french roof – Page 2 – Poshbird with Passion

How Strong is Wallpaper? and Other Questions

Can anyone who knows French/old houses, please help me?

I am working under the assumption that wallpaper cannot hold up a three-storey house: not even if there are five or more layers of it. I hope I am right, because:

I’ve been working in a first-storey bedroom we call the ‘big cupboard room’. At some point the room height has been reduced by about 100cm to borrow enough height to squeeze a room above it, leading to a low void, like an eaves cupboard. The room was originally the same height as the salon (390cm). The original moulded cornice is still visible within the void next to the later room on the second floor, and shows that the division between the bedroom and the ‘big cupboard’ is an original 17th Century feature (perhaps a salle de toilette?), and not a later change as we had assumed

(I only know this from crouching in this void, armed with a torch to get a better look at the cornices. A weird little space with a rough seat/bench built onto the wall, it contains huge cobwebs, a cast iron saucepan lid and a couple of very old mummified shallots. Strange? I thought so)

Into the void. Something’s hanging from the ceiling mid-pic. Only just noticed

How is your spacial awareness doing so far? I know, a diagram might help

Anyway, the original tall double doors are still in place in the ‘big cupboard room’ in keeping with a higher ceiling. But was the entire first floor of that ‘house’ once two high-ceilinged rooms with mouldings and tiled floors? This makes me wonder if it was not originally a house, but a commercial premises of some sort

Now the paper stripping comes in: the plaster in this butchered room is bulging along the adjoining wall to next door. A crack has broken through all the layers of wallpaper, and there are at least five, probably six layers (have I just answered my original question?)

I’ve removed some paper the original plaster shows an outline about 75cm square, by the looks of it, filled in before any of the layers of paper were applied. The rough filling is dropping out and someone has later (badly) skimmed over it. I scraped away to get a better view of the indent. I might have said that it was a window, but the house is part of a terrace of houses and this is an adjoining wall. Plus, a window would not be so close to the floor of this room and right up against the fireplace

It’s a terrible picture and I’ll try to get something better, but the top of the indent is roughly 1/4 of the way down and the bottom 3/4 of the way down the photo. The right edge lines up pretty much with the mantelpiece. The crack is not visible here

So what could this unwanted ‘feature’ be? It’s definitely original to the house

Things in the Roof

Slept in today and woke at 8.40 – probably due to having a proper pillow at last and the excitement of watching last night’s fantastic rugby game

I hung out for a bit in the attic, ankle-deep in pigeon droppings as usual and picked up a few bits of crap among the way

There was a broken moulded tile of some sort, complete with incy wincy. I took photos – recording everything – and a piece of rusted hardware that probably needs to go back on one of the shutters at some point. We seem to be treating this place like an archaeological dig as much as a renovation. I tried to remove anything we wanted before the roof guys just sweep it all out. I also found what must be the original frame for the lantern over the stairway. I only realised what it was when I saw broken glass caught in the torchlight

Looks like he’s got a spider on his moustache?

There was newspaper dated Tuesday 26th April 1955, stuck between rotten floorboards. I couldn’t decide the reason for the paper being stuffed down there and I don’t advocate using it as a DIY material, but it had survived over sixty years before I dragged it out. Will the house now collapse?

The church clock struck twelve and I retreated downstairs for lunch with my carrier bag of tragic treasures, like some compulsive shopper covered in cobwebs. On the way out I also recorded the final resting place of the last pigeon. It’s sad, it’s gruesome, but she probably had a good long life. I didn’t put her in my shopping bag. Charlotte will probably complain

I love how France stops at lunchtime. I love that on a Sunday there is nothing to do. Nothing but potter

On the way downstairs I grabbed the few items of textiles that I had squirrelled away for washing at My Home from Home from Home this evening. I don’t know if any of the pieces are to my taste, but if I can’t find a place for them, someone else will

Things Removal Men Say

Do they have to share opinions?

The two guys delivering my much-fêted pillow also brought some other bits I’ve been hoarding in the UK. They did a good job overall, though at least one of my Fragile – this way up boxes, containing an irreplaceable wall light, arrived the wrong way up. I pointed this out to them as they unloaded the vehicle and was greeted by blank expressions. After 20 years working in relocation I see that removals men still have no sense of orientation. Hopefully my packing stood up to this abuse

They made the normal compulsory comments about the size of the house, the state of the house, are we going to turn it into gites, etc, and had a bit of a dig about ‘the French’ while they were at it. They were just trying to make polite if opinionated conversation

Among the goodies was one of a pair of leather club chairs that we can’t fit in our living room at home. I had them place it in the empty salon, where I have now successfully tested it. It rocks

Then it happened…

‘Now this’, said one of the blokes, himself a Brit living in France, ‘is a man’s room. That armchair there and a big TV on that wall, that’s all you need’ He kindly expressed through mime the approximate size of his enormous imaginary TV and indicated the wall where I should put it, between the elegant, if very shabby, French doors

I really don’t think so

A Gentleman Calls

An elderly gentleman from Narnia, that is

This morning I was waiting for my pillow (and a lot of other ‘stuff’) to arrive and using a wallpaper stripper to free up the left half of the front door in advance of the delivery. Just as I managed to free it and push it open, an elderly man with a shopping bag stopped in his tracks on the road outside, put down his bag and looked in

He greeted me and asked whether it was now my house, so I suggested he come in and look around. He became quite animated and said that he’d always wondered what it was like inside. He took off his gloves and left his bag in the hallway, while I gave him an abbreviated tour (first floor only), very conscious that he might not be as nimble as he looked. The house met with his approval and he told me exactly where he lived, including a direction involving a wardrobe(?), and told me to knock on his door any time and say my name, and he will provide tea or coffee, according to my preference. I’d followed what he was saying, except that I hadn’t really listened to the actual street address – I didn’t see me calling in on him anytime soon. But he wasn’t leaving anything to chance: before he left he took out his phone, gave me his name and number and had me call him there and then, answering ‘hello’ into the handset as he stood in front of me. Clearly not an insane axe murderer, just a delightful old man on his way to the market. He kissed me on both cheeks and went on his way, just as the pillow crew turned up

While the pillow people were there I noticed Monsieur’s gloves on the radiator

Oh merde! I should have paid attention to the address. Now I had to call him, of course. Baz called to talk chickens, perfectly normal daily stuff for us. I told him about the meeting and the gloves. ‘It’s a ploy’ he said, laughing and reinforcing fears that I’d pulled

Shortly after, the gentleman called me. I told him I had found his gloves, and he said he was on his way over. When he arrived he explained again where he lived, including the bit about the wardrobe. It was only a few doors away. Would I like to see where it is?

I followed him around the corner and we climbed the stairs, turned left and passed the said wardrobe, next to which was the door to his flat, where we were greeted by a well-kept ginger cat, who took time to check me out before allowing physical contact. I didn’t go in, but could see that it is an elderly single man’s home, the walls and furniture dotted with numerous dusty notes and photos. Perhaps he has numerous cats too. Anyway, he repeated his invitation to me for coffee

So I will go and say hello, take some cake and have a chat (or un chat) for half an hour sometime this week. He’s too close to ignore, I have time on my hands and it might just make his day

P.S. Thank you to whichever blogger/s recommended ‘All the light we cannot see’. I am about two thirds through it now and it is one of the loveliest and most beautifully written books I have ever read

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

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

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

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

I 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

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