Monica's entry

I knew he was going to burn himself on that stove.  I told him to be careful, use gloves I said, but he doesn’t listen, he never has. Now’s he got a burnt hand and can’t do anything. I had to bind it up and tell him he wasn't going to die. Bloody men, you’d think he was dying. God know what’ll happen when he is actually properly ill. Last year he had some sort of nasty cold that was going around. He swore it was going to turn into pneumonia "at his age". Which reminds me, we must sort out a local doctor. He never will. It’s always me that has to deal with things that really matter. And this ridiculous diary he’s writing. Well that’s it for this entry. 

The Market

Thank god, someone turned up yesterday and filled in the hole. The end of the drive is now a muddy quagmire, but at least we can get the car out. Which was just the job this morning because we wanted to go to the market. Monica and I feel markets are one of the joys of France and the one in the local town is said to be a marvel. Before we decided to come to live here after I retired, we’d been visiting for years and going to the market was always a high spot of our visits. Stalls groaning with local cheeses, wonderful fresh vegetables and acres of delicious sausage. Every year Monica bought one of those baskets all the locals seem to carry and we absolutely merged into the background. Monica got me a beret to complete the transformation but quite frankly I thought that was going a bit far. Anyway, we trotted off to the market in the car, about ten miles or so, and found a space to park. The little place really comes alive on Sunday, with stalls up and down the streets and even the square in the centre is heaving with produce.

The only problem is it seems to be full of Brits. I mean, you can’t move without hearing, “Oh hello, Samantha, how’s Charles,” and such like, all bellowed in cut glass posh English voices. It’s a bit embarrassing to know these are your compatriots. Of course, most of them are second homers, come for a few weeks of la vie Française, and you have to put up with them, but it’s not an edifying sight. I said to Monica, shoot me if I start sounding like that.

We picked up some jolly nice sheep’s cheese and a couple of salami things. Cost a fortune, but worth it, though I have to say, I suspect the stall holders have a special price for les anglais. Back at the car we put away the shopping and strapped ourselves in then… nothing. Flat battery. I was furious. Monica had driven on the way there and clearly she had left the lights on. There were a few words said at that point, but I’ll draw a veil. We were standing about outside, wondering what to do next, when old Rupert hove into view. He obviously cottoned on to the fact that not all was right – Monica was snivelling into a hankie – and said he had jumper cables. “Always carry them, never can tell when you’ll need them.”

To cut a long story short, he brought round his ancient landrover and parked alongside while we connected the two batteries. After a lot of rather dramatic sparking, we got it sorted out but not before a chap in a spanking new Renault started honking away because Rupert’s car was blocking the road. Absolutely no patience, the French. I waved at the cables, but he just hooted, it was so rude. I had a good mind to go to the driver’s window and give him a piece of my mind, but Monica did a lot of smiling, while hissing at me not to be so stupid. Anyway, we got the car going, with a lot of roaring and black smoke from Rupert’s old wreck, and managed to get home without further incident. I told Monica that if she couldn’t be trusted to switch the lights off in future, I’d had to do all the driving. She was silent after that.

Carols rehearsal this evening at Mrs Boothby’s smelly cattery. And it’s getting cold so I’ll be lighting the stove, the first time since I swept the chimney with old Pierre’s brushes. Should go like the clappers. Looking forward to it. 

Carols

Mrs Boothby has entered our lives again, this time unaccompanied by her cat. “Can’t you put a plank across that hole?” she said the moment she walked through the door. I mumbled an apology though why I don’t know. It’s not as if the hole is my fault. The reason for her visit is that she’s organising the annual carol service and would we like to participate. “It’s a small church in another village. Very charming. Lovely acoustics. Do you sing?” Actually, Monica and I were both members of a choir in the UK, quite a well-known one and I wasn’t sure that the standard out here would be quite what we were used to. I said we’d think about it. “I shall be conducting,” she said, “And you do understand, if you want to participate, you’ll have to be audition.”

