In Gordon we trust....

Now that we are homeowners (careful!) in France, the work lies stretched out before us with no end in sight. It will be like the Forth Road bridge, once we’ve actually built the bridge. 7 acres of untamed wilderness waiting to be honed into a paradise complete with zones (breakfast, morning coffee, lunch, post lunch nap, book reading, afternoon tea, gin o’clock, dinner, star gazing, growing stuff to eat) With that in mind David and I bimbled over to the garden tool shop in Northampton ready to fill the Landy with petrol powered garden busting paraphernalia. Strimming was high on the list and I stood in awe at the array of machines available for purchase . Why would you need to spend £1000+ on a strimmer? What would it do in addition that a model for £200 wouldn’t do? High powered flossing? Macrame? Dog grooming? Back, sack and crack? Apparently it was all in the attachment potential and options. It’s interesting how different brains look at things. Faced with a strimmer that could be converted via an attachment and some bizarre deployment of inerlocking tools into a 65bhp yard sweeper, David’s brain said “ooooooh spinny attachment thing, must have”, mine said “scary mechanical thing which will outwit me”

Gordon the Garden Tool salesman had us sussed. He stepped in where others would fear to tread. “Guys, I think that we should limit your options to the first three from the left”

What was it that our man bags and perplexed faces conveyed to him which instantly put 18 strimmer models out of our reach for perpetuity? Would we ever be able to graduate onto them?

We were deftly steered to a lovely red model. We both went “ah Honda”, must be good.

“Are you familiar with how to put on a harness boys?” inquired Gordon. Amazingly we took to it and before long we were dry strimming the carpet as if we were born to do it.

Having dealt with strimming, we then needed to move onto log and tree issues of which we have many. The chainsaw department beckoned. A wall of 50 different models stood before us. I heard the music to The Planets in my head as Gordon gestured with a sweep of the arm like one of the dolly birds on a 1980s game show revealing the Mini City E and matching fridge freezer from behind a tinselly curtain.

We stood in awe. We gaped and we contemplated. I think I heard David squeak. Then Gordon spoke,

“Well you’re only going to need to consider three of these machines lads”                

What?! Why? How did he know we didn’t own France’s only giant Sequoia forest? Huh? What if I wanted the one at the far right rather than the one at the far left? After all it was such a sleek looking one with rather a pretty shape to the engine cowling and I just loved the shade of orange….somewhere between a Jaffa Cake and Victoria Beckham.

I don’t know what Gordon the Garden Tool salesmen did as he ran us through different combinations of chainsaws but at the end we were terrified. He talked about chain tightness, chain slackness, chain sharpening, chain lubrication and at that we were in the middle of a chain reaction. We wandered over to the saw section and spent £12.99 on a bow saw. In any case, the pushing and pulling required had to be good for tricep development.

I felt a huge wave of impostor syndrome sweep over me as I loaded up the Landy with my new petrol driven weed basher and related paraphernalia. I also felt a great deal of excitement about being able to do something with my French home that would be meaningful. I’d done enough dreaming. The house had sat amidst a wilderness for almost 70years and it was time to liberate it and give it its rightful personality back.

The next step was to point the Landy towards Dover and crack on…..

Ho ho ho, Green Giant....

I had an automotive road to Damascus recently. Well actually the road to Correze. The problem with a Volvo which is very pretty (I know that’s an oxymoron) but prone to failures of trim is that you don’t really want to get it dirty. You certainly don’t want to throw pieces of agricultural machinery in the boot let alone a wet dog or two. There was only one conclusion. It had to go. No more shiny fake wood. No more air conditioned bum. No more turbo charged creamy leathered Parker Knoll for the motorways.  Something more serviceable and practical was needed. Something you could swill out and climb a mountain in. Something that said, “I’ve gone from dull executive type on a career path to an occasionally lost but more humble and happier I’m not sure exactly what yet”

I think that’s how I found myself in the Landrover dealership of a Saturday morning. “Would you like a frothy cappuccino from our Swedish cappuccino machine Suh?”… don’t mind if I do…. “What can we tempt Suh with this morning? Has he seen the award winning Evoque?” Even if I could afford it, something that was inspired by Victoria Beckham wasn’t likely to get me through the snow with a load of logs…

“I was wondering if you had any old Landrover Defenders?” I stopped short of saying “that no body wants and which need a good home because that’s about all I can afford”…  I think my face probably communicated it though.

I was discreetly moved to one side, a bit like Norman Wisdom turning up somewhere posh in one of his films. I was politely seated next to the accessories – cups, kagools and fleeces bearing the Landrover logo and business card holders and shiny pens bearing the Range Rover logo. After enough time for my dreadful frothy coffee to congeal and go cold a nice man came and introduced himself. John of Used Sales. It sounded momentarily like a title, such as Ann of Cleves, or Lawrence of Arabia  but hopefully with a slightly less dire outcome.

