Category: Relocation to France

A Bit Damaged

Briefly all the builders stood still, drawing in breath and watching me to see if I would cry – I didn’t, quite. Totally my fault, I hadn’t paid attention and turned my foot over on the rubble, yelping involuntarily. Luckily it isn’t broken, or I would have descended in the cherry picker

Today my left ankle and foot are still hugely swollen and sore. A trip to the chemist felt like an expedition, but I came home with ibuprofen gel, arnica and predictable advice

Some of our junk belongings were supposed to arrive this afternoon, but we’re heading toward evening now. What I am most looking forward to is finding and retrieving my pillow: I loathe the square ones with hardly any filling favoured by Europeans. When it arrives I may just take to my bed with my kindle and wallow in self-pity for an hour before dinner

But yesterday was very productive. Having seen the attic roof opened up, we’re adding Velux windows to the new roof and are reinstating the broken chimney to allow us to have a fire in the salon. These things would have been missed if I had stayed away and left the guys to plough on. The price of the improvements so far is my swollen extremity

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The Very Busy Cherry Picker has gone home for the night, trundling backward the wrong way down our one-way street. The guys have just left and the drizzle has moved in, right on cue

Still no pillow…

Room with a Temporary View

The sky may be grey rather than blue, but it’s still the sky

In the builders’ lunch area, two large paint pots and a board had been used to create a third seat at the Formica-topped table, and there were thermos flasks, bread, a frying pan and a camping gas stove. They may be the first people to sit down and eat a hot meal here in over forty years

That’s a wonderful thing, a landmark. Life is creeping back into the house

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The removal of the roof began. It’s been windy and very cold but the guys really cracked on with removing the tiles. Almost all the original 17th Century beams are past saving and need to be replaced, which is disappointing, but an essential compromise toward stopping the decay in the rest of the house

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Seeing the sky come into view (albeit a flat grey that even F and B would struggle to glamourise) through the open roof was a beautiful thing and it reassured me that anything is possible, that we will overcome whatever obstacles we face and rescue this house

But we need to earn some more money first 🙂

 

 

My Home from Home from Home

I feel totally at home, but my home is nothing like this

I sit here on an upholstered dining chair at a wooden table in front of a television. I have my laptop, phones, magazines. I have wine, water and wasabi peas. There’s a flushing toilet. This is luxury

IMG_7903.JPGI realised as I let myself into my neighbour’s charming apartment that I have become very comfortable here. I want for nothing and his charges are very reasonable. The fact that I can get a phone signal and use his wifi means that I can even stay in touch with Baz and C

Meanwhile our own house is shrouded in scaffolding. The sight stopped me in my tracks when I arrived, even though it was planned. Inside I was surprised and impressed to see that the builders have reinstated the little Formica kitchen table and 2 chairs that we had ‘bunged’ into the garage, presumably as somewhere to sit and take a proper break

Someone on a British TV programme this week described the French way of life as ‘gentle and civilised’. I realise that ‘frustrating’ will be another adjective I’ll continue to use, but both Baz and I thought this was a perfect description. There is merit in upholding traditions and rituals, in maintaining the order that has prevailed. In the UK we have some stunning villages – there is no doubt of that – but in France the villages still largely live and breathe, many communities exist in much the same way as they have for a very long time, and older people generally seem less isolated and lonely

Perhaps I am wrong about that, but most people are deeply sociable and enjoy the company of others. I have just read Blog-sur-Aude’s post (coteetcampagne) about just the same thing – community spirit, available company, shared interests: a village bench where people sit if they choose company. These days millions of people in the UK have nowhere to meet up with others and often no daily connection with their community. A gentler and more civilised way of life would solve so many social problems

But tonight, I’ll just curl up alone with my comforts

 

 

 

Springing into Action? Oh yes please!

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There is movement. Apparently work is about to commence on the roof, and not just sometime soon, but this Monday. I am as astounded as I am excited. Hard though it is to imagine the house without the interior waterfall, I also wonder if this might run for a while yet – I mean, it’s all very ‘sudden’ in contrast to the frustration of the last few months. I am not complaining because this is the beginning of the rebirth of the house

Coincidentally I was given an unexpected opportunity to get some more of my junk down there if I had it packed by yesterday, so this was Thursday’s priority, and I have booked a flight. It all fell into place rather well. Baz is understandably jealous and he feels more than a little second-best to my the house. He noticed that I labelled all the boxes with my name rather than our names. I didn’t mean anything by it!

Instead of sleeping in a roofless house, I have succumbed to Plan B (the very comfortable apartment I rented last time) because I can claw back some money by eating in and on heating. And because having a bath and the privacy of a working toilet is just irresistible

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This time next week I intend to be knee-deep in wallpaper strippings and I can barely wait

 

 

 

Before The Cloak Completes Me

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The veil first appeared in my late thirties. It was as useful as it was disconcerting because it gave me anonymity, allowing me to slip outside in any old thing, without make up or concern. I wasn’t worried because I saw other women wearing the same veils, and sometimes they were more obvious than mine. I felt that no-one cared how I looked, but I knew I could still slip off the veil and shine when I chose, be noticeable, and get attention when I sought it

Around age 45 I had a crisis of confidence. I did something unspeakable with my hair and struggled to find a look that suited me. I chose not to be in most holiday photos. Thanks to good friends and Baz I trusted that I would come out the other side of this ‘difficult’ stage, though that perm was nearly a step too far even for him