Sometime after she’d sailed out – and the way she spoke to me I was extremely glad I hadn’t put a plank over the hole - Monica come back from seeing Mrs Rupert about some yoga class or other. It turns out the hippy wife, whose name is Marigold, has an octopus like grip on anything locally to do with keep fit. I told that Mrs Boothby – somehow I can’t Patricia her– had come about a carol service. Monica said what a nice idea. I pointed out I wasn’t entirely sure the two of us would be comfortable under the baton of Mrs Boothby. I mean, how do we know she’s any good.

She was on the phone late that afternoon, as curt as usual. Rehearsals start at the weekend. Monica was all for it, so that evening, I have to say frankly with a bit of sense of doom, I was dragged round to Mrs Boothby’s house. I had to rootle about in the outhouse to find a plank to put over the trench but it’s a good ten minutes’ walk and I wasn’t wearing the right shoes. However, I could tell that Monica wasn’t going to take no for an answer so we had to go.

The smell of cats in that house is overpowering. She breeds Burmese and the place is awash with them. “They’re musical,” she explained, as we started to warm up and several of them began to yowl.  Anyway she seemed satisfied that we could tell the difference between a quaver and a minim and said we’d do. I can’t say the experience was a happy one and it doesn’t bode well for the future. As we were leaving I trod on of the cat’s tails and got thoroughly ticked off for carelessness. If she hadn’t been watching I would have kicked the little bugger out of the way. It was completely dark when we got back to the house and as I was walking over it the plank broke and I was pitched into the trench. Monica was remarkably unsympathetic and you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife for the rest of the evening. So much for good cheer to all men. 

Marooned!

Just when you think everything is on the up and up, it suddenly plunges downwards. Monica and I were enjoying our morning cup of tea in bed – getting up to make a cup of tea and bring it back to the bedroom is one of the things I do every morning – the peace and quiet was shattered by what sounded like an alien invasion of monstrous proportions. The noise was absolutely astounding, we couldn’t hear ourselves think, let alone speak.

I threw off the covers and jumped over to the window, stubbing my toe painfully in the process. I had to hop up and down for a moment, clutching my foot it was so painful. Anyway, getting to the window, I could see a vast digger of some sort and several men in yellow overalls out on the road. Bright orange, flood lights on the front, a giant jib thingy on the back, it was moving very slowly – and I mean, very, very slowly – edging along the road outside the house at the end of the drive.

“What is it?” asked Monica from the comfort of our warm bed – we have discovered the bedroom can get a mite chilly on these winter mornings. I told her what I could see as the machine passed the drive and moved on. In that typical female way, she said probably nothing to worry about, just some road mending.

You can imagine my outrage when I went to take a look to discover that we were now entirely marooned. There was a mile wide trench at the end of the drive, utterly impossible to get the car out. After a quick breakfast, I called Jeff and wanted to know what was going on. He hadn’t a clue, no giant machines round his way. He suggested I go and asked at the mairie. A quick brush of the teeth and I stormed off to complain. They didn’t know a thing, nothing they could do. I was furious, I demanded to know when the trench would be filled in. Of course, they just shrugged. Bloody frogs.

We are now unable to go shopping or anywhere come to that. And of course, it’s the weekend tomorrow. Back in Blighty I would have shot off a letter to the Telegraph. But what can I do here? Nothing, we just suffer. 

Waste of Time

On the way to the place we have to sort out the car – we had to drive miles and when we arrived, it was the devil’s own job to find parking. White vans everywhere. I was just about to reverse into a space when this bastard in a little van shot straight into it forwards. Typical, he couldn’t give a toss that I was there first. That’s the French driver for you. Huh.

Anyway, on the way there I was trying to get all the people we’d met in the last week or so sorted out in my head. There’s Jeff and Megan, old Pierre next door – though mind you, haven’t seen much of him lately – Mrs Boothby – I think she’s called Petra or something – jolly old Rupert and his hippy wife whose name I do not know. We haven’t caught up with the other people we met at lunch yet. Mind you, I’ve no real desire to bump into them on a regular basis. Jeff’s okay, very helpful kind of chap, as long as he doesn’t go on passing out our phone number to all and sundry. Which reminds me, I said this to Monica, we’ve got to get back to Rupert about his invitation to dinner. Kind of him, but I’m not sure I could stick a whole evening with his hippy wife.