I explained what I was after and why I needed it. I probably looked almost convincing but not enough for John of Used Sales to say “have you ever been in one?” This was code for “are you mad? It’s way too butch for a prissy parking sensor heated seated electrically folding mirrored homolulu like yourself”

Fair question. I had actually but I could not remember what it was like. I seemed to remember stepping out of one as a child and plummeting for what seemed like an eternity.

Never the less John of Used Sales decided he might have just the thing for me…. Ushering me out the back door, he took me into a compound. Amidst a pile of broken cars and trade ins too common for the forecourt, stood a green beast. Dirty, shabby but standing tall and in full length van version. A 2003 Landrover Defender 110 Hardtop to give her her full title. She spoke to me. She said “take me to France and let’s run away together, let’s be born again together and live happily ever after”. I didn’t kick tyres, suede loafers would come off worse against these Michelin monsters.  I did know however that there and then a test drive beckoned.

Once I’d climbed inside (literally) I saw that the door handles were Morris Marina circa 1978, the switchgear Mini/Maxi circa 1970-80, I was in retro heaven and no-one was going to take me out of it. All I needed was a pair of Farah slacks and a Farrah flick and the picture was complete.

No buttons, not even a rev counter. No dials or digital displays, no automatic anything. I felt that this reflected the new me. Simple, stripped back and hopefully functional.

However this new form of driving would need a transition and you could take the boy out of the Volvo but not the Volvo out of the boy. “John, my window seems to be a tad foggy, is there a demisting button for it?” John of Used Sales coughed and spoke seamlessly, “Use ya sleeve mate”

As I bumbled and bounced along the road, re-acquainting myself with the concept of a clutch the, car made me smile. It made me realise that in the grand scheme of life an extra ten seconds to get to 60 mph meant you actually observed the scenery around you. The deal was done. John of Used Sales could take Marion of Milton Keynes for a curry that night.

When I got home and explained I’d sold the cow for a bag of beans, my only defence was “Well the Queen has one” to which David of Much Patience quietly replied “Yes dear but she also has 25 Rolls Royces”

There was nothing left to do but plan the big trip…. Take the big beast to France and put her to work on the things she was bought for. The house is now ours and the fun can begin…….

Greek tragedy might lead to a French revolution, it's all good in the end

It’s a momentous week for us. And it has nothing to do with Archie’s impending hair cut . We have in our hands THE contract. The one which will transfer ownership of Le Monteil to us.We’ve survived the eight week period where the neighbours could buy it. None of them have clubbed together and so we’re on our way with fabric swatches and machinery we won’t have a clue how to switch on let alone use.

Because signing the contract requires an attention span longer than is necessary for seeing the six o clock news through to the weather, David is in charge of overseeing that. He will sit me down with a pen and guide it across the paper. As is usual in such circumstances he will hold a piece of chocolate in his hand and like he does with Woody, reward me only when I have been a good boy. Anyone who thinks I am being “colourful” in my description of the situation obviously weren’t around when I needed to fill out my last tax return. 

I have the task of obsessively following the downfall of Greece and I don’t mean a re run of the fall of the Mycenaeans. This is so we can transfer THE money at an appropriate time. Don’t get me wrong I am not being mercenary but we are watching the euro like Simon Cowell watches the ratings for The Voice.

In the meantime the tortuous process to sell Greenwood House continues. I say tortuous  because it’s heart breaking. More for David than for me. He knows every rose by name and has watched everyone of them grow. The wisteria (or theMiddleton sisters plant as I call it – smells very fragrant but climbs like buggary) has grown from nothing to something so beautiful you can quite simply just sit and look at it. It’s where we brought Archie home when he fitted in the palm of my hand. First thing he did was puke on the carpet after his first ever car ride. I actually miss that Saab with its cute between the seats ignition and mini wiper blades on the headlights. What? Oh back on track…

The worst bit is welcoming people into your home with faux glee that you’d avoid ever inviting to a dinner party. “Does the price reflect the furniture?” or my favourite, “Have you ever thought about building a downstairs toilet?” No, because the one you’ve just used is plenty enough.

David and I have long discussions after we go to bed about what the UK bolthole should be. It’s like communism and fascism coming together, they espouse different ideologies but you know eventually they’ll meet round the back…..

