I assume we didn’t win that either.  Even when we met Charlie, it was clear he had no idea who we were.

Vines in the Savoy

There was, however, one redeeming feature, the (very nice and very bored) lady on the Sea France stand gave us free tickets to a wine tasting.  This was a hoot.  A very very chaotic hoot.  It was in two parts.  The first had wines from the Savoie, whilst the second half covered wines from Beaujolais. To talk about the Savoie wines they had found a rather serious and slightly gushing female wine writer who vaguely reminded you of a Blue Peter presenter.  First part very professionally done, and the five different wines we tasted were indeed most interesting, and rather unusual.

Georgi's expression reveals a certain anxiety about the lack of wines available for tasting

Next came the Beaujolais wines, presented by a trio of Frenchman, who had obviously been doing some serious tasting before the show started.  The master of ceremonies was a French version of David Niven, but without the moustache.  Next there was one of the vignerons, who was the spitting image of Robin Williams, and the last of them was some sort of aristocrat with a Chateau, who didn't look French at all, but more like one of those spivs from the square mile who have lost all our money.  He clearly thought it highly amusing the way theeese Ingleeshe were taking it all so seriously.

Vines in Beaujolais, chapel of La Madone in the background

Firstly, one or two still sober participants noticed only four out of the five designated Beaujolais glasses had any wine in them.  "Theesse," said David Niven with a wicked smile "ees becawse for zee finale wine we 'ave a speciale zurprize for yu!"  Robin Williams then launched into a set piece about his wines, and the great difference in the colour between the 2008 and the 2009.  It soon became apparent to those sober enough to notice, however, that the wines we were tasting were white, and he was describing with great Gallic aplomb the different hues of red.  Some brave person, who had presumably had to pay for their ticket, asked why he was talking about a wine that was red, when the very clear instructions on the sheet in front of us said we had to work from the the left to right, and the first glass had a white wine in it. 

Our French wine tasting compere

After some translation and a lively exchange between the three increasingly blotto musketeers, it was pointed out that they had thought the white wine would taste better AFTER the red so they had changed the order (though without telling anyone).   The Robin Williams lookalike continued valiantly, but he was now as thoroughly confused, as everyone else was (and probably even less sober).  What he said bore no apparent relation to the wines we had in front of us and the whole thing descended into confusion and farce (thank God His Excellency the Ambassador was not there to witness it).  The Chateau-owning-aristocrat thought this simply added to the fun, as well as his disdain of les Anglais and their pretensions concerning wine.  The situation was quickly rescued, though, by David Niven who revealed the surprise of pink Beaujolais champagne for the fifth and final glass of the Beaujolais section (and the tenth of the session as a whole).  With all the good humour of a fine bon viveur he then assured everyone that the true purpose of wine was simply to enjoy it (and by the colour of his complexion and the gentle swaying motion of his colleagues, this is something they clearly did quite a lot of the time).