It turned out the visit to the place where we had to sort out the car was a complete fiasco. Jeff had told me what documents we had to take – log book, passport and a proof of residence – well we had all that. But it turned out proof of residence didn’t really mean proof of residence but a bill from the electricity company or something. I showed them the letter from the bank but the supercilious jobsworth behind his glass panel – and I may say we had to wait for our turn for forty minutes, with a particularly smelly child who picked his nose all the time on the next chair – shoved it back through the little hole in the glass panel with a curt Non. He refused to speak English too in spite of the fact we explained we had only just arrived and didn’t really speak French yet. Non, he kept on saying, Non, wagging his finger at us. The fact is we haven’t got a bill from the electricity yet, because we’ve only just arrived. And the insurance company have only given us a month. It just shows how this country is in the grip of its own creaking bureaucracy. No wonder that by all accounts London is filling up with young French people. They’re trying to get away from all this nonsense.

It was good to get home again anyway. We opened a bottle of wine and Monica had cooked up one of her inevitable fish pies for supper. Marvellous. Still, we are living the French way of life and that is really something after all those years of toil back in Blighty. Mind you, I'm still wondering about M. Coq's lobster. I mean, to have a mayor who had a captive crustacean in his office is clearly a bit odd. Perhaps Jeff knows about it. I must ask him.

Networking

One of the couples we met at the restaurant got our phone number from Jeff and called us this evening. I vaguely remember them. He was wearing a rather holey jersey and she was dressed in what I can only describe as the hippy look circa 1968, though she must be seventy if she's a day. He's called Rupert - incidentally a name I have always found rather comical for some reason - and wanted to know if we would like to contribute to the seat they're planning to buy in memory of Owen. I didn't have a clue who Owen was and said why should I make a contribution for a chap called Owen. It was then I learned that the funeral in the village when we arrived was his. I thought I hadn't heard right when he said Owen had accident "with the mincer". I sorted of stuttered and said what a terrible accident that must have been - I obviously had the most terrible image in my mind for a moment and wondered in a gruesome sort of way what they'd actually buried - but he said, " No, mixer, he was electrocuted by his cement mixer. He'd got it cheap at a vide grenier." This was obviously dreadful and I made all the usual noises and said of course I'd contribute. I mean, civic duty and all that sort of thing.
On another matter Monica says the insurance people she visited today says we have to register the car in France. I thought as Europeans we could keep the English plates but it seems the insurance companies here are having no truck with that sort of nonsense and want their pound of flesh. There are forms to fill of course. That seems to be part of our life now, endless forms. Vive la France

The Mairie

Apparently, according to Jeff, who seems to know a thing or two, we should really announce ourselves to the Mairie, pronounced Maree. Jeff says the mayor, Monsieur Coq, does not like the English, does not speak English and can be remarkably rude. When Jeff told us all this, we didn’t really believe it, but the truth turned out to be somewhat more strange.

Monica thought she should dress up to go and see the mayor and insisted I wore a suit and tie. I told her my suit and tie wearing days were over, but she insisted. But that was easier said than done, because we haven’t finished unpacking and I had no idea where my suit was. I was a bit grumpy about this and did a sort of desultory look. I couldn’t find it and said I thought smart casual would be okay. I got one of those looks women can give when they think men are being feeble. Of course, she located the suitcase with the suit and tie in double quick time, so off we trotted to the mairie. It felt like first day at school.

I had no idea what we were going to say to M. Coq and was still in a somewhat tempestuous mood when we arrived at the building that houses the mairie. Monica said that all we had to do was introduce ourselves, shake his hand and tell him how much we liked the village.

He wasn’t there, of course, but a very fierce woman with extraordinary red hair - out of a bottle, Monica said from of the corner of her mouth – shouted at us to wait. So we waited.  M. Coq eventually turned up after twenty minutes, looked us over, spoke to the fierce woman with red hair, and beckoned us to follow with an imperial wave of the hand. He ushered us into his office, indicated a couple of hard chairs and took up his position behind a vast desk. The first thing that struck me was the gigantic photograph of de Gaulle on the wall behind him. It was then that I also noticed the enormous lobster in a large tank across from his desk. It was completely mesmerising and I was only brought back to reality when M. Coq spoke. “Vous êtes Monsieur et Madam …?” Monica, with her excellent French, told him we’d just arrived in the village and wanted to present ourselves. M. Coq, whose voice, gravelly and basso profundo, is redolent of long sessions of brandy and cigarettes, grunted, got up from his chair, ferreted in a cupboard and thrust a large carrier bag at Monica. “Pour le triage,” he said, waving his arm to signify we should take the bag and that the meeting was over.

