Relocation to France – Page 4 – Poshbird with Passion

Gratuitous shots of someone else’s house

French Property stalking for a quick ‘fix’

I arrive in Carcassonne alone, and drag my wheelie case along the cobbled streets to find the house we saw when we came here a few weeks before

I am a huntress. I know when I am getting close, even though I am not that familiar with the streets. I just feel that I am getting closer

I have only a short time before I have to catch my train, but I just hang around outside, taking photos when I think no-one is looking. Does this make me a house stalker?

Yes, most definitely, as I press my face to the window to see inside It was for sale but the owner has now decided to ‘renovate’. I don’t know what that really means, but I hope they will not strip the original interior features that I can still see

It’s the many details which make this wonderful house. Each one is complete in its own right, but they also work together to create the beaux-arts building

Hundreds of people must pass by this street every day, yet other than the graffiti artist who has recently made their mark, few seem to notice it. Does that make it any less special?

I think not

Same Again, PLEASE

Elegant in grey for four centuries, but now out of fashion?

I arrive at the Mairie, sans maquillage, and the lovely guy at the desk recognises me, smiles warmly and calls me by another woman’s name. As soon as I try to correct his error he apologises, remembering that he did the same thing the last time we met, and we both laugh. Do she and I look similar? He thinks so, he says. I explain that I’ve been told there is a grant toward restoring the outside of the house, and he says he’ll get me an appointment. I wonder what does this other bloody woman look like – is she actually my doppelgänger?

He phones me in the afternoon, while I am on the balcony with colour charts, matching the shutters as closely as possible (somewhere between ‘gauze deep’ and ‘bone china blue’ – though closer to ‘gauze deep’). I am on my way, I tell him, and I go straight there, just slightly grubbier than in the morning. He hadn’t realised how complicated the matter was, that there are forms to be completed for the permit, that 2 quotations must be obtained, and that we must then write a letter to the Mayor and the work inspected before money can be awarded

His English is good, but I try to keep him in French so we mix it up a lot. He’s apologetic about the amount of time involved – six months just for the permission, and longer for the grant – but I’m undeterred

He sends me upstairs, and as I climb the staircase I see that the building is very beaux-arts inside, though municipalisation has disguised much of this. I arrive at the correct office where a well-dressed and (as I discover later) very fragrant lady greets me somewhat coolly, having been pre-warned that this Anglaise was on her way. Her colleague at the other desk is in charge but is clearly a man who would prefer to spend ten minutes explaining to her what needs doing than to do it himself. As it turns out, she’s very kind and she accompanies me back downstairs to the guy I was speaking with before, because, as she explains, he speaks English and she doesn’t. Once installed at his desk she shows us both the extent of the paperwork and produces a sheet of twelve potential stonework/shutter colour combos for which I may request the permit

The choices illustrated are yellow stonework with shutters in mauve, dark or light blue, beige stone or red with brown, orange stone with brown, light or dark green, pink stone with brown or pale blue, or blue stone with light or dark green. It looks to me like the plans for a Disney resort

I am, shall we say, ‘unimpressed’

I explain that we don’t want to change the colours, only to repaint exactly as it is (grey front and white-ish back, both with the same pale blue-grey shutters, minus the rust stains). But no, they explain, there is no white or grey option, only the colours on the chart, though neither is championing these colour choices, and both are sympathetic. I simply will not renovate at all, I say, but of course this is not an option as the Mairie wants it sorted out. This is the stage at which I become aware of the fragrance of the elegantly dressed lady as she sits down next to me, in my stinky wallpaper-stripping clothes and we ponder the colours together. Upon their request I translate the French ‘beige’ into the English ‘beige’. Still beige. He points at the beige desk. ‘What colour is beige in English?’ I point at the desk and tell him it’s the same colour, we all giggle and it’s good-natured and conspiratorial

Forty minutes and several (mainly unrelated) phone calls later, they are still both sitting with me and all three of us are still disillusioned with the horrible colour sheet, perplexed that the authentic existing colours of this house which has stood elegant and French in grey for four centuries are simply and suddenly out of fashion. And I am sure that the irony that the Mairie does not fit into this scheme does not escape either of them

My only hope, they say, is to complete the forms and explain in a heartfelt letter to the Mayor exactly why I don’t want to change anything, I only want to preserve what is here, and just hope that he will give an exceptional permit for this

