Closing Down for Winter

Lundi le 12 decembre dawned, or at least at 09h00 did when I woke up to a shinning sun is a brightly clear blue sky. Fast forward 8 and half hours to a small village in Normandy and it was so cold I couldn’t feel my hands by the time I’d unloaded my few things needed for a couple of nights at our holiday home before catching a ferry back to blighty. So it seems to be some truth in the stories I’ve heard that winters in the Loire are milder than up north!

Yesterday, I switched from solid digging (and I mean solid, as in the solid rock I’m now excavating) to clearing out assorted stable fittings and the original partly collapsed staircase from the corner of the barn ready for more reducing levels.

The first 2 metre section of steps was long gone, but the basic support structure (newel post, outer string and handrail) was still there. I’d found several dates inscribed in the stone upstairs, the oldest being 1812, so I was reluctant to demolish the steps, so set about dismantling them. To remove the lower structure, I took a hammer and drift to the two oak pegs of the mortise and tenon joints securing the handrail and string to the newel. The tapered pegs popped right out and the tenons slid out of the mortises like they were only assembled a week ago. Craftsmen knew how to build things well 200 years ago and we certainly wont mention the war, well not tonight Josephine ;~)

Digging out at the base of the stairs was relatively easy as there was an infill of sand and clay tile some 450mm deep. Besides salvaging some 30 odd tiles, which is a bonus, as you can find them for sale in depot ventes for several euros each, I uncovered a stoppered liquid filled glass bottle and put it aside for further investigation.

All in all, I’d excavated by hand, just about half of the 50 m2 floor area to a depth of half a metre and created an evolving spoil pattern in the back garden which will require some creative landscaping scheme if I haven’t got to load it all onto the truck and cart it somewhere else.

So here we are, the dig is officially closed for the season and I am writing this in Normandy, preparing to hop across the channel in a couple of days to spend a happy Christmas with the bride and family on the Isle of Wight, while outside the wind is doing it’s best to encourage the roof to fly south for the winter. Hopefully all will be well, but stay tuned for the next instalment and see how things progress!

Anyway, some have asked for more pictures, so here you go . . .

Restored workshop doors and no more ivy covered walls

Lots of shiny new manly tools waiting to be shown a good time

Spoil wars!

The old stable

To become the new kitchen

Napoleonic staircase

Lower section removed to storage

Horse medicine, witch bottle?

Hidden Treasures!

Mercredi le 23eme dawned the dry and overcast day I had set aside for gardening; namely cutting the grass and mauvais herbs behind the barn, before they grew so high, I’d need the brush cutter. 

The recently reconditioned lawnmower, which had lain dormant in our UK shed for some 10 years, started first pull and soon made mincemeat of the grass and (mainly) weeds and I received a wave from a local monsieur tending his allotment next door. Mmm, we seem to have a garden I told the bride so we went hand in hand to confirm this happy fact. Monsieur was still tending, so we introduced ourselves and he introduced us to his four chickens, expertly providing two eggs every day, which he said with a proud smile and proceeded to pull an armful of fresh leeks for us. We know from our little cottage in Normandy that this is typical neighbourly behaviour, yet the friendliness of our fellow humans in rural France still continues to bring us a warm happy feeling. 

Undisturbed for years

Having dispatched the high grass so easily, I next tackled the row of quick growing conifers which had taken over half the width of the drive leading to the hangar slash client parking, so choosing a bow saw and stout leather gloves, I set to work on a little more mass destruction and was soon unearthing interesting things from the undergrowth, some useful. First came a serviceable green plastic rain butt, thankfully empty, so easy to roll out of the way, then a couple of what passes here for 40 gallon oil drums and then a large brass tap, just the sort I’d spent weeks looking for in Normandy for a water feature. Then emerged a hunk of iron, part of something larger which to my delight turned out to be a complete harrow, small enough to be drawn by a horse or couple of small children when Dobin was busy and finally, a truncated conical concrete thingy. Possible the stem of some homeless gnome’s ex-toadstool, or fishing weight for Jaws, not sure which, but it will doubtless feature in a supporting role somewhere in Clos de la Rose next year. 

A bientôt, 

LC

Wildlife and Workshops

20 novembre, not so much a red letter, rather a red squirrel day today, as a lovely chap or chapess with an enormous fluffy tail ran right across the gate and into the rose bush in front of the little house this afternoon. Yet another attraction to mention on the website under wildlife and Monsieur, Madame or Mademoiselle Busy Tail joins the resident ranks of lizards, butterflies and numerous birds who share our space, as well as the large grey and white cat that seems to like sleeping in the back garden.  

