by Mary Moody
My initial reaction is that the house inside lacks charm and ‘features’. Where are the fireplace and stone sink that I love to see in every old house? On close inspection I uncover the fireplace, still intact, hidden behind flimsy doors that have converted it into a storage cupboard. The stone sink is still there too, buried beneath some modern kitchen paraphernalia. The agent, Alice, has struggled with a maze of keys to get us inside, and just when I am feeling that it is all too claustrophobic, she throws open the shutters and reveals the view. Gasp! A wild meadow and woodland surrounds the house, and even though the road is nearby, the effect is enchanting. I want to buy it immediately. However I am booked to see eight more houses on Monday.
Patience.
Monday arrives and it’s pouring with rain. A good time to see houses, because you get to assess them at their most dreary and unromantic. Our first house is near Gindou and it’s a farming complex of four buildings plus four acres of meadow and woodland. The owner, a woman in her sixties driving a white van, wearing a blue pinnie and accompanied by a gangly wet hunting dog, lets us into the house. She has inherited it from her uncle and it has been empty for a long time. From the exterior the house is square and boxy with a set of stairs leading to a stone verandah and front door. The main room has the ubiquitous walk-in-fireplace, this time with a prominent gunrack over the mantel, plus a large stone sink. Once again the shutters open to reveal an enchanting view of autumnal scenery. There are two large bedrooms, each with a fireplace, winding stairs to an empty attic, and a spacious cave that could easily be converted into two large rooms. This is a more formal house, obviously owned by wealthier farmers than the average, as reflected in the outbuildings: one barn has a stone bread oven but is dilapidated, while the main barn is vast—as large as a small cathedral—with arching timber roof supports and tiles that allow shafts of light to penetrate. In the middle is an enormous cart laden high with pumpkins of every size, shape and colour. It’s as if it’s been art directed for a movie shoot. This huge barn has equally huge stables beneath the main floor, complete with cow bales and pens for pigs and other animals. I want it, of course. But the cost of converting this property into a comfortable house would be astronomical—it’s just so huge that the materials alone would cost a fortune.
Next we wind through country lanes to a small, crumbling village that is one of the first really untidy places I have seen on my travels in France. Generally farms and their surrounds are neat as a pin, with trimmed verges and meadows kept tidy by haymaking or grazing. This conglomeration of dwellings is ancient and many of the buildings are in complete ruins, having been robbed of their stone for other construction purposes. There is evidence of some half-hearted attempts at restoration, but it all looks very down-at-heel and some buildings are quite ugly. The house we view is again enormous, a vast rectangle with elegant windows and views to golden countryside past a bubbling stream. I close my eyes and imagine how divine it would look if you could somehow block out the neighbours. But the place is a ruin, with roof tiles that must have been damaged during the wild storm that savaged France the previous January. Water has been cascading in and timbers everywhere are rotted and crumbling away. I can’t believe anyone would allow this gracious old house to get into this pathetic state, but I suppose it is often possible. There’s plenty of space to make a rambling family home within the four stone walls, it will just cost a small fortune to do it. The property also has a barn which is twice as large as the house but is not on the same piece of ground; it is across a small square and attached to other buildings. Separated buildings under one ownership is not uncommon, and many farms consist of tracts of land that can be kilometres apart. Again I see great potential for development but feel quite overwhelmed at what it could all cost.
The next property makes me go weak at the knees. I am definitely in love. Less than a kilometre from the thirteenth-century village of Marminiac, it has two buildings abutting a narrow, winding country road. The largest building is the barn. In excellent condition, it is not too large for conversion to a comfortable living space. The farmer showing us the property has a curious handshake with two fingers tucked into his palm. I look closely to see if the fingers are damaged or missing, but no, and when not shaking hands his fingers are quite normal. He looks about eighty and he says that the farmhouse belonged to his grandparents, the last of whom died in 1932, and it has literally remained empty and shuttered for nearly seventy years. Instead of the usual doorway there is an archway with the numbers 1 and 7 carved in the lintel stone. The other two numbers have worn away, but it seems that the little house was constructed in the early eighteenth century. The roof is low but still has a steep pitch, in classic Quercy style, and although the original stone roof has been replaced with tiles, it still looks ancient. The heavy timber front door swings open to reveal a dark interior—thank heavens I brought my torch—and this is where I become totally smitten. The floor is pise, rounded stones set into the compacted soil in decorative patterns. The fireplace is huge and a ladder to the attic reveals a large enough space to make a second storey with ease. There is also a small single-storey barn adjoining the house that could easily become a kitchen and dining area.
Why is it when you see a house you love you immediately start mentally planning how it will look when restored? My mind is already racing wildly with the possibilities. This house has no water and no electricity connected and it has certainly never had a bathroom. I look more closely and notice one corner of the small barn that is falling away and a large gap between the roof and the chimney, as if the entire roof line has shifted.
