 Lorna is used to my whims, which she knows full well are unlikely to last long, and usually listens, agrees and forgets, but this idea she grabbed with both hands. Before I had a chance to move onto new ideas like buying Harley Davidsons, learning to fly, breeding tortoises and learning ‘circus skills’ she had researched French weather patterns, booked several appointments with ‘immobiliers’ (estate agents), booked the flights and we then spent some happy months looking at a variety of properties. We had several priorities, the main ones being no property needing work, countryside views, easy access by ferry and flight, decent bars within walking distance and a peaceful and safe environment. We managed four out of five. Unfortunately, the decent bars within walking distance fell off the priority list. The area
We settled on Charente-Maritime, most easily described as being on the left-hand side of France, by the Atlantic, two-thirds down. This area is dominated by the Ocean weather, with strong winter gales, torrential rain, interspersed by beautiful blue skies and mild weather. Something we seem to have lost in Britain, it has four differing seasons; warm Springs, hot Summers, warm, lazy Autumns and Winters generally about 5 degrees warmer than Britain, but with frosty nights and occasional snowfalls. A mainly agricultural landscape, dominated by vineyards, barley, sweet corn and, of course, acres and acres of sunflowers.  We knew the Charente to be a beautiful river, meandering through the area, docile in summer, but in the winter it goes wherever it wants to go, when the flood plains are extended perhaps 1000 – 2000 metres and riverside roads are often cut off. In the summer it is used by pleasure craft, and many of the locals are content to spend evenings and weekends with their friends, spinning yarns as well as reels, catching fish for the table, or eating in one of the many temporary restaurants that spring up along the rivers’ edge.  The Maritime part of the name refers, of course, to the Atlantic coastline. This consists of about 200-300 miles of sands and forests extending from La Rochelle, past Bordeaux towards Biarritz.
Apart from the public holidays, the beaches are so large and so available that they appear to be deserted. This photo was taken on August Bank Holiday.It is an affluent area, historically gaining wealth from Brandy, or rather Cognac, named after one of the major towns, wines (Bordeaux, Medoc, Graves and Sauternes) and agriculture. HistoryWe didn’t realise until we had started to visit tourist attractions that Britain and France had fought long and hard for many centuries over the area.Embarrassingly, the area is scattered with many ruins that weren’t ruins until the ‘English’ armies knocked them about a bit throughout the 14th and 15th centuries. Then the ‘English’ navies went back in the 1700’s, causing maritime forts, eg Fort Boyard, to be built.  Before then, it was part of the Roman Empire and our local town, Saintes, has an original amphitheatre built around 40AD where for many years gladiatorial contests were held in front of crowds of up to 17000 people – all seated!!Most recently, the area was fought over in 1944. Despite the area being invaded many times over the last 2000 years, much of the old architecture, starting with Galleo-Roman remains, through the rise of wealthy religious groups building great churches and then rich merchants building huge chateaux and estates, is still in good condition and well cared for. Many of the estates are still owned by the original families, some living in genteel poverty, while others appear to be captains of industry. Our property After seeing many properties, we found a relatively new bungalow, requiring only cosmetic work, in about an acre of garden.Surrounded by fields, it is on the edge of a hamlet, with the nearest neighbours about 100 metres away. Close to the Charente River, it is on the top of a small hill, ensuring that the river could never reach the property, and with long views all around.  We have rural views of about 6 miles at the rear, 2 miles at the front and on one side, and we can see three houses to the other side.An added bonus is that because it is on a small hill, in warm weather we have a constant gentle breeze which the local mosquitoes and flying bugs appear to dislike, preferring the river areas. The baker is 2 miles away; the nearest butcher is 3 miles and the nearest supermarket 8 miles. But a butchers’ van and a bakers’ van call every other day. My wife fell in love with the place and we bought it, not knowing that we were also buying into a radical change of living and social standards. The neighboursO n the day of exchanging contracts, the seller mentioned in passing that we would be seeing them ‘later that day’.On idly enquiring what he meant, he casually stated that the neighbours were organising a welcome party. ‘How kind’ I said. ‘Where is the party?’ ‘At your house, of course!’ ‘But our furniture has not arrived’ ‘No problem!’ And so we met for the first time all 21 of our new neighbours. The men arrived carrying tables, chairs, home made wine and brandy (don’t ask). The women carried glasses, table ware, and home made food and cut flowers from their gardens. By chance we could supply a music centre and CD’s. After some introductions, the neighbours made themselves at home, found the CD’s and with cries of ‘Oo la la, English rock et roll!!’ we had a party on our hands. Considering that 21 people spoke no English, and we spoke what we had thought was adequate French, but soon discovered it to be inadequate, we forged an Entente Cordiale. More wine and home liquor was fetched, the party stretched into the night and eventually with many kisses from men and women alike everyone departed, leaving a house full of party debris…. The next morning everyone was back to clear up the house, leaving only some wine and brandy as gifts. And so it has continued. The neighbours have accepted us as ‘The only English in the village’ and look after us, knowing that we don’t quite understand the social strands and currents of local life but we mean well. But they are very kind….. One evening we heard a knock on the door. I answered it, to be confronted by a man as wide as he was tall. Slightly comforted by the way he took his hat off in a deferential manner, I smiled and asked him if I could help. ‘The mayor has phoned my sister. She phoned me and told me to come to see you. The mayor is worried that you may not know that there will be some strong winds tonight and be sure that you lock everything down’. Not knowing either the mayor nor his sister, we were a bit confused, particularly as the weather looked good to us. But we thanked him for his kindness, thought we had lost something in the translation, and took his advice. Sure enough, after a few hours the wind started to moan, building up to a fully fledged gale which howled for about 4 hours through the night. Without their advice the gazebo and parasols would have disappeared into the fields. 
Everyone is interested in our activities. We wanted to purchase 15 tonnes of gravel for the drive. Our friend at the bakers’ told us the best place to buy - at the Co-op(!!) – and we went along and explained what we wanted.We thought that gravel was pretty standard, but apparently not. Three customers joined in the conversation to advise on the best quality and we placed our order and gave our address. When the gravel arrived the delivery note address was written ‘the English, next to Michel’s house’. Over the next couple of days 15 of the 21 neighbours came along to see what I was doing and even the postman stopped his van, knelt to run some gravel through his hands and complimented me on choosing such a fine quality. We often have 5 or 6 neighbours outside the house for a chat at 10 or 11pm. My English friends theorise that I am like the English policeman in ‘Allo, Allo’ and make so many comical errors that when the French TV is boring the neighbours say ‘I fancy a laugh. I’ll just pop along to see Frank and listen to him mangle the French language again’. The animalsI am unmistakeably a city person. I get worried if I am more than 10 minutes from a retail park. I don’t see too many wild animals in Milton Keynes and I don’t want to want to know how to handle them.The first few nights in the new house I could hear strange noises from the loft. The neighbours said it was probably mice and that there was no problem. They all had mice and accepted them living in their lofts. They suggested we lay down poison, and mice were so small they didn’t smell after dying. This was a major culture shock for us. I didn’t want to kill anything and I didn’t want any smells of decaying rodents. But I thought they may eat their way through the ceilings and fall on me in the night. So I put some poison on a nice plate and put it in the loft. The next morning the plate was empty. So I put two platefuls in the loft and the next morning both plates were empty. I upped the ante to three plates in the loft and one in the garage. I mean, how many mice can there be in a loft? After a week I could hear no more activity in the loft and assumed that I had won the battle. I had, but not the war. They come back every autumn looking for somewhere warm to sleep in the day, then at night they decide to go out and find some food, making the noises which we had heard. One night we heard movement in the garden. Looking out, we saw some deer eating the windfall apples. We didn’t mind the deer.  A few nights later we heard some grunting in the garden. Looking out we saw a herd of wild boar rooting around in the windfalls, which again we didn’t mind too much as it was exciting. When we told the neighbours they were very unimpressed and it turned out that it was not unusual to see boor walking through the village and we should keep out of the way and not panic. They really are ugly creatures – the boar, not the neighbours.The following autumn we heard something BIG in the loft. It sounded too big to take a look at so we consulted the oracles. Their best bet was a pine marten – no problem as they eat the mice, but if we wanted the neighbours would come in and beat them to death (!!) – or possibly rats which had been dispossessed by floods and had wandered up the hill to find a warm billet until the river went down. The neighbours were not so relaxed about rats and suggested - guess what – poison in large quantities. By now I was not so squeamish, so I went to war and after a few days the movements stopped and the poison was no longer eaten, so either the rats went home or they died. Either way I was happy. Our first introduction to snakes was on one fine summer day when I was relaxing in the shade of a cherry tree with a book and a drink. Our nearest neighbour ran down the drive shouting ‘Help me, Frank. The dog is fighting a huge snake in our garden. It has its head in its mouth!!’ I knew this was one big dog. If the snake had its head in its mouth it was one huge snake. I admit I panicked. Expecting a fight I picked up a pair of gardening gloves and a gardening fork. I had thoughts of winding the snake around the fork like spaghetti, not an accepted method of fighting snakes, I’m the first to admit. When we reached her garden, the dog was well in control. Fortunately, the dog had the snakes’ head in its mouth, not the other way round, and he was cracking it like a whip. Once the snake was dead he allowed us to inspect it and it measured almost two metres. We were relating this story to another neighbour and he casually said ‘We’ve got a lot of snakes in our loft. We often see snakeskins where the snake has sloughed off the skin against the roof tiles. They make sure we don’t have any mice or rats. You can have some of our snakes, if you want.’ You don’t have conversations like that in Milton Keynes. I had for some time commented to my wife that the local men were quite staid and, for example, all had the same hair style. One day I felt the need for a haircut and decided to call into a recent find in the nearest big town (400 inhabitants); the gentleman’s hairdresser, newsagent and copy shop – well, one copier like my one at home – all in one shop, run by one woman. After exchanging greetings with the snipping hairdresser and a couple of old men waiting patiently in chairs which appeared suspiciously as though they had been brought from her kitchen, she stopped cutting hair and asked if we wanted a drink. ‘I’ll have a coffee’, said I. The old men stopped looking curiously at me and expressions of incredulity struck their faces. They all asked for and received glasses of cognac – at 9.30 am! It appeared that the old farmers weren’t waiting for haircuts, but regularly walked into town and met up for a chat and a drink before the local bar opened. So I was next in the chair. ‘I’d like it a little long over the ears, tidy up the sides and short on top, please’ ‘Oh, and low at the back, please’ ‘Do you want a brush cut? ‘No thanks’ and went over the instructions again. ‘Do you want a brush cut? We did the same routine several more times, until I realised that she only did one style of hair cut. ‘I’ll have a brush cut, please’. The old men let out breaths of cognac-scented relief, and she started cutting, only to receive a customer who wanted a newspaper and a chat. After a while she restarted, to stop again to do some copying for a new customer, who wanted to tell her about the overnight death of an elderly neighbough, who of course, everybody knew and now discussed. I got out of the chair, poured myself more coffee, settled down with a magazine until I received her attention again. With much waving of her scissors to emphasise some point or other to the old men, she snipped busily away and I relaxed until I felt her cold steel in my ears, then up my nose and finally she trimmed my eyebrows. Et voila; a haircut and all facial hair trimmed for the princely sum of Ł6.00 including the tip. And I now understood why all the local men had the same hairstyle – you can have any style you want as long as it is a brush cut. So, do we have a change of pace and lifestyle on our visits? My last story demonstrates a difference. We decided to plant an ornamental hedge along one of the drives. There is a garden centre about a mile away, so we decided on the varieties of bushes we wanted and went down to buy a car load.  We gave the list to the owner and off he went to collect the bushes while we chatted to his wife. When he came back he said that he wouldn’t supply us with some of our choices and had chosen substitutes.As we had given some considerable thought to our choices, I suspected that he didn’t have the required bushes. ‘Don’t you have our choices?’ ‘Of course, but they are not for you’ ‘Why not? My neighbours’ trees do well’ ’Your choices will not do well in your garden. You are not here to water all the time, there is a breeze most days and the soil in your garden is not suited to your choices. Your choices will die.’ ‘Do you know where we live? ‘Of course. You have the white house on the right, on top of the hill. By the way, you will have to prune your apple trees this year’. My wife appreciated his help. I found it just a little bit scary. I realised that while we were admiring the view from the top of the hill, our neighbours were quietly watching us and our activities from the bottom of the hill. |