A Year at the Chateau

by Dick Strawbridge

  chapter one

  JANUARY

  The short days and cold, damp conditions of January always have you looking to the future. It’s fair to say that in the UK we usually have to endure this dreary sort of weather a lot more than the crisp, clear days that are the optimum version of winter. It is in these gloomy conditions that we make and try to keep our New Year’s resolutions as well as dreaming about what the next year will bring. Looking ahead in January 2015, we knew it was going to be an interesting year. Instead of snuggling down with warming hotpots and log fires, we were just about to launch into the adventure of a lifetime.

  The first tranche of paperwork had been signed in November and the last legal opportunity to change our minds had passed, but that never occurred to us. This year we would be starting our new lives in a castle! There was a lot to do to organise ourselves to start afresh in France.

  Conducting a legal transaction in a foreign country with a rudimentary grasp of the language is both stressful and seriously difficult. The purchase of the château was conducted in two phases and, after our initial commitment, we were given a very weighty tome to digest. We were handed a large envelope and within this was a report on the château with literally hundreds of pages about all the things that were wrong with it. It was enough to scare any sane person. We immediately punched holes in every page and created a very scary file. Obviously, it was all in French; however, we hadn’t really thought about the difficulty of translating hard copies of paper documentation. We could not copy and paste it into Google Translate. Each report had been done by a specialist who must have charged by weight or word count.

  With a failed French O level dating back to 1976, I would have thought I would have been the last person to be given the task of working out what the reports said. However, as a student I had sold doughnuts on the beaches of the south of France and in my youth had also earned my French ‘wings’ by training and jumping out of aeroplanes with the French army, so that was enough justification for Angela to say ‘catch’ and the coup de grâce was the throwaway, ‘They’re technical and that’s your department.’

  There were a couple of things I learnt very quickly: firstly, every report contained a significant amount of generic filling and fluff that I soon realised I could skate over; and, secondly, it pays to read the last page first before launching into the complete document. This latter point became apparent when I decided to read the report on asbestos first to see just how big a problem we had. There were more than forty pages and I ploughed my way through translating description after description of how terrible amiante friable was, be it white, brown or blue. Over the course of several hours I began to feel a tightening in my stomach and a rising panic. It was only when I reached the conclusion that I realised that the ‘report’ was mainly an education document and that the totality of the risk at the château was centred around a handful of new tiles on the sides of a dormer window in the hay loft of an outbuilding. It simply means that disposal of these ‘slates’, in fifty years’ time, will probably involve double bagging them first. Lesson learnt.

  The ‘file of doom’ was never going to be my job. I struggle reading English, let alone French. Oh no, my job was to make Dick tea, rub his shoulders and make all the right sounds when asked a question. My heart melted watching Dick in his office night after night with his phone trying to capture the text into a PDF translator, but it would have cost thousands to get it all translated professionally – and that thousands could buy us a new bathroom suite.

  The château had not been lived in for some time and the list of jobs that needed to be done was extensive: there was a significant amount of lead paint that had to be stripped; masses of windows that were lacking glass, or at the very least were cracked and broken; the entirety of the electrics had to be replaced, as did all the plumbing; the sewage needed sorting as a matter of urgency and there was no central heating. It was a long list and they were all mammoth jobs. Not for the first time, we reminded ourselves it was all about the planning – and that you eat an elephant a bite at a time. Looking on the bright side, there was one working tap – admittedly it was in the cellar, nowhere near a sink, but at least it worked.

  Having ploughed our way through the paperwork and made a plan, of sorts, we were assailed with another raft of documents: the legal paperwork to actually buy the property. France is known to be bureaucratic, so it came as no surprise when we got a very thick envelope that required a straight back and bent knees to pick up. This time we had to bite the bullet and paid for a translator to ensure we did not miss anything important – after all, to coin a poker phrase, we were going all in. Despite chasing, we only received the translations a couple of days before our meeting with the notaire, Monsieur Blot, and every minute thereafter was spent excitedly pawing over them.

  The signing was probably one of the biggest commitments either of us had ever made. It was not just the buying of a house, which is a very grown-up thing to do; it was the sinking of all our money and hopes into a building that no one else seemed to want to buy. Added to that, on a scale of hugeness, it was enormous, and also a very long way from being habitable. We knew these stark facts but, quite frankly, it didn’t matter. We just knew it was right for us and right for our family. It might sound a bit odd, but we didn’t doubt we were doing the right thing, though we were a little curious as to how we were going to do all that had to be done. Angela and I are positive people and we knew we’d overcome anything thrown at us, but at this point we didn’t really know what those things would be.

  We travelled in style to the signing in France. We hired a van in Southend-on-Sea and filled it with items we knew we would need the moment we got the keys – and then we headed off to take the final steps to owning our very own château. Arthur stayed with Grandma and Grandad but Dorothy, who was still very attached to Mummy’s boobs, came with us. The journey south was very special; we chatted all the way, with Dorothy, sat in her car seat between us, watching us as avidly as any fan at the centre court of Wimbledon.