We have been thinking how to attract further welcome guests into La Clos de la Rose, through planting and environment enrichment. We rather like the idea of a wild flower meadow, well perhaps a small patch of garden than meadow and a pond which can become home to aquatics and wandering dragonflies. We suspect our two cats will appreciate any fish we may be foolish enough to supply for them, as Magic and Misty will soon learn to hunt lizards too, much to our annoyance, but, hey, a cat’s gonna do what a cat’s gotta do!

On the building front, things are slowly progressing. The kitchen floor is still reducing in levels, now looking like a partially excavated basement and with the arrival of my half lifelong friend and old car and builder buddy, my workshop (strictly old cars!) has been taken over as his woodworking shop, as Mr Beast exerts his influence and finds a cosy place to park his white van!

We spent a day and a half buying and then fitting some agricultural looking building supplies to make the workshop secure from a home insurance point of view, as the bride so disliked all my tools, ladders and scaffold being stored in the kitchen. Personally, I felt more in touch with the project being so close to the means to build it, but I could see her point and the manly objects of creation now rest rather appropriately and dare I say even seductively in the workshop, ready for action at the drop of a hard hat.

Laters,

LC

Ha! Who Says The French Have Two Hour Lunches?

Saturday, Day 3 of life in France and I set my alarm last night for D Day. Delivery of the beds, fridge/freezer and the ever so needed washing machine, so essential for a builder chap!

I was up at 07h45, almost unheard of for me on a Saturday morning unless I’m going to a motor sport event or for some classic car fun. Knowing that the working day here usually starts at 08h00, I was taking no chances, but risked a two and a half minute excursion to the boulangerie for a pain au raison and a mid day quiche. Having cleared the bedrooms, utility and kitchen corner to receive the goodies the night before, I had little to do inside the house, except deflate Lilo Lill who had made me reasonably comfy the past two nights.

So I went back to lumber jacking and at 12h15 decided that the delivery team were tucking in to their statutory two hour lunch, so I may as well have mine. Mmm quiche avec lardons and Branston small chunk pickle and the regulation mug of Rosy Lee and sharp at 13h00 the doorbell; rang with the white goodies just half way into a great French institution. I just hope that their union never discovers this, as there will be a national strike as quick as you can say pass the pickle!

Anyroad, having apologised for my bad French, the two chaps quickly unloaded everything, brought it all in, assembled the beds, installed the washing machine and fitted the frigo in place and removed every last piece of packaging and left me feeling very well served. Top marks Conforama.

Right, I better go shopping now and fill the fridge/freezer with my weekly allowance.

As a treat tonight however, I’m particularly looking forward to eating at Le Bouchon Ponot

Laters,

LC

Red Letter Day

Thursday 11th October started in our small but perfectly formed farmhouse in Normandy with my architect chum Nick delivering breakfast with me doing the coffee. Nick and the lovely Rebecca are staying in their recent French acquisition a few minutes drive away, while all around them, various building tradesmen are wielding manly power tools in an effort to render it habitable. Now these fine pair are no wimps, for I called round to the des-res the night before and I swear that, once I’d got my truck un-stuck from all the mud and negotiated the drainage earthworks protecting this English couple’s castle, it was just as cold inside the house as outside. So Nick brought breakfast when he called round to collect a pair of oil filled electric radiators to redress the outside temperature inside the castle.

The day then progressed through a three hour drive to our own newly acquired piece of the Loire and my arrival was really the new beginning, as this is the day where I start my new life in France for real. Driving into Le Puy in warm sunshine felt like coming home and I had my happy face on as I was finally beginning the process of converting our lovely under maintained, but clearly loved group of honey coloured stone buildings into our vision of idyllic contentment. A work of passion I hope and I have a steadily growing schedule of early tasks to accomplish ahead of my retired builder buddy joining me for a very much working holiday in a few weeks time.

After unloading the truck and getting most things near where they should be, I conduct my little private ritual of walking the boundaries and inspecting what we have named Le Clos de la Rose. Everything is neat and tidy, although I’ll need to do some gardening soon and those quick growing conifers leading to the hanger need trimming with extreme prejudice if clients are ever going to park there . . . add a chain saw to the list! Marcel has left some further treasures for us as I discover a tiny school desk in one of the outbuildings. Was I ever that small all those decades ago to learn to write my name on such a institution as such a small school desk? I just can’t believe it now.

