Diary pages update

18th April 2005

And the miracle has happened. Half past eight this morning and our Monsieur Coudouel turned up. He wanted to check where lights and sockets needed to be positioned, so we quickly got up, got dressed and shot into the barn to ensure no time was lost. Obviously, as he has never turned up to any site meetings, his drawings were out of date. Still, compared to him turning up on site, this was a minor blip. A half hour later and he has in his mind, a schedule of where he is going to put switches, sockets, light sources, telephone points and television points.

Great news and finally some progress. Not just for us, but also for Picasso, who, at the age of five months has finally learned to jump out of the garden. As he has learned that the grass is almost definitely greener on the other side, or in his case, there are dogs he can go and play with, unfortunately we now have to curtail his liberties! Under great duress, pitiful yelps and sad brown eyes, but we have to show him who’s boss. We hope that his forthcoming meeting with the vet for the ‘you-know-what’ is going to help us and him!


21st June 2005

With best intentions and all the will in the world, I don’t seem to have had the opportunity to update the diary as I had originally intended. Life seems to have thrown us into a maelstrom once again, most of the time pleasantly so, other times it reminds us of the life we so gladly left behind.

Past mid June already and past the one year anniversary of our arrival here in Marcillac. And so much has happened in the time since I last wrote, that I am sure the chronological order will be slightly out, but the sentiments will remain.

Reading back to April and the impending doom of Picasso’s operation. Well, that is behind us now and even Picasso seems to have forgotten all about it. And yes, it calmed him down. For a week. Whilst he felt very sorry for himself. After that, he was back to his usual bouncy self with bouncy being the operative word. He has definitely exerted his freedom and regularly skips from the stone bench into my anemones, over the wall, in search of Papi, Pierre’s dog. If he is not available, he will go to greet his brother. And when he is good and ready, he may decide to come back. Don’t think though that he does not listen to us. He most certainly does, but chooses not to do anything about it if his mind is taking him elsewhere.


The saying ‘don’t wish too hard or it may come true’ definitely works in this case. Tony only said three days after Picasso was operated on that he couldn’t wait for him to be back to his old self. I rest my case. Picasso does not.

As I told you in April, the work had started in all seriousness. And it has really gathered momentum with the architect confirming a project finish date of 22 July. Halleluja! So, all the central heating is in, the radiators are in, the studwalling is finished, the plastering of the joints is almost finished, the concrete floor on the bottom level is done, the jointing in between the stones on the first floor is nearly done, the septic tank has been installed and one of the ground floor bedrooms has the basis for its terrace. It is amazing how fast all these guys have worked. Once they arrive. I will never profess to understand their ways of working, but then I think that keeps it quirky!

Take for instance the ‘fosse septique’. Finally, finally, the mason turns up with digger and tank. Very swiftly a hole is dug, the tank installed, pipes connected. Bob’s your uncle. We leave the aunty out of it, I think, because he then disappeared without covering the tank up. Neither did he explain to us whether we need to activate it by throwing some kind of biological thing down the toilet. Tony seems to think that in the ‘old days’ they used to throw a rat into the tank. I don’t fancy going in search of a rat though. I wonder if a mole would also be suitable?

You see, our friends Hubert and Isabelle, whose house is also nearly finished now, have had someone come to sow grass seeds. Tony loyally goes to turn the water on every night to water his new sprigs of grass and in doing so, has created a little oasis for a mole. I has created a nice little maze in his new lawn. When we mentioned it to Bernard, the mole’s days were numbered. He turned up the next day with a trap and 24 hours later, the mole was no more. However, Bernard very kindly left it on the windowsill for me to have a look at it. He must feel I need initiating into the country life. Great.

So is there a use for a mole after life? I wonder. Personally probably prefer the supermarket option.

Talking of wildlife; Chloe, Pierre’s donkey, gave birth this morning to another baby. The little female was born at 8.30 this morning and Pierre walked around as if he had just given birth himself. Donkey and donkey are both doing fine.



