June 2013
And the plumbing saga continueth, verily.
Verily, I sayeth unto you: is it not merely a small barn, with two simple souls?
And it came to pass that the warmth of the dwelling was nigh their undoing...
Yea.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Another day, another plumber
May/June 2013
...and another plumber withdraws citing personal reasons. (Roy's wife is standing by him. J.) He says he needs a career change and will be handing in his plumbing licence shortly. What is it about our small barn...? He was such a nice guy on site but after a month I wonder if he'd forgotten the beauty of our project!
(I also wonder if my asking for his ten-year guarantee certificate - pretty much mandatory in France if you want to make a living as a Tradesman - has something to do with his loss of excitement...)
After scrabbling on the internet we find a new English plumber (aka the Yorkshire terrier, Plumber 3) who lives nearby and seems to have serious street-cred. Why haven't we found him before? Why has he no kindly recommendations from the other English locals?
The weather is apparently improving, so landscaping can begin in a couple of weeks, once the ground dries up a bit. Pressure is starting to mount to get our plumber lined up to start.
But then follows huge discussion with the terrier around the heating and the type of boiler - wood pellet stove our favoured option because it'll be cheap to run and easy to refuel. But our terrier says anything that burns wood, of any type, needs a large buffer tank if it's going to be used to heat water. And we want to heat lots of water for our three heating circuits - underfloor heating, upstairs radiators and hot tap-water. Did we say before that we want the barn to be warm?
To-ing and fro-ing of opinion, much research on domestic heating. Much yawning and shuffling of feet by J.
I hear of a chap nearby who's recently installed a pellet-stove using a local contractor. I call the happy owner of the warm house who confirms that the system is indeed pretty solid and simple, has absolutely no need of any thermal 'buffer' tank (why would you need one?) and he recommends his local plumber highly. Who, by the way, speaks not a word of English. I hold my breath and start conjugating my vowels. Speaking French on the phone has never been my strong point. But Tom and Brian have also heard of this guy and they say he does a good job, so this seems a strong starting point. Tom rolls his eyes a little at me when I say I'm lame when it comes to speaking French on the phone. 'Get over yourself', I can almost hear our compatriots say. And they'd be right...
...and another plumber withdraws citing personal reasons. (Roy's wife is standing by him. J.) He says he needs a career change and will be handing in his plumbing licence shortly. What is it about our small barn...? He was such a nice guy on site but after a month I wonder if he'd forgotten the beauty of our project!
(I also wonder if my asking for his ten-year guarantee certificate - pretty much mandatory in France if you want to make a living as a Tradesman - has something to do with his loss of excitement...)
After scrabbling on the internet we find a new English plumber (aka the Yorkshire terrier, Plumber 3) who lives nearby and seems to have serious street-cred. Why haven't we found him before? Why has he no kindly recommendations from the other English locals?
The weather is apparently improving, so landscaping can begin in a couple of weeks, once the ground dries up a bit. Pressure is starting to mount to get our plumber lined up to start.
But then follows huge discussion with the terrier around the heating and the type of boiler - wood pellet stove our favoured option because it'll be cheap to run and easy to refuel. But our terrier says anything that burns wood, of any type, needs a large buffer tank if it's going to be used to heat water. And we want to heat lots of water for our three heating circuits - underfloor heating, upstairs radiators and hot tap-water. Did we say before that we want the barn to be warm?
To-ing and fro-ing of opinion, much research on domestic heating. Much yawning and shuffling of feet by J.
I hear of a chap nearby who's recently installed a pellet-stove using a local contractor. I call the happy owner of the warm house who confirms that the system is indeed pretty solid and simple, has absolutely no need of any thermal 'buffer' tank (why would you need one?) and he recommends his local plumber highly. Who, by the way, speaks not a word of English. I hold my breath and start conjugating my vowels. Speaking French on the phone has never been my strong point. But Tom and Brian have also heard of this guy and they say he does a good job, so this seems a strong starting point. Tom rolls his eyes a little at me when I say I'm lame when it comes to speaking French on the phone. 'Get over yourself', I can almost hear our compatriots say. And they'd be right...