In the grenier of the pretty house is another even more nostalgic school desk and this has several pair of small leather boots, an animal’s yoke, doubtless to help haul the grape harvest and a beautiful cased clock. The clock is a real surprise and I must remind Marcel what a kind friend he has already become.

The cellars are still full of his wine, all carefully labelled with dates going back to 1989 and the occasional ‘n’est pas touché’ with the name of an owner added as a reminder. It feels good to have a cellar full of wine, even though it’s not mine and I’m happy to help my friend.

I’ve made a list of tasks to do tomorrow in my day book. This includes phoning my insurance broker in the UK to pay my car and household insurance renewal premiums, begin getting an internet connection and buy a gas bottle for the cooker, so I can start to feed myself properly, rather than rely on tonight’s delicacy of bread and butter spread with pate, with dessert of bread and butter spread with fig jam. As I’m writing this at the kitchen table I smirk, as I turn round to look at the oven and then twirl a couple of knobs and convince myself that (and I’m laughing out load now) it really is an electric oven! The gas bottle will operate three of the hob rings, the fourth also being electric. Note to self: why did the bride not tell me I could cook here straight away? Yes okay, I know that’s because I couldn’t cook beforehand anyway, but I found the situation funny!

Off to squish the lilo and get some sleep and look forward to the next great day.

 A bientôt.

 LC

Commencing Countdown, Engines On

With only a few days to go until we jump a ferry with a classic truck-full of essential trucs for the new property (it will be so good to get our UK house back by moving these essential things from every room . . . and I thought flat-packs were supposed to take up less space!), we’ve been seeing to a host of multitudinous last minute items. Hmmm, no matter how hard we work at the list, it always seems to have grown longer, not shorter at the end of every day!

I keep telling myself that this is normal and okay, so getting measured for a penguin suit for my niece’s wedding was actually off piste, gite wise, but was right on our programme’s critical path, as I’ll be spending almost all my time in France as from Monday and the wedding will be very much a joyous flying visit. 

I was reminded today that it’s now been a year since we first had our offer accepted for our new home and GHQ for the coming adventure. ‘Why on earth has it taken you so long?’ Well, we thought it sensible to sign the initial compromis subject to obtaining planning permission for the essential part of the renovation works we intend to carry out. Planning regulations bear comforting similarities to the English system and issues such as work to listed buildings, being in a conservation area, being in a national park, or within sight of a church for example, means a rainforest more of paperwork and months more time to get anywhere. Unfortunately we managed to tick every single one of these boxes and so a year later, hey presto, here we go  ;~)

LC

News!

Here I am sitting in the cosy downstairs of our little Norman maison secondaire, the rain pattering on the windows outside, Robert Palmer chattering through the speakers inside and with positive news of note. We complete on our Loire home in just a few weeks, on the 4^th October! The scary stuff is ramping up now and previously made plans begin the metamorphism into reality. I find myself making spontaneous notes randomly throughout the day to try to remind myself of countless tasks to be done: send drawings to the maçon, phone the bank to arrange for house and meagre contents insurance, MOT the truck and fix the exhaust before the 4th, etc.  This is reminiscent of being back at work, as I remember the daily joy of organising the projects of others and forever jotting notes in my day book.

Reality began to set in two days ago as I gaffer taped our permis de construire to the big metal gates . . . literally putting our stamp on the place and also inviting the locals to tell us if they object to our planning permission! I wonder if anyone will actually feel a need to say they don’t want us here in what we now think as ‘our village’, or will they welcome us with tacit indifference or perhaps as amusing foreigners, reserving judgement for later? We are rather hoping for the latter.

We spent a delightful three days and nights in the village, staying in two different B&Bs to check out how the locals ‘do it’ and were impressed with the standards. This is part of our learning curve and one which we feel particularly well qualified to do and a very enjoyable one at that. One night, we share an evening meal with the young owners and their children and marvel at the effortless ease and grace with which the evening progresses. We also love to host dinner parties and have our own effortless ease with good and interesting friends, but will we find the skill to do so with complete strangers and often not in our native tongue?