I didn’t fall in love with an orange and green house. But I would quickly fall out of love with one, so I have to hope that reason prevails…

To be continued (but most likely not for a few months – I’ve obviously got a lot of paperwork, thinking and letter-writing to do). And there may be a spot of crying

L’Air de Pigeons

Smelly ‘pigeon angels’ swirl in the sunlight

When I stuffed both phones down the leg of my leggings I hadn’t expected them to drop straight through and escape via my right ankle, but this is exactly what is happening as I come down from the attic, a bin bag in each hand. It’s also the moment when Baz calls for an update on the house, and I have to waddle quickly down in order not to fall arse over iphone

Ah, the newly created attic space has surpassed expectations, thanks to the big Velux windows. Well, it is beautiful and calming, and light enough that I can now wander around without fear of debris, or unseen rotten floorboards. These windows reveal the church tower, the tops of the hills beyond. And of course, those taller than me will get proper views

The downside? The filth is indescribable. I mop a small area and find the original terracotta floor tiles, which are in pretty good shape. But the grime is thick and I have already moved several bucket loads before realising that the rough stone walls first need a stiff brushing down first. As I sweep I can see, smell and taste nothing but pigeon detritus. The debris swirls thickly around forming ‘pigeon angels’ in the sunlight and my head jerks back involuntarily from time to time, unsure whether I’ll sneeze or spew. Luckily, it’s the former

As the church strikes six, I’ve done five solid hours of this and no-one would know I’ve been in here. I am sure that once the dust re-settles I will have made almost no progress

Of course, this is not the update Baz wants, so I tell him of the views he’ll get from the windows, and of the newly-discovered flooring

The only person who’ll tell you that pigeons don’t cause damage inside your house is an estate agent who can’t be arsed to go and close the shutters once you have committed to buy, and who leaves your house open to the elements for months until you finally get the key and can take control of what is left. I had frequent nightmares thanks to that stupid man. So in the worst possible way I feel vindicated when I see the resulting rot in their regular roost spots (oh yes, and I need to scrub all those bits as well!)

I open the shutter of a glass-less l’oeil de beouf window to let out some dust and heat, but a homesick pigeon is calling a friend, and I close the shutter, stressed

Chicken wire, that’s what we need

And the spiders evicted from the attic? They’ve all joined Quinn by the garage tap, and I realise that I don’t even mind them very much anymore – as long as they keep off the floor

Vide Grenier Virgin

She Must Have Really Loved that Saucepan

A friend has told me of a vide grenier in the next village, only about 4km away. I have only been to one so far, so I bind up my ankle, slip on my trainers and walk along the river. It’s the only one this weekend and I am determined to find something to buy

Of course, when I get there I don’t really see much of interest. I quite fancy the cute little French book about personal hygiene, written in 1897 and it’s only one euro, but what am I going to do with it? It’s too dirty to take home and it’s just that contradiction I like – that there’s this filthy old book about hygiene – so when a man shows interest in it I pass it to him and assure him I don’t want it, I was only looking

The woman next to me is paying 50 centimes for a pastry brush and I am thinking ‘Eeooow’, when I see a copper pot. It’s a little under 30cm across, shallow with two small handles. The guy wants 40 for it, then says he’ll take 30 and no less. It’s too rich for me because it’s just a decorative item, so I say I’ll see. But I don’t want to see. I’m not spending that much on some piece of nonsense at a car boot. I want a proper bargain

As I wait to cross the road, a long stream of lycra-clad cyclists coming up the hill, I spot a garage, where an elderly couple are having their own unofficial vide grenier. I head over to snoop around, and it’s mainly cutlery and agricultural bits, but I’m enjoying the vibe. There’s a big copper saucepan with a really long handle, I ask how much and the old man says ten euros. Over my shoulder I see the same man who bought the book and I’m not letting him have this, so I pay quickly and happily. Then of course I try to pick it up