We got home rather shell shocked, Monica still clutching the bag. I still have no idea why he gave it to us, why he keeps a lobster in a tank and why he still has a photo of de Gaulle above his desk, where he should have a photo of the current president. But then, as Jeff said, French mayors are a law unto themselves and you must never get on their wrong side. Point taken. 

The Cafe

It is something we both rather looked forward to in France. French cafés are very different from the village pub. I’m quite a pub man and certainly enjoy a pint of bitter but the French café is so quintessentially, well French. Ours is on the main road through the village, typically named Le Café des Sports. It’s pretty non-descript from the outside, but everyone knows if you want to know what’s going on, you just have to drop by and order a coffee at the café. Jeff had told us ours is run by Giselle and her grouchy husband Eric (I say husband, but have no idea if they are actually married). Giselle is quite something, done up a bit like a picture out a 70’s magazine – she is of that generation, though with the hair dye and hefty makeup it is a tad difficult to tell her precise age.

Monica and I thought we should make ourselves known there as a matter of priority. We took seats at one of the tables – regulation plastic top and somewhat uncomfortable chairs – and ordered a couple of café au laits from Giselle. She bellowed across the café to Eric, who banged away at the expresso machine making those whooshing noises with the milk frother. She slammed them down on the table and demanded six euros, which I thought a bit steep, given the size of the cups. But it was very French, the essence of the Gallic temperament the way she slapped the cups down, spilling coffee in the saucers and instantly demanding money. I mean, it is just absolutely part of the French way of life, why we came here.

As we sipped the coffee (not much taste, but that’s typical), we began to notice three men at the bar staring at us with blank expressions. I smiled at one of them, but his expression didn’t change a jot. He just stared back, then slowly revolved on his bar stool, at the same time making an exceptionally loud throat clearing noise and I really thought he was going to spit on the floor. I remember that from a school trip to Paris in younger days, when the sign Defence de Crasher  seemed to be entirely ignored. The other two were still staring so I sort of nodded and smiled at them, but they just slowly turned their heads away towards the television, blaring in the corner.

“Mind if I sit down,” said a voice behind me. A bald man with a shaven head wearing shorts and a somewhat ragged tee-shirt – rather unseasonal, given it is November – beamed down at Monica and me. “I’m Gary,” he said, holding out a hand for shaking. “Live round the corner, often in here.” He turned and shouted at the bar, “Giselle darling, bring us un pression.” He turned back to us grinning. “She loves that, being called darling, specially by me.” He sat down and started to tell us all about the village and how he’d lived her for six months and loved it. “Never go, not now. French way of life. Just brilliant.”

He is the sort of chap you really want to avoid. I’m afraid to say, I think he’s a bit of a lout. We finished our coffee, made our excuses and left.

The Smell

Got back after lunch, ready for a bit of a siesta. I'd just put my head on the pillow and was drifting off when a dreadful smell assaulted me. Monica asked whether it was me. I was a bit shirty about that and made quite a show of closing the bedroom window. It's cabbage and rotten eggs and something completely undefinable but definitely revolting. And, I'm afraid to say, there was a gurgle when I flushed the loo earlier. Perhaps another hundred years was a bit optimistic. I do hope clearing out drains is not a skill I'm going to have to acquire.

A spot of lunch

Been here a week now. I must say, no regrets so far. The smell at the back of the house was a bit strong this morning, but Monica threw the windows open and let the good fresh air in. And no noise, it is just so quiet, a bit of bird song and the view across the field is simply wonderful.

Late morning we were wondering about a walk when there was a crunch of gravel, a car door slam and a brisk knock on the door. A chap wearing jeans and a woolly hat beamed at me.

“I’m Jeff. I know your wife’s met Megan at the boulangerie and we wondered if you’d like to join us for lunch today. Unless you’ve got other plans?”