Mere details. Trifles. The cottage personifies my dream of living in France, and the fact that it also has eleven acres of woodland and fields and is quite expensive doesn’t in any way dampen my enthusiasm.
My main problem now is going to be David. How can I convince him that buying a crumbling costly farmhouse on the other side of the world is a fantastic idea? I phone him at work and he sounds less than enthusiastic. I use every lyrical phrase at my disposal to accentuate the glories of the Marminiac farm. He goes quiet on the other end of the line.
‘What’s the bathroom like?’ he finally inquires.
‘It doesn’t have one.’
‘No bathroom? What happened to it?’
‘It never had one in the first place.’
‘It must at least have a toilet.’
‘No, no toilet.’
‘Where did they shit, for Christ’s sake?’
‘In the woods, I guess. It doesn’t really matter. We can put in a bathroom.’
Silence.
‘Isn’t there one with a bathroom?’ he finally asks pathetically.
‘I suppose I can find one if I look around more. Can I keep looking? Can we afford it?’
‘The answer is yes and no. Keep looking. We can’t really afford it, but if you really, really want a place and it isn’t too expensive, we can think about it.’
I start telling all my friends the fantastic news. I am going to buy a house. Become a local. Come back every year. Maybe spend six or twelve months here at a time. Learn to speak French properly. Write another book. Make a documentary. I don’t know. I just know I can do it.
Margaret Barwick is a little sceptical. She has seen dozens of visitors go through the same house lust before, and apart from Jock and the Greifs, no-one has ever persisted.
‘You’ll just go home at the end of the six months and get busy again and never come back,’ she says. ‘You’ll forget all about us in no time. It will just be a happy memory.’
This makes me more determined than ever. I decide to bid on the house outside Frayssinet, the one I first inspected, even though it’s on the wrong side of the hill and spends most of the day in the shade. At least it has a bathroom. But my hesitation has proven fatal: the owners have accepted another bid on the house, and under French law gazumping is definitely out of the question. My offer is a little higher and the English owners are furious. They want t
o go with my bid, but it simply can’t be done without all sorts of legal ramifications.
Despondent, I start again, but don’t get very far. Where only a short while back I saw countless possibilities, David’s insistence on a rock bottom price and a working bathroom have now severely limited the options. I also start to make a few enquires about the practicalities of being a foreigner owning a house in the French countryside. Anthony lends me two useful guide books on buying real estate and living in France. There are no legal constraints, however we can only spend three months at a time here unless we go through a hell of a lot of bureaucratic red tape. According to the guides, house renovations invariably cost much more than first anticipated, and can also easily rocket out of control unless you are around to supervise the work. Language difficulties, unreliable tradespeople, ongoing taxes and charges. It’s all sounding very complex. There’s also the issue of how much we will realistically be able to use the house, and if we will be able to rent it out when we are not in residence.
I am beginning to think that buying a house is not such a fantastic idea after all.
30
IN BED AT NIGHT I lie awake, tossing and turning and worrying into the small hours. During this entire time away from home I have slept soundly, and never had a restless night of anxiety. Now I am torn between this fantasy of living in France and the reality of my situation. I must be totally mad, wanting to buy a house on the other side of the world. My home is Australia. It’s where my entire family lives, it’s where I work and where my heart truly lies.
But I simply can’t let go of the past six months. I have become so attached to every aspect of this small corner of the world—the fields and woods, the villages and towns, the people and the food. How can I simply walk away and carry it only as a happy memory? Somehow I must grab a little bit of it and hold onto it like mad, no matter what. During the daylight hours while I am engrossed in house-hunting, phoning David in Australia to discuss each possibility, or dragging my friends along to view a property and to get their opinions, it all seems like a splendid idea. But at night, on my own, I am racked with doubts.
I phone Miriam one evening to describe some of the amazing houses I have been seeing. I would love her to share in my excitement, because I am hoping that in time she, Rick and the little boys will be able to come to France and enjoy all the things that I love about this place. She sounds very down and when I ask her why, she bursts into tears.
‘I’m bloody well pregnant,’ she sobs. ‘I can’t believe it, but I am.’
I refrain from asking her what went wrong. I know that there has been talk about Rick having a vasectomy, and that they have been using alternative methods of contraception in the meantime. Having a fourth baby will really alter their plans, not to mention stretch their finances to the limit. Miriam has been accepted to start a postgraduate law degree next year, and the idea was that I would help a couple of days a week with the boys so she could study and complete assignments. With a new baby on the way, the plan will have to be shelved for a couple of years at least.
Miriam’s news adds to my confusion. What the hell am I thinking about, buying a house in the northern hemisphere when I will now have six grandchildren in Australia? I should really put such thoughts out of my mind.
Two days later Miriam calls, and her voice sounds very different.
‘It’s okay, Mum. I’m over the shock and used to the idea of the baby now. Rick and I are excited about it. It will be wonderful.’