It must weigh ten kilos. Before I’ve got it halfway down the hill I am wondering why I have bought it. Should I just take it back and tell them to keep the money? I don’t know anyone so I can’t get a lift home. And there’s 4 undulating kilometres ahead on my bad ankle. My bag is heavy on my shoulder (of course I brought my camera as well) and I have to keep swapping hands because the saucepan is so unwieldy and heavy. And horribly dirty. A few people pass me coming the other way and I make an effort each time as I say ‘bonjour’ to look as though it’s the most normal thing in the world to be out for a Sunday stroll in the hills with a stockpot. I worry that the dark clouds on the other side of the gorge will roll over and they’ll find me tomorrow, struck by lightning, still clinging awkwardly to my very conductive pan. The police will ask Baz, ‘Was she a very keen cook?’ and he’ll say, ‘We don’t even have a kitchen’

‘Monsieur, she must have really loved that saucepan’

I pass the viewpoint where I stopped to cry after Percy died, and I want to sit down for a few minutes, but I don’t like the boxer shorts hanging lankly from a small branch, it’s never acceptable to find someone’s underpants in a place like this. So I keep walking and I plan to hide the pan in undergrowth and come back for it tomorrow, but there are no landmarks to find it by, and dogs might wee on it. Maybe I’ll just hide it and leave it altogether. But isn’t that just littering?

Then I reach that nasty bit of wasteland at the edge of town, and I’m nearly home. I haven’t been hit by lightning because the storm didn’t arrive, and I still have my ten euro pan which I carry through the streets, self-consciously and very tired. And I don’t have to go back and find it tomorrow

When I get home I put on my glasses and see it has a Paris makers mark on it and it really is very good quality, the sort you might find in professional kitchens, and it will be ‘useful for something’ in the workshop one day

And for now? Well, it’s just what I need to keep that bloody cellar door closed. It’s already paying for itself

Riches to Rags, Defiantly

I’m charmed by neglected things and the spirit of defiance

There are cracks in our floor, but the tiles are almost more beautiful because of their imperfections. Theirs is an honest story of survival and service, the history of the house itself

Yes, I’m charmed by neglected things, always have been. Recently through necessity it’s French architectural salvage, though I’ll never turn down anything pretty or useful

Or in need of help

Found in the garage – Pretty AND useful?

I have optimistically bought old radiators from Ebay, with no idea if they will function in France (or at all), and I can’t wait to see the plumber’s face when I show him my latest treasures!

But I am sure our very likeable builder now understands some of the vision for this house. Initially I was made aware by friends that he prefers to rip out and modernise everything (and this was borne out in our early meetings), but I have noticed a subtle change in his attitude – ‘un change de tête’ after further visits. Standing with me in the house, he admired the quality of the ironwork on a window one day, and he talked about how attractive the old shutters will be when sanded and refreshed – yet weeks before he might have suggested replacing them. I might be imagining it, but

I think the house is actually getting to him

DSC_0519 - Version 2.JPG

This house has a true riches to rags story, though no-one seems to know the details. And though it doesn’t need anyone’s approval but ours, I suspect that there lurks in our builder a real admiration of this strong survivor, cherished and valued for centuries before being left abandoned and neglected, exposed to the elements for decades. I think he now has a better understanding of why we are doing this and how hard we are prepared to work towards it

It can never again be pristine. Perhaps it never was, despite its grandeur. But pristine wouldn’t really do it for us – we’re not pristine either

How could anyone not love this house, if only for its total defiance?

West Bay Weekend

Is that OUR van?

Having parked the van way too easily the night before (The Thrill of the Chaise / Pugs and Pink Jugs ), we were stopped in our tracks as we reached the car park

All down the back and sides of the van was a stream of seagull ploppings. In less than twelve hours it had been completely ‘pebble-dashed‘ and the two gulls on top looked pretty bloody smug. Baz suggested that perhaps the Bridport and West Bay Tourist Board could use this photo?

At Bridport market I found lovely brass tiebacks on a stall where the lady remembers us even though it’s sometimes months between visits. Her price was so good I took the lot, and she shoved them into a carrier bag, telling us she only brought them with her as an afterthought that morning and that she’s still hoping to find suitable glass shades for my weird chandelier

We wandered around the junk shops of St Michaels without buying anything, then took a friend’s tip for lunch at the recently-opened Dorshi – absolutely delicious

After a coffee at the flat and armed with ice creams, we struck out in our walking boots in search of bluebells at Eype Down. My sprained ankle made me very slow, but I needed to see how it coped on uneven ground. Not very well, as it turned out. Unfortunately we were a couple of weeks early for the best of the bluebells