On the other hand, we had a little nest of tits in our barn, nestled in between the stones of the internal wall. For three days we watched her proudly sitting on her nest, tending her eggs. This morning we found the nest on the floor with five tiny chicks, the mother also lying on the floor. These are not the times to be soft about nature; if we had moved the nest to elsewhere, the chances of the chicks surviving would have been equally small, but I’d like to think that a cat got in and found the nest, rather than the artisans deciding that they could not wait for the little ones to learn to fly. I prefer to think nature, sad and cruel as it sometimes is, took its course.



Carrying on the nature theme for a bit; our garden has come on fantastically. Finally we have coriander. Not quite in abundance yet, but getting there. So is the dill, the parsley, thyme and last year’s chives. The rosemary is still in its infancy, but as I don’t eat lamb anyway, I am not too bothered. Although it goes rather well with roasted new potatoes and garlic.

The plants I had bought for all our pots have surprisingly all survived the harsh winter. The early Spring frost seemed to have killed them all, but they fought back and are now catching up.
I have even planted some French beans in pots and they are growing nicely too. Last week, we were given some young pumpkin plants, so we should be OK for Hallowe’en.

Unfortunately I have to stem the flow for now because there is a nice thunder storm overhead. Time to bake some bread instead.

Thunder storm passed with a nice downpour for the flora and fauna here. As for the bread……….not so sure. You see, I think I get to the point I am trying too hard to become one of these kitchen wizards who can cope with office work equally well as domestic duties. I fully admit that the word goddess does not appear in my vocabulary and the hoover and I occasionally meet and have a brief encounter. But there is something very therapeutic about making bread, from what I remembered. And, it really does not taste too bad, although I don’t believe I’ve put the boulangerie out of business just yet.

We were awoken before 7.30 this morning by the return of our masonry team, all four of them. Ready to finish off the soak-away area for the fosse septique and lay the concrete in front of the door of the barn. The jointing was finished last night and I think today the road is going to be ‘cut open’ for the electricity cable to be bedded in. Tony has disappeared into the barn too to sand down the beams. It is the least we can do ourselves to start ‘finishing off’. And Tony appears to be safe with a sander.

However, give him a drill and it is a different story.

So far, we have visited the doctor’s four times. Once was for our blood tests required for the wedding, the other three times for Tony. We have now had the chisel in the hand, the saw in the other hand and on Sunday just gone, he managed to head-but the drill whilst trying to drill a hole in the stone wall. Drill bit buckled, drill handle slipped and hit him in between the eyes. He managed to stay on the ladder luckily and even more fortuitously managed to avoid his eyes.

After a quick call to Michel, our doctor and Tony’s golfing buddy, who gave up his siesta to inspect, we met him at the local surgery. His wife had given Michel a copy of the news paper article and photograph of our marriage so that Michel could compare Tony to the photo. Who said that as a human race we develop forward. With Tony’s cut in between the eyebrows, immediate swelling of the nose and the eyes, he is starting to look like something out of the Stone Age. Just as well I love him.



What else?
Of course, there is Europe. You may well laugh, but some of you will be like me, but I sat down to watch the Eurovision Song Contest to notice that Europe’s biggest nations were once again not in the winning top ten. At least the UK got some points, but we are with Terry Wogan on this one. Nobody seems to want to vote for the UK.

And talking of voting, a big fat ‘NON’ to Europe was cast here during the referendum and, a few days later, the same happened in my native Holland. Both countries had over 60% of people voting against the European constitution.

My dad, however, was not one of those. With a daughter who has lived abroad for more years than in the Netherlands, with a son in law who is Scottish, he really felt that it was his duty to show he has accepted Europe.

For the rest of the people, certainly here in France, it would appear to not be about saying no to Europe, but rather a ‘no’ in an attempt to destabilize the government. We did not know about the referendum until very shortly previous to the voting date. We may well have been able to vote, but I am not sure. The Maire did not let us know. I am not sure what we would have done. Of course we are part of Europe. We live on and off the land of European countries other than our countries of birth, we enjoy the best of what this country has to offer and occasionally frown at the idiosyncrasies that the bureaucracy brings with it.

However, when we hear on Euronews that Europe is trying to bring some kind of ‘Food Standards Agency’ to France which may affect the way food is sold on markets for instance, I too have to ask whether this has not all gone too far.