And yet a cloak started to descend somewhere shortly after that. Minor health issues sapped my energies and my youth. These were of no interest to anyone but me, and there was no advice on what to expect

While running at the weekend I bumped into a much-loved friend I first met when we were pregnant. I nearly walked right past her because we hadn’t seen each other for a couple of years and because she was wearing her full cloak. When I saw it was her we embraced. And then all the tears came – she’s having a tough time

We have birthed, mothered, menopaused. We have neglected ourselves and deferred, trusting that we would one day have the opportunity to re-invent ‘us’ and to peel back the opaque layers that the years have added. After all, we’re still the same inside, aren’t we…

There is still time before I will become completely invisible, but I feel the weight of that cloak every single day. I urge all women to stop your veil from becoming your shroud. Go out and light up that room. What seemed at first like a convenient homogenising layer of welcome soft focus will inevitably become more dense and will obscure you if you allow it

Be you. All the time. Smile, laugh, enjoy real friends and make time to see each other

 

 

Winter Scavenger

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I am laid up with the lurgy so thought I’d just post a picture for the Daily Post Photo Challenge. I caught this sleek and shiny fella on the pyracantha, picking off the berries at their best. Doesn’t he look fine

And yes, I did have to check the spelling of pyracantha!

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Torture by Toiture and Death by Beetroot

After my recent rant which I removed from blogland on the advice of my more sensible other half I now believe hope that roof work may commence in late March or April. This is SUCH good news and has buoyed me up no end

And plumbing? Well, who cares?

Yes, I am feeling rather upbeat about this French folie, which can only mean one thing: that I have been away from it for too long and have forgotten the reality. There has been rather a lot of rain since my last visit and I sometimes ponder the amount of water going into the plastic barrel on the stairs, wondering if it’s overflowing and cascading over the steps. But then I banish that thought and replace it with the idea of opening the shutters and flooding the house with east-west light. Of course, it’s not as easy as that because the windows and shutters are all swollen and rusted in situ, but it’s a happier thought than rainwater p***ing through the roof, isn’t it

In a strange twist – and there is no seamless way to add this to my post – I need to talk about beetroot. I started to crave the stuff a few years back and now I will happily drink cartons of beetroot juice, eat beetroot soup at lunch, and even dunk my beetroot falafel as well (thank you, Waitrose, for spotting this bizarre gap in the market. I would never normally buy falafel!)

So, what does this mean? I guess either my liver must be in great shape or it’s really struggling. Does anyone else share my beetroot addiction? Or will no-one else admit to its mysterious pink side-effects?!

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So that was lunch…

Fat Girl Running, sunny day

It might seem hard to believe from my chubby Gravatar, but I would still call myself a runner. I took it up in my thirties and continued, without any apparent running-related injury, pausing only briefly for a surgery in 2012. Then at the end of 2013 the discomfort I had been ignoring for  a couple of years in my left thigh developed into a stronger pain across my groin and left buttock, and I had to take advice. I was advised to take a break, at a time in my life when running was especially beneficial to me

After a number of visits to arrogant consultants who injected me and exhausted my private health cover, I got a chiropractor involved (a runner himself), and after months of seeing him it has actually paid off. He still has to make small corrections, but with this and some yoga I have been pain-free for months now

So it’s time to tackle the two stone I am now carrying with me (in my defence, it’s hard to adjust when you stop running 20+ miles per week). That means it’s time to put a playlist together for my iPod, some tunes to keep me moving and to regulate my pace a little. I’ll never be fast but I have a weight target and a half marathon to run in August. Here we go!

As I am starting from scratch after such long break, a friend who used to run with me kindly created a spreadsheet to build up the miles. It’s not as though it’s difficult to gauge the build up, but it’s surprising how a simple tool can motivate. I also get regular gentle nagging texts from another understanding friend to check up on me

The hardest bit right now is not the run, but going out in running clothes. It hurts my pride. There’s no hiding in these clothes and my bra hurts. I don’t look in the mirror once geared-up because I may just talk myself out of leaving the house, and that won’t help. There must be some kind of mathematical graph or equation covering the degree of effort involved, the embarrassment encountered and the distance covered. At some point the embarrassment will reduce because I’ll be leaner and fitter, while the distance covered will be greater and the overall difficulty will remain somewhere in the same region. I am not good at maths but I can make this equation happen

Already at just three mile runs my lungs are working better and I have runner’s calm all day. Nothing unwinds me like a few miles in the open air, however wet or chilly. I’m still staying off main roads where possible because I am not ready to be judged by passing motorists on my physique or my technique. They don’t realise how hard it is to go out carrying extra weight and be exposed to criticism. I know this because I have judged often enough. Tough karma

Today is Valentines Day, and after the filth that was yesterday’s running weather I woke to golden sunshine and I really looked forward to going out. As I stood at the for of the bed, getting into my tragic spandex, Baz lay in bed in the dark and said ‘Well done. I’m proud of you’

There’s nothing more a girl needs than this. A sunny run and the support of the person who matters. Happy Valentines Day, Fatty x

Life Imitating Art -the Scream (again)

The Daily Post Weekly Photo Challenge this week is ‘Life Imitating Art’. I had just seen an old photo from a previous post, and thought I would re-purpose it:

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Yes, it’s Edvard Munch’s ‘the Scream’ in floorboard form, usually hidden under a kitchen stool at home. Of course, it’s been re-worked and plagiarised by everyone over the years, so once more won’t hurt

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