You can hardly say no and we were just reckoning on a bit of bread chez nous and cheese, so off we went.

It was full of English, we couldn’t believe it. The entire restaurant was buzzing with English voices. There were a few French ouvriers stuck away in a corner but they were vastly outnumbered. Apparently there’s a group of expats that goes regularly to the restaurant every Thursday. It’s a get together they have. Monica and I looked at each other because this isn’t quite the plan we had, mixing with the English like this. We’d sort of got the idea that old chaps like old Pierre, he of the scraggle teeth, would be our friends. But of course, we can hardly understand a word he says so social chit-chat is a bit limited on that front.

Anyway Jeff and Megan sat us down with this party of other Brits for the regular Thursday lunch. It’s very cheap, 13 Euros for four courses with wine, which has to be said it pretty astonishing, don’t know how they make money. I had a bit too much wine to drink and can’t remember all the names now, but there was definitely a David, a Lucy, a couple of Tony’s and a Sylvia. All very nice, but awfully British. We enjoyed ourselves of course, but have said it’s not really something we want to get totally involved in. Otherwise we’ll just never integrate with the French here and that is really what we’re after. 

To do list

I've always been one for lists. If you don't have a list, you keep on missing out on really important things you need to do. Monica thinks it's funny, my obsession with putting it all down on paper. But she is totally disorganised and if I left it up to Monica, we'd be living in chaos. Instead of which we are only living in a bit of chaos, though I prefer to describe it as fractured order.
My current list, well actually, the main list, is full of things we need to do to the house. Since arriving here, one or two things have become clear. It's a bit disappointing actually. The Donalds left the place in a real mess. We have to get the electrics sorted out before the house burns down and there is a mysterious smell somewhere by the pool. They didn't tell us where the septic tank was and I very much hope that the smell by the pool has nothing to do with the drains. When we bought the house, the notaire said, or at least this is what I understood him to say, that the fosse septic was not "aux normes". I don't really know what this means, but all I can say is that when you flush the loo, it all disappears without even a gurgle. In my book, that means it's probably okay for the next hundred years.
The roof needs a bit of attention. There are a few buckets up in the "combles" but apparently that's normal in rural France. You can certainly see a bit of daylight here and there, but no huge holes. It'll do for now. Most of the windows leak like sieves and on the west side, there's a bit of rot. But I must never forget we got the house if not quite for a song, at least for a bit of a gentle humming. The Donalds being strapped for cash were in no position to argue. Thank you, Desmond.
The other thing on the list is tools. DIY has never really been my thing, but I'll have to get going if we're not to be fleeced by the local artisans. Of course, we'd like to spread the money about a bit, but I've read frightful stories on the internet about your average French worker. Gaston turns up when he wants to, takes months to do the job, then sticks you with a bill as if he'd rebuilt the house. We'll have to use them for the major things, but little bits of DIY here and there I 'm sure I can cope with. Monica's going to wield the paint brush so I'll have to get out the black and decker. Seems only fair.

Mrs Boothby's cat

I like cats. In fact you could say I am very fond of them. I like the way they wind themselves round your legs and the way they do their own thing. They remind me strongly of myself. But I don’t appreciate them when they get in other people’s houses and shit on the floor, which is precisely what our intruder is doing. It is, admittedly, a beautiful creature. I’m more of a moggie man but this is clearly something very upmarket, Burmese perhaps. It is sinuous with a very shiny, brown coat of fur. But it shits everywhere. Yesterday morning I stepped right into a steaming and exceptionally smelly deposit in my new slippers. Monica was furious and accused me of doing it on purpose when I came back to the bedroom with the tea. I can tell you the rest of the day was marked by a particularly angry silence.

We put up with this for several days. No amount of shooing it out seemed to have any effect. The moment it had been ejected, it was back again, god knows how. Old Pierre, our scraggle toothed neighbour claimed not to know who it belonged to, but I could see that he did really know, he just wasn’t telling.

This morning the mystery was solved when a very tall, grey haired woman, dressed straight out of the Home Counties complete with a string of pearls, came knocking on our door. “Have you got Jemima?” she demanded. “It’s her home from home, you know. The Donalds always used to bring her back.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, being rather po-faced I have to admit, “But are you referring to a cat that craps all over the place?”