Kick-off meetings
April/May 2013
G here. After Dave's difficult news, we realised that with Dave out of action, the floor of the barn couldn't go in because we had no-one to set out the drainage pipes in the concrete, let alone someone to set up our water and heating systems! It was dire news for the project and the weeks were marching by.
We asked Tom his thoughts, and between him and Brian our Electrician they pulled a few names out of the hat, one of whom was English and had done some good work with Tom's Dad's place in France. So I made a tentative contact with Roy, our Plumber 2, who was interested in taking on the project. An enormous relief.
I was going to visit Macau for work in about May, so why not extend the trip just a little and head off to France for the week beforehand. I set up meetings with Roy (the new plumber), Tom (the builder), Brian (the electrician), and Phil (the carpenter/joiner doing the front door) I also arranged to meet with Eparco, who were going to install the septic tank, to meet them there and do a final inspection and payment for the tank.
Eparco gulped a bit and agreed that of course this was a good idea and then went out to start the diggers. Nothing like being 'on the ground' to get people to jump around a bit, I discovered!
When I arrived in France the meetings went like clockwork - one thing I'll say for the French work ethic - when they plan to meet on site you can set your watch by their punctuality. Unlike the large majority of local 'tradies' in the Northern Beaches area of Sydney. Eparco had managed to finish off the septic tank installation and had even asked the government SPANC rep to come to site to meet with us so that she could do the final sign-off! And then Eparco took me over the entire installation and gave me careful guidance and a full photo-journal to illustrate how the project had progressed. Since they'd had to put in two more gutter-drain pipes to meet SPANC's requirements, they said they'd revise their quote and send me the bill for the whole project when they were ready. What a pleaseure it was to deal with them. That was two months ago and they've still not got hold of me for payment - I need to drop them a line one day...
I spent hours with all the other contractors running over details on site, and I think they're just delighted that I've now left them alone again. They do tend to go very very very quiet once I leave the country.
I also managed to get a deposit to the water board to get the water line laid to the property. The other half of the payment was required once they started the work (which was completed within a month or so).
During this week the public holiday of 1 May (and insanely silent time in France where nothing moves for 24 hours) I found myself nervously going to our neighbours with some muguet ('la porteur de bonheur') and being offered lunch and food, but I guess I find speaking French just too hard for any sustained length of time without J nearby to dilute the pressure. So I cried off and retreated to my motel room for the slow afternoon. Soup and slightly stale bread for supper was a decent compromise for me!
During the visit I also visited our Lawyer who I believe has the Title Deed, but because I'd given no warning they asked if I could revisit later once they'd dome some scratching around. I said I could do that during the summer, when J and I would be around for a holiday. Smiles all round...
Finally, I popped in to the tax office in Juillac to pay a smallish bill for processing the septic tank paperwork. It's a silent solitary office in a quiet town, with one car parked outside the office and the sun streaming onto the single guy inside clicking away on a computer. The charming guy behind his desk invited me to come in and have a look at his computer screen as he did some reserach into the Tax Fonciere that has been causing us some concern. And I watched as a screen popped up showing that no tax was owed. I'm sure this must be wrong but I'm not going to argue with the Tax Office and a Computer!
Once I'd got back to Australia, Tom kept us updated with progress news on the barn which essentially amounted to delays and more delays as the rain pelted down in France. One of the wettest Springs in years, it was to emerge. With the soil sodden there was no way that the groundworks could take place, let alone any other trades.
So now we wait...
G here. After Dave's difficult news, we realised that with Dave out of action, the floor of the barn couldn't go in because we had no-one to set out the drainage pipes in the concrete, let alone someone to set up our water and heating systems! It was dire news for the project and the weeks were marching by.
We asked Tom his thoughts, and between him and Brian our Electrician they pulled a few names out of the hat, one of whom was English and had done some good work with Tom's Dad's place in France. So I made a tentative contact with Roy, our Plumber 2, who was interested in taking on the project. An enormous relief.
I was going to visit Macau for work in about May, so why not extend the trip just a little and head off to France for the week beforehand. I set up meetings with Roy (the new plumber), Tom (the builder), Brian (the electrician), and Phil (the carpenter/joiner doing the front door) I also arranged to meet with Eparco, who were going to install the septic tank, to meet them there and do a final inspection and payment for the tank.