Well Iron Girdle has a new buddy. Mr Hollande. Naturally we were following the election with close interest. The last famous Mr Holland we were remotely interested in was in a bar in Amsterdam and had the first name Gay.  But Iron Girdle what the hec  were you wearing at Camp David? It was a sort of lavender pant suit. Way too girly and woman at House of Fraser for the current state of the European Union. I think if we all have to put up with endless Robert Peston as a symbol of how dire things are, the chocolate pant suit shouldn’t be retired just yet….

Don't raise the roof.....it's a sore point

I took a break from writing whilst France was going too painfully slow. If felt wrong to write the equivalent of tumbleweed as nothing was really happening. The roof wasn't going on (in fact bits were falling off), the septic tank was still only real in our imaginations - even though I have no idea what one looks like, it's been a green equivalent of the Beatles Yellow Submarine in my mind for ever and Googling it would just spoil it. My energy came to a halt like a ten tonne truck doing an emergency stop to save a squirrel. Then I became all philosophical. There were other things in my life and maybe I'd let France become all too consuming. I parked France. On a shelf marked "A big fat lesson for Tom to learn some patience and breathe and look around him" Ironically in my bid to get some space in my head and life and to gear down I'd turned the vehicle for that into my new daily sprint. This time it took me 3 weeks to learn that and not 39 years. I walked dogs, read, nurtured my work network and spent time with people dear to me. I spent time with my mother during a difficult time in hospital for her. I also unexpectedly said goodbye to someone who'd been a dear part of my life since I was very small. Someone who'd been pivotal in introducing me to the value of the land and all that it yields for human kind. A farmer who'd planted an early subconscious seed of future French life in my 5 year old brain. Thank you David and rest in peace.

My David and I decided we needed to re acquaint ourselves with all things French, but particularly Le Monteil and our old roof with slates missing. We strapped on the loose bits of trim and Volvo'd ourselves to the Limousin for a weekend. Yes there was the inevitable cheese, wine and strong coffee and croissant for breakfast but more than that we went to the house. As we wound our way down the track, we saw spring desperately trying to make an appearance after the worst winter on record. We sat in front of our cattle stalls (or future en suite as we like to call them) and imagined how it was going to be when we finally took possession. Tables in the meadow full of food and laughter in the summer, hammocks in the trees, smoke from our wood burners in winter. We saw deer skittering away from us, bounding deep into the forests as we hiked the hills around the house. We saw views we'd not yet seen and stood in awe as fields, hills, forests stretched out in a 360 degree radius from us. Then we got pissed. Really pissed. Wake up in the night with your tongue stuck to the pillow and your pants round your ankles pissed. God French wine is good. We were restored... and that's how we skipped back to Britain and submitted our planning paperwork which should hopefully push the sale through.....

Of course as I write, elections are happening in France. But what about Mme. Mayor? Is she up for re-election? I've grown rather fond of her in absentia and have implicit faith in her as her pen hovers above our planning paperwork......please don't replace her. Future citizens #86 and #87 need her....

As for Iron Girdle, she seemingly is no longer news worthy. Or has abandoned her post.Surely not. As Greece metres out its emergency pocket money, emergency summits have become soooooo passee...I miss the chocolate brown trouser suit and helmet hair. They are always so reassuring as they bounce on the scene of the latest financial mishap. Although rumour has it she's plugging "Spain" into the sat nav of her 7 series as we speak......that should send the Euro towards a teak garden set and matching steamer chair........

We're not even going through the motions yet...

I think I might have had a bit of an episode this week. It wasn't a full on diva -esque Prince Philip rant but it nearly headed in that direction. So the roof HASN'T gone on because our new chum the mayor has decided that if we're going to move into the house it needs permission in our name and not of the people who are selling it. So we shot ourselves in the foot by going to see her and enthusing about our plans, bouncing into her office with ipads full of artists impressions of our barn. It's fine for a roof to go on for A.N. Other as part of the selling process but when it's specifically for people with names and faces, a chain saw on their ebay watch list and a copy of Grow Your Own by the side of their bed then it's not alright. No I don't get the logic either. But when I asked if she was likely to approve the new roof I was assured "of course, she wants you to move in so she can have your taxes", I suppose when most of your other citizens have a bell round their neck and answer to Daisy or the French equivalent we must be hot to trot, fiscally speaking.

If that wasnt bad enough the septic tank hasn't gone in either for the same reason. Catering for anonymous effluent is fine but as soon as you think you might know to whom the effluent belongs it needs more permits than a mini break in Tripoli.

And then there's the front door... we think it's not wide enough to take most furniture so we will need to widen one of the doors into the barn. I think we might just do that.......