Somewhere along the line we seem to have lost the plot where food is concerned. The people who live around us here have never heard of ‘organically grown’ crops, and the word ‘genetically modified’ does not turn up in conversations. But are they less healthy? I would say exactly the opposite. We live by the seasons here, because, compared to a Tesco, there is not the level of import of products the UK have so become used to. Strawberries in December? Get them frozen if you are lucky.

Buying your cheese, meat and poultry directly from a farm has a very wholesome feeling to it. Will all this change? I sincerely hope not.

Pierre gave us another thirty eggs the other day. They don’t come stamped with the ‘laid on’ date and they have not been screened. However, the egg yolks are the richest and of the most beautiful orange yellow colouring. And they taste ten times better.

It is of no wonder, in my mind that there are so many people suffering with minor illnesses, colds and flues at various times of the year. We sanitise our worlds so much, we don’t give ourselves a chance to build up any resistance.

Not that I am very keen to pick the slugs out of a lettuce! But it still has the soil on it from the ground out of which it was taken that morning.

France, I take my hat off to you!

That’s the high horse gone galloping off.

Luckily we can still tell people what a great country this is, and a fantastic region in which we have chosen to live. And we frequently do so when we show prospective clients the properties we have found over the past months.

If any of you readers are intending to follow our footsteps, I cannot stress enough how important it is to prepare and research. If you are one of the many people who still believe that everyone in the world, and here in France specifically, speaks English, think again. If you are someone who thinks that fifty thousand euros will buy you a property which is habitable, has two hectares of land, is structurally sound and ready to move into, I would seriously ask you to remove those rose tinted spectacles, or to dream on.

As everywhere, prices do go up. Admittedly, some of the vendors here have a bit of a misplaced idea that the foreign buyers will pay no matter what for their little hovel which oozes character. Prices in our area seem to have gone up by about 15% in the past year and it is the Parisians as much as the British and Dutch who are keen to invest before the prices are beyond their reach.

Another thing we have to get used to as possible buyers is that you will not find a house cleaned up and well presented ready for the sale. If you can see beyond the historic finds within a property, you usually are blessed with a good imagination. We have come across flies and wasp nests, and often feel that the last resident just upped and left.



The worst vendors we get, all lovely as they are, are those who have just decorated, ready to sell. They feel that this pushes up the price. If, like me, you have watched episodes of ‘The House Doctor’, Tommy Walsh and other programmes of this type, you know that what works best is a neutral colour and as much as a blank canvas as you can offer.

‘Look at my beautiful tiling’, was one of the comments we recently heard. We looked at where he was pointing and found a kitchen work surface where, if you were to run a cloth over it, you would rip the cloth. Not only was nothing level, but he had used his ‘creativity’, and reluctance to pay to purchase and resize 30 x 30cm floor tiles, cut them in different shapes and cement them in on the MDF base of the kitchen worktop. Ten out of ten for effort, but anyone who wishes to be able to cook a meal after purchase of this property, would have to rip it out and start again.

And then we have our vendor, a really lovely man with a young family, who teaches in Adult Education. He teaches painting techniques. Sounds promising doesn’t it? Have you ever used fluorescent colours in your house? No, nor have we. And I thought rag rolling, marbling and crackling effects had come and gone. Not here. Luckily, his property is one of the better ones and apart from the painting he seems to have used proper artisans to renovate his house so the canvas is there, although it is far from blank.

We do have a laugh about them as much as we do about our buyers, or the lookers as they are sometimes called. These are the people who don’t know the area, have not yet decided where they want to settle down, but will know it when they find ‘that dream house’. Hmmmmm!

Does the sun always shine in the summer?
Of course it does, although some times there are some clouds in front of it.

Do you get snow up here?
Do you like the snow? If so, then yes we do get snow.
If you don’t like the snow? We had more than previous years last winter, but that appears to be ‘bizarre’.

What are the neighbours like?
Probably French and a little curious.

Have you met the Maire?
That we leave to you for when you arrive to settle into your new property.

And so the list continues. We know that the purchase of a second property or new home is a big decision, but it never ceases to amaze us that people have not familiarized themselves with the characteristics of the area into which they are buying.

For those who ask what the schools are like because their little ones are going to start school here, we arrange visits so that parents at least can get a feel for the place.