The vendange, or grape harvest, is in full swing all around us and tractors rattle through the village throughout the day, hauling trailers of ripe fruitiness to the 50 or so domains. White grapes first, followed in a week of so by the reds with the larger producers. We call in one evening to our vendors and find this honest hard working couple around the kitchen table with their daughter, son in law and two incredibly well mannered grandchildren sharing gossip and a bottle of local bubbles. Marcel, just returned home from a long day’s work, recognises us through the doorway and produces an extra pair of chairs and wine glasses before we are fully over the threshold. It has just turned 9pm and he was at the vineyard at 7am, yet we are welcomed into the heart of this happy family and made to feel very much at home.

I’m invited to look at something outside and us two chaps stride across the courtyard into his workshop where atop a trailer, sits three enormous plastic tubs with closed lids. These were picked yesterday, I’m informed, as a long handled sledge hammer is gently used for the daily maceration of the grape mush, which will be poured into the press at the end of the workshop after two further days. The odour of the fruit porridge is intoxicating and I’m honoured to be invited to share this part of the alchemy and hope to be able to taste the resulst of Marcel’s mum’s red grapes perhaps next year or soon after.

Back in Normandy, the sun is now shining brightly and the bleating of Berton’s sheep at the end of the garden has replaced both the sound of rain and Mr Palmer, so I’ll go and attend to some pruning of my own in a minute and discourage the wisteria and honeysuckle from invading the spaces behind our bedroom shutters and under the roof coverings!

A bientôt,

LC    

Breaking News

Rats, we were aiming to complete the sale any day now, but alas, the grape harvest is upon us and our little village is working silly hours, seven days a week during September getting all those tasty raisins in, so it seems I have a few more weeks to learn French!! 

Always look on the bright side, haha!

LC

;~) 

Rust In Peace

I guess you think you can see where this is probably going. The bride was thinking that I was impressed far more by the significant garaging space than anything else on this dank morning and I do seem to remember receiving a slap for verbalising my thoughts that we could acquire more old cars, but my mind was enjoying itself as it could hear inquisitive, yet not unfriendly French voices talking to us.

Leaving a broken Renault and a white van to rest in peace in one of the garages, we gazed at the house. It was displaying some fine tuffeau detailing at the higher levels, away from several successful attempts elsewhere to deface the facades with replacement white plastic double glazing, which unfortunately is infecting France at an even more alarming rate than McDonalds, although still a very long way behind the UK on both those fronts. The aspect of the windows on the courtyard façade had been changed from the correctly proportioned portrait format to single paned landscape units which I’m sure were a very popular price and also lets in light, but there any similarity with proper and correctly proportioned windows suitable to the building ended. A great pity. Inside however, we forgot all about the racing car and yacht wall paper in the bedrooms, as the salon was a wonderfully well kept treasure of a hundred years or more with an imposing stone fireplace and chimney and a patterned tile floor to drool over, which we certainly did.

We then both fell for the charm and character of ‘pretty house’ a small and perfectly formed two storeys of stonework and tomettes and a stone external staircase which took you back to the days of D’Artagnan as well as the first floor and just perfect for a gite, but so far, a precise location for a second gite, other than somewhere in the long row of dependences, was eluding us and in all fairness, the property was not yet speaking to us both.

So after an interesting morning including some interconnecting cellars with history and stocks of wine to be explored hopefully at a later date, we were about to leave and in preparing to bid Madame merci and au revoir, she asked if we would also like to see the garden. There is a garden we asked with genuine surprise? The agent’s details had so far failed to mention the extensive garaging, despite his manly gender, so we supposed a mere garden was even less unimportant to him. We unwound the locking wire from a hidden gate and wandered into a sizeable west facing plot, which paced out to about 550 square metres and overlooked nothing other than vines more or less as far as we could see! Imagine the scene, says me to the bride . . . a warm summer evening, the heat just going out of the day with the sun sinking slowly towards the golden horizon and there we are, sitting on the poolside deck sipping gin and tonics and wondering why we hadn’t done this years before.

Sounds like a plan!!!

I'm dreaming of a pool deck!!

LC

So where do we go from here?

Work was never so much of a chore, rather more often a joy for the pair of us and unencumbered as we were with little ones, proved a vehicle to spend much of our waking hours with. However, after several decades of hard work and play, we became aware, almost subconsciously, that despite our fortunate good health and certainly happy life, we may have actually been getting older. Obviously the cycle of work, eat, sleep, even when punctuated as often as possible with jollies away, could not go on forever. We became determined to change our lifestyle to a happier, healthier and more worthwhile one which could feed our minds much more than just our pockets.

