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 ;~)
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 4th 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 ‘ourvillage’, 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 and he was at the vineyard at , 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!