“It’s only her way of showing you she feels at home,” the woman said. “I’m a breeder, I do know about this sort of thing.”

It turns out that Jemima belongs to Mrs Boothby, who lives a little bit further out of the village than we do. She is clearly an assertive character and has, she informed us rather peremptorily, been here for a very long time. She explained she and her husband, Kenneth, used to be in Tanganyika, doing something with land management, but retired to France more than fifteen years ago. Kenneth is no longer, apparently, but she hangs on here, breeding cats. She talks rather as though she owns the place.

“By the way,” she shouted as she departed, Jemima tucked under her arm, “I’m Patricia, but most people call me P, like pea. I’m sure we’re going to see a lot of each other.”

When she’d stalked up our short drive, Monica said, “Do you think they’re all like that, the English?”

All I can say is that I hope not. I spent the rest of the morning cleaning my slippers. I’m not sure the smell is ever going to go. 

Our House

It’s probably a good moment to say something about the house.  We bought it on a something of a whim. We knew we wanted to come to France, but we didn’t exactly plan on the area. We did a bit of a trawl of the internet – Monica is a whizz on the computer – but it was all rather confusing. However, we did spot an English speaking agent in the area so we trotted down to see them a year ago. I was still working, so we had to be quick. It turned out that Desmond, the agent, was very fly and had a terrific list of houses. We discussed with him just what we wanted – an old stone house not needing much doing to it, large kitchen, a study for me and three bedrooms and preferably two bathrooms. And some land, naturally. We didn’t want to be right in the middle of a village, but close enough to walk to the shops and the café. Oh yes, and we wanted an outbuilding we could turn into a gite. Monica wanted this because the sensible girl knew we’d need the income for the future. And of course, it would give her something to do.

Desmond didn’t actually have just what we wanted, even though he showed us some pictures of really lovely houses that were a bit out of our price range, and we thought we’d have to think again. But he clearly keeps his ear to the proverbial ground and knew the Donalds were strapped for cash and would have to sell up, but their house wasn’t on the market yet. Anyway to cut a long story short, we managed to do a deal with them and bought Le Pigeonnier for a bit of a song. Desmond got his commission, a bit steep, but he was awfully helpful.

The Donalds were clearly bodgers. It is a lovely house, just the accommodation we wanted, but what they’d done to it is a nightmare. The plumbing leaks all over the place and it was a miracle the place hasn’t burned down the way Mr Donald had extended the wiring. So obviously that all has to be done. But it’s sound and, apart from drips here and there and the light switches you can’t touch without wearing rubber gloves and gum boots, we love it. A perfect place for us and a French neighbour to boot. Allez les bleus, as they say.  

The Stove

A bit of a problem with the wood burner today. Now it’s getting cold, we thought we’d investigate the Godin. It’s a bit of what sold the house, truth to tell. Monica walked into the salon (must stop calling it the sitting room) and fell in love with the stove. I must say, it’s rather a gorgeous thing, a sort of dark green, with a curlicues of cast iron on the front, clearly been well used but in tremendous condition.

Anyway, there was a load of wood left behind by the previous owners in the shed at the side. It seemed dry enough, a bit full of creepy crawlies, but okay by and large. So the two of us lugged in a stack of logs and piled them up beside the Godin. I do love the little plaque on the front that proclaims itself “Godin”. So French, I think. Monica’s not much of a hand at fire lighting, more of a chap’s thing really. So I found an old box in the shed, broke it up, laid a fire with some newspaper – last week’s copy of the Daily Telegraph just the thing – borrowed Monica’s lighter and hey presto, fire was going. I shut the door and waited for a blaze to start warming the place up. But, oh dear, a couple of minutes later and the room was heaving with smoke, thick black acrid stuff. We were coughing and choking and just had to throw open the doors, rather defeating the purpose of warming up the house.

Well, the old chap next door, he of the silent gestures, came running over, with a bundle under his arm. Would you believe it, he seemed to be a chimney sweep, just amazing that he lived next door. But that didn’t actually seem to be the case. He dropped the bundle, pointed to the smoke billowing out of the door and then picked up the brush thing, you know, one of the round brushes, gripped it both hands and waved it up and down with a huge grin on his face. “Bouché,” he gasped with laughter. Then he turned tail and went chortling off.