As confirmed Francophiles, our destination was undisputed, so we began to consider a question a buddy of mine asked me years ago on one of the numerous lads’ camping trips to Le Mans, namely, ‘What would you do if you were to live here all the time?’ I was a little taken aback all those years ago when I struggled for a ready answer and was obviously nowhere near ready to contemplate such a move. Fifteen years later, we are of clear mind and want to live in a place we love, to immerse ourselves in local culture and indulge ourselves in allowing some of our passions to become more a way of life. The ‘immersion’  part of the plan will happen by simply being there and since we’ve always rather liked most of our fellow humans, we thought we might like them to come and entertain us, by spending some of their holiday time at chez nous and voila . . .  the idea to run some holiday cottages, or gites, emerged.   

We’ve been most fortunate in having and extensively using a delightful little farmhouse in Normandy for many years and as lovely as it is for most of the year, the thought of spending long, cold and snowbound winters in northern France is not a happy one, so we were drawn back to the Loire valley, the place where, all those years ago, we first found the truth in the rumour that the French knew a thing or three about food and wine! On our first foray in September 2010, we spent a delightful week in a gite which was part of a lovely set up owned and run by an English couple. The village was truly beautiful and set among vineyards and the peace oozed timeless charm with character to spare. The gite business was also for sale. Two gites in fact, with owner’s accommodation, swimming pool, well tended gardens, numerous outbuildings, plenty of parking and only 70 seconds walk to the boulangerie for those all important fresh breakfast croissants!

After much discussion, a second visit some weeks later and extremely careful consideration, we made our preliminary offer . . . but eventually just couldn't find that all important meeting of minds, but it's still a great place to enjoy quality relaxing time, supported by convivial hosts.

Still, all part of the learning process and a very useful one. We stepped up the search in earnest and visited many estate agents in many towns, inspected dozens of potential properties, all hugely entertaining, several ticking many of our boxes, but none really speaking that meaningful message to us.

One misty moisty morning weeks later found us in company of an immobilier of politeness and patience and one we now liked, as we made our way to view a property previously discarded as unsuitable.

First sight . . . what lies within?

It appeared to have insufficient land, outbuildings or garaging and the agent’s particulars showed a robust house, but one not over indulged with an abundance of attention for a few years, but the lady of the house was charming and was happy to let us take our time looking around her house and then spend an hour poking our way through the various outbuildings and cellars. I was impressed with the workshop, as it had an inspection pit and an engine hoist hanging from a roof beam and sufficient tools and equipment to let a visitor know that this was a place where serious messing about with machinery was done. There was another large garage as part of the barn and then we found a huge covered area where two derelict cars and a couple of ancient trailers were quietly rusting.

Okays, time for some sleep, so this will be continued soon . . . .

LC

Bonjour one and all

I've been promising myself a blog for months now, almost a year in fact, since we first started looking for suitable property in France's Loire valley to make a new home and a little enterprise to keep the bride and me out of too much mischief. The blog intends to both record our progress and let friends and potential visitors to chez nous, know what to expect, or at least some of the good bits, so here it is . . . a new beginning.


Sometime last century, probably the mid 80s amidst the new romantics and hot hatchbacks (I’d just bought my first proper sports car, a 1965 TR4 with rust as standard), we heard a rumour that the food was quite good in France, so having done the islands to death a dozen or so times and looking for something more cultural than hot bodies and sand with everything, we thought we might see if there was any truth in the rumour. In the intervening years, I’ve had just one bad meal (due to a dodgy snail I’m sure) and met scores of amazing people, several of whom have become life-long friends and we simply fell headlong into a so far limitless love affair with the French lifestyle, countryside, climate, culture, the emptiness of the roads, the people and their passion for life. 

Then of course, there is the view that these are only ‘holiday’ sentiments born of great times and fond memories and not what one might experience when being there for keeps, without the aid of rose coloured glasses! Well, perhaps, but then again, just what does one, or in our case two (with a supporting cast of two girl cats, a mountain range of books, a few guitars and old cars) actually do with the rest of your life, now that decades of work has provided both the means and the incentive to unplug the old and reconnect life into a new series of challenges?

Right, just do it!!

Time for a cuppa and to review the latest delivery from ‘Tool Station’ which will doubtless make light work of my imminent efforts to convert a 200 year old barn to a comfy home for us merry band of Anglais !

TTFN and more later.

LC