Eparco gulped a bit and agreed that of course this was a good idea and then went out to start the diggers. Nothing like being 'on the ground' to get people to jump around a bit, I discovered!
When I arrived in France the meetings went like clockwork - one thing I'll say for the French work ethic - when they plan to meet on site you can set your watch by their punctuality. Unlike the large majority of local 'tradies' in the Northern Beaches area of Sydney. Eparco had managed to finish off the septic tank installation and had even asked the government SPANC rep to come to site to meet with us so that she could do the final sign-off! And then Eparco took me over the entire installation and gave me careful guidance and a full photo-journal to illustrate how the project had progressed. Since they'd had to put in two more gutter-drain pipes to meet SPANC's requirements, they said they'd revise their quote and send me the bill for the whole project when they were ready. What a pleaseure it was to deal with them. That was two months ago and they've still not got hold of me for payment - I need to drop them a line one day...
I spent hours with all the other contractors running over details on site, and I think they're just delighted that I've now left them alone again. They do tend to go very very very quiet once I leave the country.
I also managed to get a deposit to the water board to get the water line laid to the property. The other half of the payment was required once they started the work (which was completed within a month or so).
During this week the public holiday of 1 May (and insanely silent time in France where nothing moves for 24 hours) I found myself nervously going to our neighbours with some muguet ('la porteur de bonheur') and being offered lunch and food, but I guess I find speaking French just too hard for any sustained length of time without J nearby to dilute the pressure. So I cried off and retreated to my motel room for the slow afternoon. Soup and slightly stale bread for supper was a decent compromise for me!
During the visit I also visited our Lawyer who I believe has the Title Deed, but because I'd given no warning they asked if I could revisit later once they'd dome some scratching around. I said I could do that during the summer, when J and I would be around for a holiday. Smiles all round...
Finally, I popped in to the tax office in Juillac to pay a smallish bill for processing the septic tank paperwork. It's a silent solitary office in a quiet town, with one car parked outside the office and the sun streaming onto the single guy inside clicking away on a computer. The charming guy behind his desk invited me to come in and have a look at his computer screen as he did some reserach into the Tax Fonciere that has been causing us some concern. And I watched as a screen popped up showing that no tax was owed. I'm sure this must be wrong but I'm not going to argue with the Tax Office and a Computer!
Once I'd got back to Australia, Tom kept us updated with progress news on the barn which essentially amounted to delays and more delays as the rain pelted down in France. One of the wettest Springs in years, it was to emerge. With the soil sodden there was no way that the groundworks could take place, let alone any other trades.
So now we wait...
Home again, home again, jiggety jig
May 2012-April 2013
G here. The next few months went ahead with the pace of a Fellini movie. Very colourful, very disjointed, and not much happened. Well, quite a lot did happen if I'm being completely honest, but it happened almost of its own volition.
To get the septic tank approved, the government agency SPANC had to get involved - and without SPANC's sign-off nothing would ever get processed by the Mairie, least of all our Building Permit. So Dave our plumber arranged to meet with the SPANC rep on site, and together they spent a careful few hours digging a hole and soaking it with water, then filling it completely with water to see how quickly it drained. As luck would have it the water refused to drain anywhere. So the decision was made - here's a difficult site that needs a synthetic 'Eparco' solution. No chance of an agricultural system of drainage tubes across the land, but two huge green underground tanks, the one to separate the waste and the other to allow the grey water to percolate through a zeolite bed, thereby purifying it before it would be allowed to dribble onto the stormdrain below our home.
Dave our Plumber was keen to put in a tank with coconut husks, which seem to do the same job as the zeolite except you have to replace the husks every ten years. Not a long time in septic tank terms. Even 50 years seems like too short a time to have to start opening hatches on septic tanks. But the Eparco system which uses zeolite was slightly cheaper and the zeolite is said to last 15 years with normal use. Hey, we're only going to be there on holidays so my hope is that the zeolite will last long enough for our grandchildren to be the first people to have to empty it.
The months ticked by as we waited for unknown intermediate government agencies to process the paperwork for the system, now driven by Eparco who were going to do the job. Oh, said the one government agency, on consulting records that pre-dated the Wars (the Napoleonic Wars), it seems that this property doesn't belong to you in the first place. Followed by rounds of letters to our lawyer and more deep silence before one day, miraculously, Eparco wrote to say that SPANC had given the go-ahead with only a few minor modifications to the drainage on the land. Yee har!