  It was a fairly unimpressive January day and we arrived at the notaire’s office in good time. We had agreed to allow Monsieur Blot to act for us, even though he was also acting for the Bagliones because he was based in the village and spoke English – two very good reasons. On our arrival, we discovered that the office was indeed in the village and that Monsieur Blot’s claim to fluency in English was based on his ability to communicate on several fishing trips to Scotland. We would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when he and his gillie were chatting in a pub after a day on the water. Fortuitously, we had decided before Christmas that we’d invest in an interpreter to be in attendance and to translate the documentation we were to sign. We felt that if there had been any misunderstandings, our limited ability to understand French would not have been a defence for us …

  We convened at 3pm on 12 January 2015. In the office there was the notaire, the estate agent, our interpreter, Jacques, and the three of us. It was a marathon session: each page had to be read, explained and then initialled. There is so much arse-covering going on you have to know that it is definitely a case of ‘Caveat emptor’ – let the buyer beware – though it was actually very exciting when each parcel of land was discussed and confirmed to be in the sale. We had visited the property a couple of times, but we still hadn’t actually walked the boundaries. That was all to come …

  Dorothy was so well behaved we hardly knew she was there (she was probably doing her bit to ensure it all went smoothly). There was only one small sticking point and that was to do with a tax that has to be paid for the year. Legally this was due to be paid by the person owning the property on 1 January. Obviously that wasn’t us, and we’d done our research so we knew what bills we would expect and when. Initially it was stated that it was for us to pay, then it was acknowledged that it was not actually our debt, however, ultimately we had to pay it anyway, because that was what was done. Apparently custom and practice is as important as the law in ru
ral France.

  After five hours, on a dark, chilly January evening, we finally had the keys to our own château in our hands. After the warm handshakes and thanks we headed off to our new home. Château-de-la-Motte Husson was officially ours and our smiles could have lit up all the Mayenne. Jacques invited us to his house for a celebratory drink but first we had to pop ‘home’ and drop off the contents of our van. In some ways it was good that our first visit as owners had to be quite short as otherwise we would have probably spent most of the evening and night starting our list of things to do.

  Five minutes later we reversed up to the steps leading to our front door. Our front door key is truly a thing of beauty: it’s huge and when you open the door it makes a significant clunk. Opening our massive front door for the first time that evening and going into our château was very special. We both had tears in our eyes – we had done it. We now owned the château of our dreams. We were realistic and knew full well that now the work would really begin, but our family had actually bought a fairy-tale castle to live in. We had talked about putting down roots for generations ahead and this was where we were going to do it. Our goosebumps were nothing to do with the temperature: we owned a f***ing château!

  We savoured our achievement for a few moments but then it was time to focus and we went back outside, opened the back of the van and proceeded to empty it. First out of the van came our battery-operated work lights: we illuminated our way and, after a quick sweep, the first room we occupied was the salle-à-manger, the dining room. Some glass was missing from the windows but the shutters were sound. And, most importantly, it was on the ground floor, even though there were fourteen stone steps to be negotiated to get up there. Time was against us, so we shot up and down like people possessed.

  First up was a large rug and play pen. Dorothy was wrapped up like a Michelin man and plonked, happily, in her cage. Next up came masses of cleaning equipment, a leather chesterfield sofa bed – which was a bugger to get up there – bedding, towels, assorted tools, clothing and a basic camping kit (gas stove, pans, loo rolls, bowls). Every time we went up and through the front door we smiled. This beautiful place was ours. We ‘moved in’ in record time but couldn’t dwell long as we had to pop next door to Jacques and Isabelle’s for drinks before heading off to find our hotel.

  So, reluctantly, we locked up and the three of us drove to see our new neighbours: Jacques and Isabelle. They only live five minutes’ walk away, and four of those minutes are the walk from the château and round the moat, then it is just a skip and hop to their home, which is two huge old farmhouses from the original estate. But with Dorothy only being nine months old, we drove – it was just easier because of the amount of stuff a nine-month-old needs.

  Their house was stylish, rustic, homely and inviting. With six children it did not have room to be anything else. They had two entrance ways: the main one was seldom used and opened into a hallway in the oldest part of the building; the other was the doorway into the kitchen, which was clearly the heart of their home. The kitchen was filled with shelves upon shelves of herbs, seasonings, preserves; there was a gigantic cooker, a huge table and a smaller breakfast table. You could clearly see how they lived life just from their kitchen.

  Around the corner was what looked like an old hunting room with stone walls, exposed dark beams and a huge fire and mantelpiece that was the focus of this room. This was their salon (back home in Northern Ireland this would have been called the front room: somewhere to bring guests that was usually tidy and, with a fire in the grate, would be welcoming). In Jacques and Isabelle’s room, comfy green and burgundy chairs had been carefully arranged round the fire. It was a cosy room, but it did feel like it was saved for special occasions.