I am excited too. Another baby, and perhaps a daughter for her. I start to feel a little less anxious and continue looking half-heartedly at houses.
His film nearly finished, David suddenly decides to come to France for the last two weeks before Christmas. A symbolic gesture, to fetch me home to the family, and to help make, I hope, a final decision on buying a house. I am still holding out some hopes for the Frayssinet cottage which has failed to pass the termite inspection: this means that the owner must now renegotiate with the prospective buyer. There is a slim chance that the deal may fall through and allow me an opportunity to pounce with a counter offer. That is, of course, if I am prepared to take on a house that is riddled with chewing insects! In the meantime I keep looking at more crumbling ruins, feeling that the whole idea of buying a house is slowly slipping through my fingers.
Although I have been accustomed to long separations from David during our thirty-year relationship, I feel as excited as a nervous teenager at the prospect of seeing him again. I wonder what he will think of my extra curves? I have managed through walking and sensible eating to shed a couple of the kilos gained during my early eating and drinking exuberance, but am still carrying quite a few extra layers around the middle. He probably won’t even notice. I clean the house and light the fires because it’s now well into winter and suddenly very cold. I am to meet him at the Gourdon railway station thirty minutes from Pomarède in the early afternoon. He arrives in Paris from Sydney earlier in the morning then transfers to the southbound train, so he will undoubtedly be exhausted.
He emerges messily from the last carriage, manhandling far too much luggage as usual, and I gallop along the platform to meet him, sobbing with joy at our reunion. It does seem unlikely at this stage of our relationship—tears and passionate hugs on a French country railway station. But we are genuinely thrilled to see each other again.
I have made up a double bed in the living room so we can snuggle in together in front of the fireplace. The upstairs room, with no windows, is just too cold and dark and dreary for the purposes of our reunion. The size of the bed downstairs is laughable compared to our own at home—French doubles are not much larger than a standard single bed—we will be sleeping very closely together indeed. David is by no means a small man, so if my feet are hanging over the end, and they are, his will be practically dangling on the floor.
When we finally make it into the bed, after a lightning tour of the local villages while talking ten to the dozen, it’s the feeling of his familiar body against me that gives me such great pleasure. I can’t help but cry a little, of course, at the joy of making love after such a long time, but it’s the comfort of skin to skin contact that I have really been craving. We lie together like that for hours and hours, and almost feel reluctant to go back out into the cold to meet people and look at houses.
The next few days are exhausting. At lunches and dinners I introduce David around to my new French friends and to those members of the expatriate community who remain in the southwest for the winter. So many of them have already gone to warmer climates that he’s really meeting the bare bones of the group, the stayers and the permanent residents. With typical generosity, they all host dinner parties and lunches in his honour, but for me it feels very odd suddenly having a man with me after six months’ complete independence, being defined only by who I am, rather than whom I am married to. David also feels strange, coming into my intimate social circle and meeting people who I am obviously close to, but who have to him only been names in my conversations. He feels disoriented and is obviously still jetlagged because after two or three days he can’t keep up the pace of eating and talking till the wee hours.
‘I can’t believe you have been doing this for six months,’ he groans as we set out on yet another social engagement.
There is also a sense that David is coming to France to take me home. That his arrival means the beginning of the end of all the good times we have been having together over the summer and autumn. He feels this strongly too, and worries if he will be perceived as the ogre, the spoiler of everybody’s fun. However the warmth of the welcome extended by my new family eases this feeling of insecurity. He will never really feel the same bond I feel with this place and these people, but he will love every moment of being here in the future. I feel totally confident.
With Alice the agent I show him over the short list of houses on offer. None of them excites his imagination. He likes the look of the Frayssinet cottage, which I show him from the road, bu
t it is still just out of our reach.
In desperation we approach another immobiliers in Prayssac. I have been loyally sticking to my English contacts, mainly I suppose because of my language difficulties. In the window we see a property at Cazals that looks quite promising, and ask if we can see over it. The Prayssac agent, Pierre, speaks only French but tells us that he has an English woman in the agency who will be back after lunch. When we meet Liz and explain our situation, she quickly makes up a list of six or eight possible properties. Pierre takes us through the Cazals house, which is in fact two adjoining houses, one habitable and one derelict, later in the day. We take Anthony along for a second, more experienced opinion. The renovated house is small but has lots of French features and a workable bathroom and kitchen. We don’t have keys to the second part of the property, but peer through dusty windows to see a large room with a beautiful stone fireplace. We love it, and Anthony nods in approval, though he points out that it doesn’t have a garden of any description. Nowhere to sit out in the summer, but it’s cheap and picturesque with potential to be made gorgeous. And Cazals is a wonderful ancient town with a beautiful village square and lovely shops and restaurants. This is it! We agree on the asking price, without even making a lower offer, and Pierre says he will contact the elderly owners who live just a few doors up the road.