All the while, we were also processing quotes from our trusty and patient builder friends who worked their way through our painfully detailed analyses and questions, until we felt we could compare apples with apples. And in the event there wasn't a great difference in price between the two of them. In the region of less than 10%.
So the cut came down to who might be able to provide the best all-round help, given that we live so far away. With our experience of Elllie's abilities to cut through French paperwork, and the praise that Tom's former Clients gave us over the phone when we were researching, we finally made the call on Tom's side of the fence. Which was one of the toughest day's of the project, the darkest and the lightest at the same time, as we told one good builder that he hadn't been successful and another good builder that he had.
Tom's schedule was busy - he runs several jobs at differing stages, choosing progressing on the indoors and outdoors works in stages so he's always got something to do no matter what the weather. And he told us that he can't start for another few months and would like to get going in the Spring of 2013, when the worst of the winter is over and he could strip off our roof without risking water damage to our dense walls.
In the meantime, Christmas came and went and we sent postcards to our neighbours adjacent to us, our good wishes for 2013. And within a few weeks had back the most charming replies, with best wishes to us and our family. A great feeling of 'belonging' was starting to take root.
Of course the taxman didn't send us a Christmas card, or any card for that matter even though we knew that at least the 'tax foncier' - the land tax - was due. No matter how many enquiries I made by E-mail, no-one replied with any sensible answer as to what our small but growing tax liability was. Perhaps this is typical of government departments the world over, a sort of code of ethics held by all government agencies. But one day Ellie and Tom mentioned that the Mairie was concerned because Ms Factrice at the postal service had had to return an important-looking letter because we errrm didn't have a post box at the barn.
The idea of a post box did start to make sense if we were to expect official-looking letters. By sheer good luck Ellie had a spare one from another project that she could put at the barn, and if anything turned up in it she said she'd send it on to us in Australia. A small glimmer of light through the dark bureaucratic clouds that the French Tax Office were casting our way!
So now we had our Builder, our Septic Tank contractor, and all we needed was some good weather so Tom could start. Then Dave, our Plumber, contacted us to say that he had fallen seriously ill and couldn't take our project on after all.
G here. The next few months went ahead with the pace of a Fellini movie. Very colourful, very disjointed, and not much happened. Well, quite a lot did happen if I'm being completely honest, but it happened almost of its own volition.
To get the septic tank approved, the government agency SPANC had to get involved - and without SPANC's sign-off nothing would ever get processed by the Mairie, least of all our Building Permit. So Dave our plumber arranged to meet with the SPANC rep on site, and together they spent a careful few hours digging a hole and soaking it with water, then filling it completely with water to see how quickly it drained. As luck would have it the water refused to drain anywhere. So the decision was made - here's a difficult site that needs a synthetic 'Eparco' solution. No chance of an agricultural system of drainage tubes across the land, but two huge green underground tanks, the one to separate the waste and the other to allow the grey water to percolate through a zeolite bed, thereby purifying it before it would be allowed to dribble onto the stormdrain below our home.
Dave our Plumber was keen to put in a tank with coconut husks, which seem to do the same job as the zeolite except you have to replace the husks every ten years. Not a long time in septic tank terms. Even 50 years seems like too short a time to have to start opening hatches on septic tanks. But the Eparco system which uses zeolite was slightly cheaper and the zeolite is said to last 15 years with normal use. Hey, we're only going to be there on holidays so my hope is that the zeolite will last long enough for our grandchildren to be the first people to have to empty it.
The months ticked by as we waited for unknown intermediate government agencies to process the paperwork for the system, now driven by Eparco who were going to do the job. Oh, said the one government agency, on consulting records that pre-dated the Wars (the Napoleonic Wars), it seems that this property doesn't belong to you in the first place. Followed by rounds of letters to our lawyer and more deep silence before one day, miraculously, Eparco wrote to say that SPANC had given the go-ahead with only a few minor modifications to the drainage on the land. Yee har!
All the while, we were also processing quotes from our trusty and patient builder friends who worked their way through our painfully detailed analyses and questions, until we felt we could compare apples with apples. And in the event there wasn't a great difference in price between the two of them. In the region of less than 10%.