Chesil Beach was lit up by the sun and Portland stretched across the horizon

There were lambs – it is April, after all. They are such dear little things. There were ones and twos, blonds and brunettes

And even a little redhead

Back at West Bay we went out on the harbour and watched the late afternoon sun hitting East Cliff, along to Freshwater and Burton Bradstock

After missing out on beer the night before we had a proper night out with friends watching the Skimmity Hitchers at the Ropemakers (And yes, the beer tasted WONDERFUL)

Job done

The Thrill of the Chaise / Pugs and Pink Jugs

One of those evenings when you just want to get to the pub

We borrowed the company van for the weekend and headed off for West Bay. The weekend stretched ahead, promising two nights of proper pubs and some live music. We could just taste that first beer

We needed to make a detour off the M3 to pick up a chaise I had bought on Ebay. The seller seemed fairly abrupt in her messages, so I kept her updated on our progress, arriving at the agreed time of 7.30pm, despite the satnav spluttering and flatlining when we needed it most

We parked up and could see a lot of junk/stock piled in a conservatory. Baz stayed at the gate and I rang the doorbell several times to no avail. I tried repeatedly to telephone the lady, but it just rang and went to voicemail, over and over. I sent emails. I knocked awkwardly a few times on the door but I really didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go peering in the windows but we had come all this way and…

Judging from what I had seen, she was obviously a hard-nosed dealer

Or…

…Or a delightfully eccentric elderly lady who had fallen asleep and who eventually came to the door flanked by two pugs, one of whom had apparently woken her up

She told me the chaise was in the garage, but after looking around extensively she concluded that she could not find the garage key. A mere mortal such as myself might have been embarrassed and apologised. But not Lady with Pugs

‘Never mind. My partner will be back from Keep Fit class soon. One of us is very fit and the other is fat’ she announced. She was not very fit. ‘You’ll have to come in and wait. I’ll make you a coffee’

Baz and I exchanged exasperated glances as we stepped through the door behind her. ‘Are you a dealer?’ I asked LwP, taking stock of the lime-green painted dresser in the kitchen, crammed with a jumble of mainly green jugs and vases, and pointing out to Baz a cute pink art deco jug on the top shelf

We followed LwP to the kitchen, where she set about making me a coffee. ‘Oh yes, I was a trader for years, but at my age it’s getting difficult because I have brittle bones. The class finishes at 8 o’clock, so she should be back by ten past’

I saw Baz slump at the prospect of spending over half an hour in an elderly stranger’s house. We were totally trapped

By the time my coffee was ready, the three of us sat at a small kitchen table and a little black pug was asleep on my right boot, snoring loudly. The larger pug was happily licking the knee of Baz’s jeans. It felt quite homely and I made an effort to keep chatting to pass the time. She asked what sort of things I like and I told her of my lifelong obsession with art deco and my love of art nouveau. I was sitting next to an impressive metal art nouveau jug, just plonked on the kitchen surface and barely visible, competing as it was with random other stuff

LwP said she had given up collecting art deco in favour of her passion for the work of Edinburgh-born artist Russell Flint She struggles with mobility after a huge operation on her foot and she spoke of how she’d like to sell up and move back to Spain. To be honest the time passed very quickly, it was easy to make conversation and soon the front door opened. A petite spandex-clad and slightly younger lady stepped in, carrying a yoga mat

‘This lady is here to pick up the sofa and I can’t find my garage key’ said LwP

‘Oh, have you lost your keys again?’ (Fitty in Spandex)

‘The one thing does not equate to the other’ maintained LwP

As the lady in lycra was infinitely more mobile and had a key, she suggested we follow her to the garage. I thanked LwP for the coffee and as we were leaving, she asked me what I had seen on the dresser. I told her it was the little pink jug and she told me to take it, but of course I refused

‘I do a boot sale on a Wednesday morning and that was going with me this week. I’ll get nothing for it. I want you to take it’

I thanked her, embarrassed, and asked Baz to reach up for the jug. As he did, LwP said, ‘Just check there’s no money in it’. Baz dutifully shook it and it rattled. At first I wondered if it might be her keys (it was one of those evenings), but there was a load of change inside it and he tipped it out for her. She shook our hands warmly at the door and I meant it when I said it had been a pleasure to meet her

The nippy little lady in lycra made light work of moving things in the garage and she helped us load the chaise into the van, easily hopping up inside to make sure it was securely loaded, and we said goodbye

I spent the rest of the ride clutching my precious vase, delighted with this little gift. It was getting quite dark and Baz wanted the journey to end. We were an hour behind schedule, hungry and thirsty

So, did we make it to the pub?