  Jacques and Isabelle were prepared for us. There was a bottle of champagne in the fridge and homemade nibbles on the table: bread, olives and charcuterie. They warmly welcomed us into their lives and Jacques stood up and said a few words before everyone cheered ‘Santé !’ It was a very special moment between families. And although we had TV cameras with us that day, Isabelle made it very clear that her family would never be on TV. We loved her for this – she was the boss and that was that.

  The Baglion family had been masters of this land for over four centuries. They had acquired the rights to the original twelfth-century castle and the lands and had built the ‘new’ château 150 years earlier. Our château had been built for Countess Dorothée, who had wanted a grand château on the site of what would have been a fort when she married into the family. Her main residence was to be at their château in Nantes, a hundred miles to the south-west of here, where they spent winters in the milder maritime climate. Château-de-la-Motte Husson was the family’s summer home. We did not pry into how the fortunes of the family had faired in recent years, but it was clear that they had not used the château as a primary residence for a long time and, upon the death of the late count, it had been sold so the proceeds could be divided amongst the children.

  With only the one château, we prepared ourselves to spend our winter and our summer there, and we were truly excited to do so.

  After the epic session at the notaire’s office, followed by drinks at Jacques and Isabelle’s house, we should have been on our chin straps but the excitement had us buzzing. We were staying at the Marjolain, a hotel only seven minutes from the château. The rooms were simple but clean and the grounds were stunning, with a beautiful water feature to welcome you. Driving into the hotel, I thought to myself: Do we need a water feature at the château?

  It took me less than fifteen minutes to get changed, feed Dorothy, pop her into her papoose and get my red lippy on. With my hair already done I was eager to get downstairs to their highly-recommended restaurant.

  I would love to say that the service was welcoming but, alas, I think no one could get over the fact that I had a baby attached to my hip. But I was all dressed up, having just bought our first château, and a sleeping Dorothy was not going to stop us celebrating. In fact, she was part of it. We sat down and giggled like naughty told-off children. ‘Does no one go out with babies?’ I remember Dick saying, but we soon got distracted by a plate of deliciousness and a menu.

  We tried their local aperitif to start with, which was a variation on kir royale, made with champagne and an apricot liquor. It was very nice and a great way to kick off. I watched as Dick scanned the thirteen-page wine menu and eventually said, ‘Let’s go for a Chinon. It’s a local wine and I’ve never tried it.’ Sometimes we like to pair our wines with our food and other times we just like to get stuck into one good bottle that both of us fancy. Today was definitely a case of the latter. When the 2012 Chinon Les Perruches Pascal Lambert arrived, it was delicious, rich and smooth.

  By this point we were both smiling from ear to ear. Aside from having just completed on our new home, it was not very often that we got to go out any more. It was a date – and we were definitely going to enjoy it! There was a formula, or set menu, available for €24, but we decided to take the tasting menu. I think it’s fair to say moments like these are few and far between. It was a very special meal.

  On the day we became château owners we ate the following:

  Snails with pork ears

  Lobster with fresh thyme

  Veal sweetbreads with langoustines

  Philippe Delaunay young pigeon with blackberry sauce

  A trio of chocolate desserts

  The courses were small but bursting with flavours. There were a few combinations that we discussed quietly between ourselves. ‘They nearly worked’ was the general theme, but that only gave us more lovely conversations on what we thought went well together.

  Breakfast at the Marjolain was a little more relaxed: fresh juice, jams, warm croissants and crunchy baguettes with butter that you wanted to put your bread onto (Dick’s saying!). We ate early and then, with our one and only key safely clasped in our hands, we headed to the château (I must have checked that I had that key a dozen times. I blame my baby
brain for checking that I had the key, forgetting I had the key, checking, forgetting).

  When we arrived, Dorothy had fallen asleep, so we took the opportunity to take a few selfies with our gigantic key outside our massive, and very much in need of love, front door. Another special moment from this trip.

  It was the first full day of officially owning our new home. I remember thinking it was a dream. It had not sunk in yet. How on earth have we ended up owning a château? Our plan today was to look around and work out in what order we would do things in, but in reality that was Dick’s area. I did cosmetics. As we walked around the rooms again, in my mind’s eye I saw how each room might look: where the lights would be, where the Christmas tree might go. I even saw the rooms filled with people, drinking and laughing. I saw the potential. As I entered the salon, with the old duck-egg blue and gold wallpaper hanging off the walls, the silk curtains in need of attention, and an electric fire blocking the mantelpiece, I pictured what it would have been like in its heyday with the bustle of noise and life.

  Then suddenly with a bang I had to step back to reality. Dick was talking about flue liners, the electrics, the heating and how we would need to ‘chase’ everything into the walls*, the woodworm, the damp and the flies. Yes, it’s fair to say, my feet were firmly back down on solid ground. Room by room, Dick and I went around the château discussing phase one of our (his) plans and what each room might be used for in the future.

  One of the first things we came to terms with was realising that we are custodians of the château and that we were there to bring it back to life. Every lock in the château – the doors, the wine cellars and all the cupboards – had keys in them or hanging on a nail beside them. Jacques had mentioned this to us briefly as we were leaving their house the evening before. It was clear that our château had been cared for.