So the cut came down to who might be able to provide the best all-round help, given that we live so far away. With our experience of Elllie's abilities to cut through French paperwork, and the praise that Tom's former Clients gave us over the phone when we were researching, we finally made the call on Tom's side of the fence. Which was one of the toughest day's of the project, the darkest and the lightest at the same time, as we told one good builder that he hadn't been successful and another good builder that he had.
Tom's schedule was busy - he runs several jobs at differing stages, choosing progressing on the indoors and outdoors works in stages so he's always got something to do no matter what the weather. And he told us that he can't start for another few months and would like to get going in the Spring of 2013, when the worst of the winter is over and he could strip off our roof without risking water damage to our dense walls.
In the meantime, Christmas came and went and we sent postcards to our neighbours adjacent to us, our good wishes for 2013. And within a few weeks had back the most charming replies, with best wishes to us and our family. A great feeling of 'belonging' was starting to take root.
Of course the taxman didn't send us a Christmas card, or any card for that matter even though we knew that at least the 'tax foncier' - the land tax - was due. No matter how many enquiries I made by E-mail, no-one replied with any sensible answer as to what our small but growing tax liability was. Perhaps this is typical of government departments the world over, a sort of code of ethics held by all government agencies. But one day Ellie and Tom mentioned that the Mairie was concerned because Ms Factrice at the postal service had had to return an important-looking letter because we errrm didn't have a post box at the barn.
The idea of a post box did start to make sense if we were to expect official-looking letters. By sheer good luck Ellie had a spare one from another project that she could put at the barn, and if anything turned up in it she said she'd send it on to us in Australia. A small glimmer of light through the dark bureaucratic clouds that the French Tax Office were casting our way!
So now we had our Builder, our Septic Tank contractor, and all we needed was some good weather so Tom could start. Then Dave, our Plumber, contacted us to say that he had fallen seriously ill and couldn't take our project on after all.
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Permis de construire #1
April/May 2013
We spent our days poring over the plans and creeping around the large homeware stores (Lapeyre, Mr Bricolage etc) trying to make decisions regarding windows and doors, shutters, baths, showers, tiling and so on. Also many trips to the supermarché, which we love, as it gives us an opportunity to explore and try out different foods and ogle those we aren't yet game to try. Of course, our staple picnic is still bread and camembert and saucisson and fruit...
We drove around local villages and took a million photos of buildings or renovations; the pointing, the shutters, the windows and doors. We took notes of those we liked...and those we disliked, and why.
We explored le lac du Causse, outside Brive, where the lake stretches away into the distance and, so early in the year, is a placid reflection of the sky. Watchful villages gaze down on the occasional burst of activity at the lakeshore. Rather a lovely spot. Maybe Butlins-like in the summer, though.
Finally, on the second-last day in France, we met with Ellie to finalise the application for the permis de construire. We had to state our choice of windows, doors, shutters (and colour), as well as placement of the veluxes and so on; everything that would affect the outward appearance. Phew! At last, it was done, and Ellie could submit the application at the local Mairie.
Tick that box. Yeah!
We spent our days poring over the plans and creeping around the large homeware stores (Lapeyre, Mr Bricolage etc) trying to make decisions regarding windows and doors, shutters, baths, showers, tiling and so on. Also many trips to the supermarché, which we love, as it gives us an opportunity to explore and try out different foods and ogle those we aren't yet game to try. Of course, our staple picnic is still bread and camembert and saucisson and fruit...
We drove around local villages and took a million photos of buildings or renovations; the pointing, the shutters, the windows and doors. We took notes of those we liked...and those we disliked, and why.
We explored le lac du Causse, outside Brive, where the lake stretches away into the distance and, so early in the year, is a placid reflection of the sky. Watchful villages gaze down on the occasional burst of activity at the lakeshore. Rather a lovely spot. Maybe Butlins-like in the summer, though.
Finally, on the second-last day in France, we met with Ellie to finalise the application for the permis de construire. We had to state our choice of windows, doors, shutters (and colour), as well as placement of the veluxes and so on; everything that would affect the outward appearance. Phew! At last, it was done, and Ellie could submit the application at the local Mairie.
Tick that box. Yeah!