For others who want to be able to walk into a village for a coffee and croissant, we show them the village and offer them a coffee.

All of them want the same, the French way of life. But so much depends on your own attitude to life and your will to succeed, that we can’t tell people enough that they must be realistic in their wishes, willing to compromise, and learn French.

Can you remember when supermarkets started Sunday opening or even 24-hour opening? Can you remember whether you were fore or against it? Here you don’t get that. Most supermarkets will be open on a Sunday morning until midday, and they will close during the week at 19.30 at the latest. It does take a bit of getting used to, but it emphasizes that people have a life here. And life is centred around strong family values. Be there to play with the children, all have a meal together and discuss the events of the day, see friends, enjoy an aperitif, relax and recharge for the next day.

It truly is a lovely life here. We don’t regret a single minute of our first year here. It has not been the easiest, but when people now tell us that we are ‘Aveyronnais’, that really means something. We have been accepted.

When Tony gets told that what he does in DIY is very good and very tasteful, when he gets told that his French has come on leaps and bounds, it makes the hard work worthwhile. Jacques also would like his help in laying a patio with natural stone. It is nice to be able to do something back for those who have done so much for us.

As for me, I have also been able to give something back. Half of the herb seeds have gone to Denise and Marius, Marie-Pierre has been given some coriander and dill seedlings, Annie wants the recipe for my cheesy sticks and the hairdresser about whom I have already told you also requires my services. Apparently. He has not told me yet.

But this is how things happen here. We have learned that gossip gets you into trouble. Everybody knows everybody else and may even be related, so it is best not to talk about anyone unless it is positive. Luckily there is very little reason to do otherwise.

Anyway, Monsieur Horwath, the hairdresser. Let’s talk about him. I was telling Marie-Pierre recently that he has lost a customer in me as he has not comprehended that cutting off the minimum does not equate to ten centimeters.

Bear with me as I digress slightly. We will come back to him, I promise.

Last Saturday we went over to Marie-Pierre’s to store the parquet flooring we have bought for the two bottom bedrooms in the gite. As we got it at such a good price, we got it before it sold out and as our house is fast becoming a war zone, their offer of storage space was really welcome. At the same time, I brought the long promised and aforementioned coriander and dill seedlings before Picasso could get his teeth around the peat pots.

Marie-Pierre was not there, she had gone to Paris for the weekend. Bernard was busy getting the hay off the land for storage and to feed the hungry workers, his parents had come over from Therondels. His mum had offered to do the cooking, as a good wife / mother / any female, does in this area. We had never met these people before and even before I got out of the car, Monsieur Guimontheil, Bernard’s dad, said ‘Ah, you must be the people from Marcillac’.

No, it was not written on my forehead, he assured me, but I didn’t have the build of an Aveyronnaise and with the blonde hair and blue eyes, I just had to be ‘La Hollandaise’. Now, as we spend quite a bit of time with Marie-Pierre and Bernard, this did not surprise me. He admired the fact we had bought our car locally, told me my accent was ‘horribly French’ and was pleased to learn that we had ordered the oak flooring for the first floor of the gite from a local company in Therondels. This man, you see, used to be the Maire of Therondels. Obviously a man who deserves a bit of respect.




‘Yes’, he said, ‘I know all about you as Monsieur Horwath and I often talk about you’.

They have coffee together every morning. Marvellous. I wondered whether his daughter in law had told Monsieur Guimontheil about my hair cutting complaints. In which case, no doubt, Monsieur Horwath would know about it.

And then Monsieur Horwath’s background was explained to me in great detail. How he has blue blood running through his vains, that his father was a ‘Polak blanc’ from a noble Polish family who had come to France.

Had I not noticed his elegant mannerisms and did I not think he had an air of nobility about him?

The guy’s a hair dresser and has worked in Paris, so a certain amount of mannerisms goes with the job, I retorted.

‘No, no’, Bernard’s dad was having none of it. ‘He most definitely has a special way about him’.

Hmmm, so I had heard. Not only am I lucky to have come away with hair that still reaches the shoulders, some people could appear on Stars in their Eyes as Sinead O’Connor, but I am also lucky in as much as that he has a reputation of using that ‘special way’ when he speaks to his female customers. Wandering hands.