We had a dress rehearsal for developing gites last weekend. Well low grade corporate espionage with buns for tea. We went and stayed and in a Landmark Trust house for the weekend. No we will never be able to compete with them on architecture and roccoco mouldings but I am hoping we can show them a thing or two about hospitality and making life simple for your guests; like providing matches to light the fire and Scrabble. The Landmark Trust take a somewhat puritanical view to modernity. There was no TV, no wi-fi and no radio. The only books they had were terribly learned on subjects i'd have needed to look up if there was Googling options. I was like a caged tiger 48 hours in and realised that in France I would have to acquiesce and invest in satellite televison. It might even be a good way to perfect my French unless France too has endless programmes about house buying and renovation... "Homes under the Red Tape"? or for the even more stressed "Sedation, sedation, sedation", more likely though "60 month makeover"

Where is Iron Girder? I've not seen her in public since that chap poured those beers down her neck. I've decided she's probably hiding as she now realises she's lent all her money to Greece who will still need lots more and that's before Spain and Portugal knock on her door before going to wonga.com

I'm feeling a bit karma

I've felt at a real crossroads this week. In an almost entirely good way. Having been frustrated at the pace of change, I decided that it wasn't worth ulcer-ising ones self over things that were almost impossible to influence any more than I currently am. I hate having my photo taken and it's never a good outcome but to mark this moment in history I got a friend to take some. I want to be able to look back at them and say "that was the moment aged 39.5 that you deliberately through everything that was beautifully fixed and working up into the air. You stretched your relationship and tested your resilience to new heights. Nutter"

I do feel caught in an emotional air lock if I am honest. Not quite finished old job, not quite started new life... contracts signed on French house, showing people around the UK house.

On the last point, David Mees has tried hard for 12 years to get me to pick up my undergarments instead of stepping out of them somewhere convenient. He's failed. Having strangers wandering around our home has done the trick...in fact dogs and David Mees are terrified of me when I get into "scented candle mode"...it's what happens when Christine calls to say "Good news! I have a viewing for you"... I charge around lighting the candles (Jungle Jasmine - sounds like a female porn star but never mind) and shoving things randomly under beds and into cupboards. So far this exercise has lost us a set of car keys, an ipod and a dog lead. All to be found when we move out but I am missing "30 disco classics for driving"

The French contract is on it's way to us, we then send them some money and wait 8 weeks then it's ours! I felt I needed to put some karma in the karma bank account for our good luck this week. An opportunity presented itself when rescuing an Alsation called Louie who'd escaped from his home. He was a failed police dog - he'd failed the biting test, fairly evident when he wanted to sit on my knee and love me as I tried to drive him home.

Friday night took us to a dinner party of 10... we met a fantastic guy, pushing 60 who ten years ago bought a house in France. We swapped notes on the experience especially dealing with the French legal system. He recounted taking Carrefour bags full of money to the notaire. I rather hope we can use electronic banking or certainly better bags. At the end he looked sadly at me and said "It was the most stupid thing I've ever done" - my heart sank into the profiteroles and I must have worn it on my sleeve. He smiled, leant over and touched my hand. "selling it again dear boy, selling it again. I should have kept it and moved there"

May the 4th be with us....

I'm starting to think I've started, or more likely become a member of a secret society rather like the Free Masons but more cheese and wine orientated. Before you think I've bought a new pinny, I'm at pains to point out that it's a club of people who've moved to France or who are contemplating it in secret. People keep coming up to me in places like the coffee queue at work and letting me know they're thinking about it, they've got French property websites squirreled away in their favourites. Other people stop me whilst out walking the dogs to tell me about their friends who've done it and who are enjoying it massively. I am collecting names, numbers and email addresses. There seems to be common themes to the gallic exodus. "They wanted a different pace of life", "they wanted to downsize and enjoy the countryside" - no one seems to be moving to large city France. No-one seems to be doing workwise what they did in the UK. The "truth" which is spoken through innuendo, metaphor and occasionally body language in the form of Les Dawson-esque expressive lip movements is that the escapees were seeking a more values based existence. They were seeking some kind of spiritual re-energising .One in which agriculture, eating a local harvest and being content with less material goods is the norm. It's a bit like going back to the 1950's without the ricketts, spam and smog.

Forget whether the destination for all of these people is France. What is it we're all running from and what are we all seeking that we're not getting where we are? Maybe we're the new hippies and France is the new commune. Ipad the new tambourine. Armagnac the new wacky backy.

My bit of the commune will still have a dishwasher. I asked my electrician this week whether we can take British appliances to France.. "just change the plug mate"..

Well thereby lies a problem. Plug fitting is my Star Wars. I've never done it. Never envisaged it either. I know Alec Guinness was in it but I cannot do it. And in the same vein I will have a house full of adaptors you buy at the airport... 23 at the latest count.... the Empire does strike back, three pins rule....

By the way we have an initial completion date of May the 4th....