We did not. We parked up opposite the flat and threw together some pasta, washing it down with red wine. We sat in front of the telly, dissecting the evening’s entertaining events and the little jug sat in its new home

Porridgey Looks and Paint Removal

What would Goldilocks say?

Of course, we all know how difficult it is to remove Weetabix once it has been left in the bottom of a breakfast bowl

Last night, while researching paint removal on a cornice ( I have used the Peel Away system on fireplaces and beams, but it is messy and horribly expensive) I found a mention on a website of using porridge. Admittedly I was sceptical, expecting to discover that it was an April Fools joke. But no, apparently humble porridge really is perfectly designed for removing water-based paints from intricate plasterwork (I just knew we weren’t supposed to be eating it!)

I homed in on one blogger’s post and she was kind enough to get in touch and give me the benefit of her personal experience (thank you), including the results. I was impressed

https://witchhouseourhouse.wordpress.com/2014/01/02/porridge-corner-and-other-stories/comment-page-1/#comment-96

Back when we were kids (late 60s/ early 70s) porridge was a staple on cold mornings. I hated it and used to smother it in top of the milk, golden (demarara) and dark brown (muscovado) sugars to make it edible, pretending that the crunchy golden sugar which went on first was gold and had to be completely buried in brown sugar – soil – before eating. Now, of course, I feel completely vindicated because I realise that we should have been spreading it on the plasterwork like normal people

Porridge gave rise to a much-used expression in our house. I can’t quite describe it but even now, I can tell my older brother that someone gave me a ‘porridgey look’ and he will give me a knowing smile 🙂

I now look forward to rustling up a trial bowl of this and slapping it onto the wall. I will of course wash all utensils immediately after use

What would Goldilocks say?

Collioure, a Jewel in the Med

Perpignan caused a brief hiccup as our sat-nav struggled to decide which road we were on. When we arrived at Collioure the mist was low and we could only just make out the shapes of a chateau and a windmill on the hills in the distance. The sky was grey and the air colourless, dreadful for photos but giving everything a strange calm. Despite the conditions the sea was clear turquoise blue and the entire bay was laid out before us

As the sun burned through the mist we started to see the warmth of the colours of the stone, and to feel the heat of the day. Having been in the snow of Les Angles only the day before, the Med felt like another world, warm and sensuous

It’s hard to take a ‘new’ picture in Collioure. It’s been painted by artists for centuries and photographed in every way possible, yet it remains a compelling scene. Baz took a lovely shot of the brightly coloured houses on the sloping roads back from the shore

Lunch wasn’t expensive and we were served with great charm and humour. The fish stew, the squid and the sea bass were all superb. After feeding a small shoal of fish in the bay we grabbed ice creams then coffee. We sat on the beach facing Collioure’s famous tower while C practised skimming stones. As we were leaving she and I hit a seam of precious sea gems (broken glass to other people) and stuffed them into my handbag with no real purpose in mindWe will go back. Perhaps not in summer, when traffic queues are rumoured to be three hours long and parking impossible. I hope we’ll overnight next time and enjoy a glass of wine with lunch and a leisurely dinnerThe sun was still shining when we left, but we had to navigate Perpignan once again and it’s still all new to us

On the way home we stopped among the Maury vineyards

The 24-hour Roof Terrace

A pop-up roof terrace but it couldn’t last

front roof For one day only we had the roof terrace of our dreams. On Wednesday evening the guys left the front attic fully exposed to the sky, creating fantastic views of the hills, both east and west. It was stunningly beautiful and peaceful. I cried

front roof It was the pop-up roof terrace that could never be, thanks to local restrictions. At least we were able to experience it, however briefly

front roof
By the end of Thursday it was fully enclosed once more, before the rain arrived. All beams and boards had been replaced, and there was no trace of the terrace of the night before

Having lost this spectacular terrace, the attic space will be used for chilling in the evening with a drink – and a pool table?

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