Perhaps many ladies do not complain too much. Perhaps they like his regal ways, or they may just be intimidated by the knowledge he has a black belt in Judo.

A couple of months ago, I received a phone call from Monsieur Horwath inviting me to a meeting at the town hall in Brommat where next year’s International Judo Tournament was being discussed. I did not manage to go.

Monsieur Guimontheil enlightened me as to why I personally would have been invited to this meeting. I know nothing about Judo and have no particular interest in it.

This competition which will take place in June 2006 has 26 nations taking part. All of the athletes, I believe, are under 21 and will be staying locally. So partly, he may have thought that our gite could be of interest. Or that may have been the carrot. The main reason, however, would appear to be his need for an interpreter during the event. And, according to Bernard’s dad, that is going to be me.

What do we say in the UK when we are being asked to do something we really do not have the time for? Something about inserting a broom stick where the sun doesn’t shine. However, I have no doubt that when the request eventually gets made, I will say yes and do my best. If only to further increase our integration into the community.

An other display of our acceptance into the community is the arrival of a bottle of Vin de Noix from Monsieur Romieux, our plumber. During a tree gazing session at the end of a long hot working day, and chuckling over Father Romieur climbing up the cherry tree to pick some cherries, his son Pierre and Tony discussed Granny Chateau’s nut liqueur. Did Pierre know how to make it? ‘Oh yes’, he said, his dad regularly makes some, so he would arrange for the recipe, so we could try it ourselves.

The next day, Pierre the Plumber, turned up in his very flash car, scrubbed up really nicely and delivered us a bottle of the black nectar and a bottle of homemade ‘eau de vie’, which is needed to make the liqueur. And the recipe of course.

How many of you pay for a job your plumber does and receive a present at the end of it?
Another display of acceptance happened recently following the penultimate visit to the doctor’s for one of Tony’s accidents.

Pierre, the neighbour and Tony were busy creating the roof structure for our old citerne, which nowadays holds the oil tank for the central heating system. Would I go and get some nails for them? So, off I went to do the necessary.

Came back about twenty minutes later, to find Picasso yelping miserably attached to a rope in the garden, and Pierre still plodding on with the roof.

When he saw the car, he trundled over to me and said that Tony was at the doctor’s. It was nothing serious, but he needed me to go in and pay.

Back in the car, only to arrive at the point where the doctor was stitching Tony’s hand up following a slip of a saw. One of Stephane Laborie’s men, the carpenters, had taken one look at the wound and decided that his first aid box really would not suffice and drove Tony to the village. I have to say at this point that Tony did ask Pierre to take him, but Pierre took one look at the cut and said ‘c’est bon’ and decided no doctor was needed.

So, on arrival at the surgery, I did my bit of explaining and paying and as the loving wife, with a husband, suffering a little shock, I went to the pharmacy whilst Tony stayed outside smoking his cigar, whilst I went in and paid for his antibiotics and other things the doctor had prescribed.

Not five minutes had passed, but when I came out, Tony was nowhere to be seen. Well, not outside anyway. Finally I heard his laughter, which came from ‘La Poste’ across the road. And there he was, enjoying a beer with Stephane Laborie. He happened to be on his way to our house to check on progress, when one of his staff drove in the opposite direction with Tony in the van. Stephane had decided to follow him and check whether Tony was OK.

After Tony had bought him another beer, the ice seemed definitely broken and miraculously, his teams have been here almost every day since.

Our dear tiler, Monsieur Joanny, is another one who is slowly coming round to relaxing a bit in our presence. One Sunday morning, he had invited us round his showroom to pick tiles for the gite. After looking at his ten show panels he had recognized which facial expression to look out for and I did not have to tell him that none of his tiles pleased me. He recommended we went to Point P in Rodez and recommended we called him before going over there and he would prewarn the girl who he deals with.

As it so happened, we were in Aurillac one morning and decided that we may as well shoot down to Rodez to pick the tiles. I had not brought Monsieur Joanny’s number with me, so we decided to risk it and hope that someone would help us.