Tête de veau
01 May 2013
A group of cheery people sitting around a plastic garden table under an umbrella greeted us as we approached. Ivan and his mates shook our hands and welcomed us effusively. There was much cross-talk and excitement at our arrival and nary a word of English to be heard. We sat and were given drinks and snacks and then plied with questions. G answered some from the left hand side of the table; I tried to cope with the ones coming from the right. More people kept arriving; more introductions; more names to instantly forget. I thought my face would never recover from all the smiling. One by one, everyone around the table explained what they did for a living, and what a diverse gathering: mechanic, lecturer, car salesman, bus driver...
One neighbour arrived and thrust a fresh-baked warm loaf into Guy's hands. A gift! When we expressed interest, he invited us to come and see his bread oven, and the home that he had built, just across the lane. So G and I followed him home and inspected his enormous hand-built stone oven, which sat outside where most people would have the garage. Indoors, we were taken on a guided tour of the ground floor - the kitchen, dining room, bathroom, his hand-made wooden stairs. His home was very French, very functional, with its tiled flooring and absence of soft furnishings.
Back across the road and Christian, who works at the local Renault, wanted to know whether we had hired a car and from where. Had we ever driven an electric car? Well, no. My experience of electric vehicles was confined, at that point, to listening to the stealthy arrival of the milk float in the early mornings in England, followed by the clink of bottles as the empties were replaced by full. But I digress. Realising that we were electric-car virgins, Christian leapt up and insisted that G and I have a look at the one he happened to have parked in the driveway.
Very nice, I'm sure. A little white panel van. Lovely. No doubt handles well, etc. Yawn. What's that? You want me to drive it? Oh! Well, I suppose, since G has been getting stuck into the grapefruit schnapps, it falls to me to be designated driver, only I hadn't planned on driving at dusk an unfamiliar electric panel van backwards up a tiny driveway with stone walls inches away, and I hadn't planned either on driving "Faster! Faster!" along single-lane country roads while G perches on stuff in the back and peers between the seats, loudly swapping French phrases of enthusiasm with the electric-car salesman extraordinaire on my right. Did I mention it was an electric (read SILENT engine) left-hand drive vehicle, and that I was undergoing an intense and spontaneous cultural exchange program while trying to stay on the road?
We returned to the gathering as if nothing had happened. I mean, dinner guests leave my home in groups of three and four to go off on jaunts around the countryside all the time.
Dinner was served indoors. We adults sat around a large central table in Edith and Ivan's open-plan living room, while beautiful Oceane - the only child - snuggled and later snoozed on the sofa with the cat. Ivan insisted that I sat next to him, G on my other side, at the one end of the table with the men, while the women gathered at the far end of the table. The men were full of bonhomie (and booze) and were loud and garrulous. The women watched and laughed and indulged them.
First came onion soup with broken-off chunks of home-made bread. Delicious. And filling. G was encouraged to do the traditional thing and add a little red wine to the last spoonful of soup, the bowl then raised to the lips...You would think he had split the atom, such was the excitement when he complied!
Next came the cheese. No cowering camembert and crouching cheddar here. These were big mamas of cheeses - large, unapologetic chunks and rounds of local cheeses, served with more of that wonderful bread. Delicious. And filling.
The main course arrived after a short expectant wait. Tête de veau is, well, literally, the head of a calf in all its g(l)ory. Luckily for us, it had been carved up before it arrived at the table and looked no more than a pile of unfamiliar bits of meat and fat on a plate. Ivan helped me to a serving of cheek (blerk), G got the tongue (blerk) and Ivan took a bunch of fat (the best, according to him). Double blerk. I had a good go at mine but quickly reached my limit and started making excuses. G soldiered on a little more. Ivan kept asking if we liked it, but also "no pressure". Not so very delicious. But filling.
Dessert. A couple of large gateaux to choose from. Delicious. And I was full to bursting. Coffee, more alcohol.
The evening went by in a blur of talk, laughter and, for me, anyway, only sketchy comprehension. But it was fun and warm and incredible to share something of our new "near-neighbours'" lives, and we were full up with the human kindness of it all.
We staggered back to the hotel at one in the morning, having conducted a very animated post-mortem of our first-ever fête du premier mai. It was simply unbelievable, the warmth and welcome we had received.