It took ages to get the chimney swept. I was covered in soot and all sorts of noxious muck, but finally poked out the last of the stuff and we got the stove going. The joys of country living, eh. Chimney sweeping, another string to my bow, as my old dad would have said. 

Neighbour

An absolutely amazing thing happened this morning. I mean, it was really surprising and we still don’t know what to make of it. We’d only just arrived, hardly been in the house five minutes when one of our neighbours came knocking on the door. A French neighbour, a wonderful looking old chap, must be well into his seventies. I shook hands, beckoned him in, but he stayed on the doorstep. I had to call Monica because she does at least speak some French. Anyway, the old chap stood there, not a word. Monica said, “Oui?” in a very sort of interrogative way, encouraging the old chap to say something. But he still didn’t. Monica said, “Est-ce que je aider vous?” – she really is jolly good at French and I’m going to have to find some lessons somewhere. But still the old chap didn’t say a word. He smiled a bit, terrible teeth, then pointed to the house next door. I suppose it’s his. But the next thing he did was really strange. He pointed at Monica then pointed back at his house, or what I took to be his house. Well, Monica and I looked at each other, shrugged, then smiled back at him. And then, quite suddenly, he made one of those gestures, putting his hand on the inside of his elbow and bringing up his forearm very sharply. Then he turned and walked away. We got the impression that perhaps he wasn’t too pleased to see us. It’s a bit of a poser if one of our neighbours has already taken against us. I dare say we’ll find out he’s a bit odd. 

Boulangerie

I nipped down to the boulangerie this morning to get croissants and a loaf. Marvellous air, I could have just stood outside the house, sucking it in and out. Unfortunately as I was doing my breathing exercises, I trod on the dead pigeon and got innards all over my shoe. Oh well, the joys of country life.

There was quite a queue in the bakers – whoops, boulangerie -  I must remember it’s not the baker any longer. One woman ahead of me seemed to be ordering a cake and the woman behind the counter (the baker’s wife) was showing her endless pictures from a book. While I was waiting for this performance to be over, a woman tried to barge me aside and I said, rather without thinking, “I think I was first.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, “I didn’t know you were English. Are you visiting?” As there was time to chat, I told her we’d just moved in, though of course, we’d had the place for some time. “That must be the Donald’s old house, did you know them?” Just then the cake ordering woman finished and it was me. I sorted out the bread and croissants and as I was leaving, the women I’d been talking to said, “We’re Jeff and Megan, up at the Tor de Point. Everyone knows where it is, you must come round.” That was nice of her, and I’m sure we’ll take her up on it. But of course, it’s the French we really want to integrate with. After all, that’s why we came. 

Arrival

We didn’t expect a funeral when we arrived. We’d been driving most of the day from the coast. We like to take the ferry from Dover, it seems more like a proper journey to cross the sea, rather than slithering under it like a kind of worm. Anyway, we got to Calais and faced the long drive down to the south west. Monica drives too, but I do most of it. She gets tired after a bit so I have to take over. We went via Paris, that was a mistake. The peripherique was all snarled up and we very nearly had a contretemps with a white van. It seems the French white van drivers are just as bad as they are back home.

We got a bit lost when we got close to Rosbif-sur-Lie. They seemed to have renumbered the roads, and the D19 had become the D35, so we ended up in Villeneuve and had to double back. Still, we got there in the end, only to be faced with a funeral. We’ve no idea who it was, of course, but it must have been someone pretty popular because there was a big turnout. From what we could see it was a mixture of French and English. You can always tell the English from their clothes, as I said to Monica. Lots of Marks and Spencer and ties and chaps standing about with their hands behind their backs, military style. We didn’t hang about because we wanted to get on to Le Pigeonnier before drinks time. The run down from the coast, then getting lost had taken a bit longer than we reckoned and we were both knackered.

It was really was rather wonderful arriving “chez nous”. Our new home in the South West, what we’ve been planning for a very long time and finally, here we are. Monica did the honours and opened up. True to form and true to the name, there was a dead pigeon in the middle of the floor. I did wonder whether that was an omen.