To cut a long story short, Audrey at Point P helped us admirably, even speaking some English and made up a list of our choices for each room. ‘Yes’, she said, Monsieur Joanny had already told her to look out for us, and had put up some displays of styles into which we had previously displayed an interest.

When Monsieur Joanny finally received the list and referred back to his various catalogues, he was glowing. The tiles we had chosen were very nice. And we had very good taste. Unlike other people. Well, good, that’s the general idea. We did realise, did we, that the tiles we had chosen were a bit more expensive? Par for the course, with us, we responded. ‘Not to worry’, he said, ‘as we have one less bathroom to do, the price will stay the same’. It is nice to see that he so enjoys his job and to give him the pleasure of doing something a little bit different. And to see him smile.

Because he does not always smile.

Last week, Wednesday afternoon I believe it was, we were having a quick chat with him whlist watching the masons work hard at constructing a wall. ‘Aren’t they doing a fantastic job’ we commented.

Monsieur Joanny looked at me for a couple of seconds and said ‘do you think so?’. He had had a confrontation that morning with Monsieur Sirignano who had caused him to not be able to start his work. So, when he arrived for duty on Wednesday morning, he turned on his heel. The same happened on Thursday morning and once again he could not do his job.

I think they understood each other after a few words had been exchanged and so Monsieur Sirignano’s team, including his lordship himself, turned up in full force, finished that particular part in half a day in readiness for Monsieur Joanny to arrive after lunch. Even though this now meant he had to work Saturday too, he seemed a lot happier to be able to stick to the finish date he had promised.



23 June 2005

Another meeting on site with a Project Manager who knows how to kick ass! Our new representative from the architect’s was given our project as Gerard has had to go into hospital for a hip operation. We did not know Jean-Louis, but after three meetings already feel he has achieved in one month what Gerard had not in seven.

He has had to lose his temper a bit in order to get the artisans to take him seriously and start chasing each other up to get the project done. He has also managed to agree a finish date of the 22 July which means that we will be open for business on 6 August.

All seems to be progressing well and he has certainly taken a lot of worry off of my shoulders. Whether it is a benefit or hindrance, I am not sure, but I hear about the reputations of our various artisans and get told how to treat them. However, they still do not fully accept a woman telling them how to do their job, even though this woman pays their wages. They probably think Tony is completely under the thumb, especially with his scab and plasters in between his eyes and on his nose. So far, the doctor, the Project Manager, the tiler and the owner of La Poste have all asked whether I am responsible for the damage. The rest, who completely ignore me, probably really think I have given Tony a whack.

So, here we are facing our second Summer in Marcillac. In just over five weeks, our friends start arriving from the UK again. Some for the first time, others for a repeat visit because they liked it the first time round.

Tony’s boys will also be coming over for their prolonged Summer holidays. Even though we won’t be able to take the whole of the Summer off to be with everybody all the time, I am sure there will be plenty of fun to be had.

For me, especially, it will be a special moment to welcome my brother’s daughters, my sister-in-law and her new boyfriend. Never had we spent a holiday together, but this year we will be together for one week. My brother will be grinning down on us from above. Slowly, bit by bit, we are all coming to terms with his loss and moving on to another phase of life. My sister-in-law has found someone else with whom she is happy. Maaike, my eldest niece, has just passed her final exams in Holland and will be going to college. For her, the last two years have been difficult and I am so proud of her achievements. She’ll survive.

Marieke, the youngest, the quiet one, the thinker!

My hat off to the school to which she goes. They gathered together all the children who have lost a parent and brought them together to share their experiences. The children who talk about their loss easily are helping those who can’t understand that there is a common bond and slowly they have all been able to talk, write and cry about it.

It has been difficult for me not to be able to visit them more regularly, be closer to them and I have had to deal with the guilt that brings with it too. For them to come over and spend some time here, not to reflect, but to look forward, is another sign life continues and we that we have all regained the strength needed to face the future.

Whilst I was still in the UK, I used to get terribly upset with family arguments. Siblings, parents! As if we don’t appreciate what we have.

That is different in France. Don’t get me wrong, I am sure people argue here too. However, there is a common understanding about the importance of family life and how that life offers you the structure from which to learn and grow. Safe in the knowledge that an extended family is surrounding you.