A group of cheery people sitting around a plastic garden table under an umbrella greeted us as we approached. Ivan and his mates shook our hands and welcomed us effusively. There was much cross-talk and excitement at our arrival and nary a word of English to be heard. We sat and were given drinks and snacks and then plied with questions. G answered some from the left hand side of the table; I tried to cope with the ones coming from the right. More people kept arriving; more introductions; more names to instantly forget. I thought my face would never recover from all the smiling. One by one, everyone around the table explained what they did for a living, and what a diverse gathering: mechanic, lecturer, car salesman, bus driver...
One neighbour arrived and thrust a fresh-baked warm loaf into Guy's hands. A gift! When we expressed interest, he invited us to come and see his bread oven, and the home that he had built, just across the lane. So G and I followed him home and inspected his enormous hand-built stone oven, which sat outside where most people would have the garage. Indoors, we were taken on a guided tour of the ground floor - the kitchen, dining room, bathroom, his hand-made wooden stairs. His home was very French, very functional, with its tiled flooring and absence of soft furnishings.
Back across the road and Christian, who works at the local Renault, wanted to know whether we had hired a car and from where. Had we ever driven an electric car? Well, no. My experience of electric vehicles was confined, at that point, to listening to the stealthy arrival of the milk float in the early mornings in England, followed by the clink of bottles as the empties were replaced by full. But I digress. Realising that we were electric-car virgins, Christian leapt up and insisted that G and I have a look at the one he happened to have parked in the driveway.
Very nice, I'm sure. A little white panel van. Lovely. No doubt handles well, etc. Yawn. What's that? You want me to drive it? Oh! Well, I suppose, since G has been getting stuck into the grapefruit schnapps, it falls to me to be designated driver, only I hadn't planned on driving at dusk an unfamiliar electric panel van backwards up a tiny driveway with stone walls inches away, and I hadn't planned either on driving "Faster! Faster!" along single-lane country roads while G perches on stuff in the back and peers between the seats, loudly swapping French phrases of enthusiasm with the electric-car salesman extraordinaire on my right. Did I mention it was an electric (read SILENT engine) left-hand drive vehicle, and that I was undergoing an intense and spontaneous cultural exchange program while trying to stay on the road?
We returned to the gathering as if nothing had happened. I mean, dinner guests leave my home in groups of three and four to go off on jaunts around the countryside all the time.
Dinner was served indoors. We adults sat around a large central table in Edith and Ivan's open-plan living room, while beautiful Oceane - the only child - snuggled and later snoozed on the sofa with the cat. Ivan insisted that I sat next to him, G on my other side, at the one end of the table with the men, while the women gathered at the far end of the table. The men were full of bonhomie (and booze) and were loud and garrulous. The women watched and laughed and indulged them.
First came onion soup with broken-off chunks of home-made bread. Delicious. And filling. G was encouraged to do the traditional thing and add a little red wine to the last spoonful of soup, the bowl then raised to the lips...You would think he had split the atom, such was the excitement when he complied!
Next came the cheese. No cowering camembert and crouching cheddar here. These were big mamas of cheeses - large, unapologetic chunks and rounds of local cheeses, served with more of that wonderful bread. Delicious. And filling.
The main course arrived after a short expectant wait. Tête de veau is, well, literally, the head of a calf in all its g(l)ory. Luckily for us, it had been carved up before it arrived at the table and looked no more than a pile of unfamiliar bits of meat and fat on a plate. Ivan helped me to a serving of cheek (blerk), G got the tongue (blerk) and Ivan took a bunch of fat (the best, according to him). Double blerk. I had a good go at mine but quickly reached my limit and started making excuses. G soldiered on a little more. Ivan kept asking if we liked it, but also "no pressure". Not so very delicious. But filling.
Dessert. A couple of large gateaux to choose from. Delicious. And I was full to bursting. Coffee, more alcohol.
The evening went by in a blur of talk, laughter and, for me, anyway, only sketchy comprehension. But it was fun and warm and incredible to share something of our new "near-neighbours'" lives, and we were full up with the human kindness of it all.
We staggered back to the hotel at one in the morning, having conducted a very animated post-mortem of our first-ever fête du premier mai. It was simply unbelievable, the warmth and welcome we had received.
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