And if there is the case of a family who have fallen out, you create another structure. Like we have with Pierre. We never discuss his family, but to us, Pierre is part of ours. If we don’t see him for a few days, we knock on his door to make sure all is well.

Equally, Pierre keeps his eye out for us. If we are not here when the architect arrives on site, he hangs in the wings to listen in and report back to us. Who was there, how long it lasted. If possible he will chat with the artisans too to find out what was discussed so he can report back to us over an aperitif or two.

Take tonight, for example. As I told you, yesterday morning a new donkey arrived. Tonight, Pierre is coming round to enjoy a glass of Champagne to toast the new arrival.

Any excuse, I hear you say! You’re probably right, but isn’t it lovely that someone can be so ecstatically pleased by the birth of another donkey? Isn’t it great that he beams when Picasso has once again escaped and chooses to play in Pierre’s garden with Papi? Simple pleasures for a simple life.

As I was just looking through the photographs we have taken over the past few weeks, I noticed I have not yet told you about the first fete of the year we visited.

La fete du fromage in Pailherols. We thought it would be a good idea to take Picasso along to see some more people and familiarize himself a little with another strange place. Little did we know that there would be about 500 people milling around the streets, which, for a small dog, could be a bit frightening. And if that was not enough, there was also a parade of Salers cattle through the streets on their way to the mountains.

Tony took his place on the terrace of a café, to protect Picasso of course. And I took my position with the camera in readiness for the cows that had had their horns decorated with heather.
To start with two huge cows, Bufflons, attached to a cart were positioned in the middle of the road in which I was standing, presumably, I assumed, to lead the way. So there I was, ready and waiting. Nothing happened for a good twenty minutes and all of a sudden there was a huge thunder and commotion as about two dozen cows and calves trundled past from the opposite direction. The lone bull that was with the group had decided the weather was making him feel a bit frisky, so tried to mount a cow as she was walking on. The rest panicked and caused a little stampede. Needless to say, I did not get much of a chance taking a picture of them as I was not only facing in the wrong direction, but now also running out of the way of an amorous bull.


A fortnight ago, to show summer had arrived, Marie-Pierre asked if we wanted to join her family and Hubert’s family for a picnic at Lac St Gervais. Sure, seemed a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon, give the dog a bit of exercise and for us to relax from our busy schedules.

Did we know the way, we were asked. Sure. ‘OK, we’ll follow you’, Marie-Pierre said. They had never visited the lake before but remembered that Tony and I spent many a hot afternoon there last Summer.

So, with a convoy of four cars, we set off and had a great afternoon. The aperitifs arrived, the wine followed, everyone nibbled their individual lunches, people took their siestas, the children all enjoyed their paddle in the water and Picasso had a fantastic time taking Tony for a walk around the lake.





13 August 2005

As I am writing more sporadically I know that certain events get missed, which defeats the object of this diary. However, when the days do not have sufficient hours in the day, the scrawls and scribbles are the first to be put on the back burner.

We have recently really been tested in our beliefs to think the best of people and giving the benefit of the doubt.

Having finally been given a finishing date on the barn of the end of July, we are now faced with additional delays. Don’t get me wrong, when we see what has already been achieved, it is mind blowing, but the amount still left to do is equally staggering. Especially with our first guests arriving on Saturday 20th.

The current challenge of the moment is carpentry. In fact, we cannot really call it a challenge any longer as the carpenter has gone on holiday for two weeks. Up until the middle of this week, we had no staircase and were seriously considering trampolines and parachutes. However, after some serious hassling from the Project Manager, the carpenter and his crew turned up to fit the staircase. Only it did not. Fit, that is.

‘Measure twice, cut once’, seems to be a statement with which he is not familiar. However, as we had, according to him, insisted on a staircase being in this week, he swiftly got his team of four guys to swing mallets and crowbars, bodily weight and everything else to force a hard wood staircase into a concrete opening which was smaller. I was never that fantastic at maths, but the logic of that one was even clear to me.

At this point, after all the maneuvering, shoving and wedging, this staircase was not going anywhere, but still was not in position. The obvious answer? Break away the concrete and make it fit that way. However, there was just a small point regarding all the water and electricity pipes which had been laid under the particular piece of concrete in question. At least the carpenter had the soundness of mind to call Pierre the Plumber who ably did his bit of heating and bending pipes to divert them from where this staircase was going to finish.

Monsieur Joanny, our placid tiler, was not so placid. He had planned to be finished by the end of this week and was now faced with redoing some flooring. Monsieur Joanny, who probably needs his holiday more than most, tutted and spluttered, however, he is our ally in all of this and throughout the last few weeks has joined us in complaining, taking fun out of, laughing at and laughing with. If anyone deserves a medal, he does. For being a natural sociologist, psychologist, philosopher and comedian. Every day for Monsieur Joanny is a day closer to his retirement in nine years’ time.

We have also learned to philosophise! If you think that you have hit rock bottom, there is always a bit further to go. Equally, we have found that what is upsetting one day and very frustrating seems to not be so important the next. In the Summer sun, what is the point of getting all hot and bothered when the sun already does that for you?

So, when Maaike, Marieke, Desiree and Peter came over to spend a week with us. I took some time off too to recharge, think about other things and let the mobile phone go to answering mode. Much needed family time. An afternoon of canoeing, a day by the lake to chill out and get a serious sunburn, sharing most of a bottle of Rose with your nearly grown up niece. Most of all noticing how much both of them are like their dad and finding an understanding between all of us that there are things binding us together that do not require an explanation.

Before then, at the end of July, Tony’s friend from his waterskiing days came to stay. Dave, Anne and their daughter Amy gave us a much needed excuse for a few days of chilling out and catching up.

We thought that the barn would be the sort of holiday they might enjoy in the future, so it was great to be able to show them with the majority of the painting being finished. And for that, we have to thank our friends, Trevor and Karen. Having moved on from clients who bought their holiday home from us, to being good fun friends, they stayed with us for a while whilst deciding what to do with their own property. Trevor, and their friend Cliff, turned out to be a complete blessing. Both of them had the ability and will to climb up ladders, balance on beams like a couple of monkeys to help us paint the very top of the ceilings.

It had not been planned like this. Tony and I were going to do the painting. But this part proved to be a bit of a problem. Tony has vertigo and very bravely tried to conquer it, however, the mind had different ideas. Shaky legs and a floor that turns circles in front of your eyes are not exactly the best for climbing up a four metre ladder. So, forget bravery and use common sense. If one of you definitely cannot go up, the other one has to. Between the two of us we had managed to clean the beams, but it was very slow and painstaking. Even I had to remember that looking down is not a good idea. Pascal, an employee of the carpenter, told us that it was quite safe to put a board over the beams and use this as a base to do the painting in the apex of the barn. Sure! I never did want a tree-house.

They made it look so easy, but I remember a situation during a sales training course, where I had to climb a 40 foot telegraph pole and hoik myself onto a 30 x 30cm platform. At this point, where your bum goes upwards and your head goes downwards, the floor seams an awfully long way away. Not a feeling I particularly enjoyed, even though we were attached to safety ropes.

No safety ropes here. So, when Trevor offered to help out for a few hours, we could have kissed his feet. Luckily some good food and a couple of bottles of wine sufficed. By comparison the rest was easy.

So, here we are. Middle of August. Summer season is nearly over. A phone call from the tourist office in Mur de Barrez to ask whether we had space for this weekend caused some more heart ache as we had to turn down a week of earnings. Looking at the silver lining, there is an obvious demand here for accommodation, so I am sure that we will get the same phone calls at other times of the year.

Tony’s boys have arrived for their two weeks holiday in the sun. Is child labour allowed? Or can we call it character building and bonding between father and sons? Luckily for them, it is the high season for summer fetes and so tomorrow night we return to the fete in Therondels with most of the people we have enjoyed good times with over the past year. Most definitely an experience which cannot be had in the UK.

Beforehand, an aperitif tonight at Marius and Denise’s. For the boys, this is an introduction into French living, which won’t be open to most of the people holidaying on the Cote d’Azur. I only hope, as we do, that these are the times they remember in years to come. The simplicity of people who don’t judge, don’t assume, but open up their homes and drink cupboards to spend a few hours amongst friends. Not even the best pub in England can offer the same sentiments.