A Year at the Chateau

by Dick Strawbridge

  At €12 for adults and €8 for Arthur the total bill came to €33 (with an extra euro for an espresso), which was just over £20. It was a bargain and the slow pace had us feeling a lot less stressed.

  As soon as the rental office reopened we were there. Following telephone conversations with the insurance company and a bit of toing and froing, we had the biggest hire car we could get, which sadly was nothing like the size of the seven-seater MPV we had been driving. Our five-seater SUV looked woefully small as we drove back to the garage to collect our belongings.

  The transfer of our belongings from one car to the other was like a high-stakes game of Tetris. If you consider that we were moving and starting a new life, our MPV was properly full, so things had to be prioritised. Arthur and Dorothy’s seats were put in first. Then it was all about increasing the density of the packing. All air gaps had to be eradicated, which meant cases and boxes had to be emptied and repacked with a lot of the contents stuffed in between them and some of the containers left at the garage. It took well over an hour and every area of the car had something in it (apart from the driver’s footwell). It would have been comical if it had not been so serious. Obviously there was no visibility out of the rear-view window – in fact, it was a bit of a challenge to see the children, as they nestled in amongst the masses of clothing that had been packed around them.

  It was late afternoon and getting dark when we started on the road again. With stops, we knew we had at least another five or six hours to go. I absolutely love the drive from Calais to the château – as well as the slowly changing countryside and the regional food and drink to be explored, it’s like a live history lesson, cued by all the place names. When the children are older, I’ll bore them with stories about the centuries when Calais was part of England, then as we pass Crécy they need to understand the power of a British archer, the three million who fought in the Somme offensive and the sadness and waste of the million casualties. Then there are all the cemeteries and as you cross the Seine at Rouen you can clearly see its cathedral towers that are testament to the Second World War … Who needs a car stereo?

  Thankfully, the remainder of the journey was uneventful and, with just a single pit stop to wear out the children, feed, water and clean bums, we finally made it to our gîte about 10.30pm. We had been in touch with the lady who owned the gîte, Madame Olga Louvel, and given her progress reports so she knew we were going to be late. But it is fair to say we didn’t exactly get a warm welcome. Our petite hostess was all rules and business as we were processed. Readings were taken of gas, electric and water, details of when we could use the laundry facility, where to put rubbish and a plethora of other rules were given thick and fast. We then wrote a sizeable cheque, to be held, uncashed, as security, just in case we started holding wild parties with the taps running. Despite our very, very long day we did try to keep smiling but it was fair to say our responses were probably equally terse.

  After the best part of an hour, we were in our very spacious temporary home, with the doors locked, the heating on and our essentials brought in from the car. That didn’t include any food, as our cunning plan to pop into a local supermarket to stock up after we’d moved in didn’t happen. We had a miscellaneous collection of snacks and drinks scavenged from the car but very little that responsible parents would give their children, or themselves. But it didn’t matter – we ended up having a picnic and it was at this point Arthur and Dorothy got their second wind and proceeded to settle in by exploring, running, crawling, gurgling, laughing and generally being so happy it was contagious. We didn’t give a shit about how we had got there – we were just happy to have arrived and to be able to breathe.

  Our journey may have been out of a book of nightmares, but in hindsight we were so very lucky that we had planned to be in France as soon as we could. We were obviously lucky to survive our accident largely unscathed but it was also fortuitous that we moved that day, as it meant we had been living in France for exactly five years and one day on the official Brexit date: 31 January 2020. Being here more than five years put us into the category of those who pre-dated Brexit and had different rights, but of course we didn’t know that at the time as ‘Brexit’ had not even entered our vocabulary back then …

  Our first home in France, La Picherie, was one of two large converted barns. It had spacious dormitory-sized rooms, a couple of bathrooms and a massive sitting/dining area. There were a lot of tiles and very little carpet, which was a bit of a problem with very young children but the main rug in the sitting area became the centre of all play and Arthur didn’t seem to mind the cartoon characters on the telly talking a high-speed Gallic gibberish. Bedding was all provided but somehow we had missed that there were no cots for children. But it was a minor problem and our first romantic night was spent on a massive bed made up of four singles pushed together with pillows (Square pillows? What is that about?) stuffed down in the gaps and Mummy and Daddy bookending our precious little ones. When sleep came it was deep and wonderful.

  Our time in the gîte was comfortable and happy, especially after we popped out and picked up a couple of cots. We had a rolling rental as we did not know when we could move into our château and, despite first impressions, we soon discovered Olga’s brusque demeanour was absolutely not the whole story. She and her son lived in the farmhouse and, since her French husband had died, they had been making plans to move back to Russia. That was to be after her son finished his formal education, so they earned their living from the gîtes that had been made from converting the barns, and she worked part-time in the village school. Olga proved to be a font of knowledge and always had a warm smile for the children.

  It was the last day of January when we took the children to see their new home. As we left our gîte, I checked I had the key maybe five times (something that would become a bit of a habit of mine) and we drove the seven minutes to the château. As we turned the corner, my breath was taken away all over again. I wondered then if I would ever tire of turning that corner. It was the depths of winter: the trees were bare, the skies were white and the château looked stunning. We marvelled at the idea that this was to be the only home Arthur and Dorothy would remember as they grew up. It was the first time all four of us had been here together since we made the offer. It felt different and I had to stop myself from running inside to ‘get on’. Arthur was toddling around the front of the château, my heart was melting and we needed to savour the moment. Of course, the kids were too young to understand what was happening. They were just happy being with us and our joy was probably infectious. Dick and I had been brought up in more conventional houses but they were filled with love and we knew that we were ready to turn this massive, beautiful building into a home.

  Today was ‘drop-off day’ and we were very sensible. Instead of lingering, it was a case of a quick unload and off to the supermarket to stock up. We have always loved going food shopping in France. It all feels so foreign and exciting. With two trolleys and the children ensconced we prepared to dash around. The baguettes were warm so we broke the end off one and gave a bit to each of the children and then we didn’t hear another word from them, so off we went. Everything was interesting: even the loo rolls were different. When we arrived at the delicatessen and butchery departments it was gloves off, as we bought all sorts, justified by the fact that we’d need ‘picnics’ when we were at the château. The salmon and spinach quiche was a particular favourite, as was the smoked chicken. For some reason, France seems to be the place to have smoked chicken. Passing the abundant seafood counters reminded us just how close we were to the coast of Brittany and that this was the season to enjoy mussels, oysters, whelks, clams, cockles, crabs and lobsters (when we had more time).

  We noticed the lack of ‘out of season’ fruits straight away. We bought lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, but there were no strawberries or raspberries, or indeed any soft fruits apart from some very expensive Moroccan blueberries. It is easy to think of strawberries in the middle of the
winter as being normal but they don’t taste as good if they are force-reared in the middle of winter, so we had to assume that the consumers in France were fussier and didn’t buy them, and that was why the supermarkets didn’t have them on the shelves. It is not a hardship waiting until the right time of year to buy seasonal fruit – if anything, the anticipation makes their arrival all the more special. First shop in France complete, we were off ‘home’ to enjoy some of our local delicacies.

  In the overall scale of things it has to be said that January 2015 was a big month for us. We’d packed up our lives in the UK, bought our château, said our goodbyes and moved the family out to France. Arthur had turned two and we had all come through what could have been an horrific car accident. It was cold in the Mayenne – not the damp cold of home but it was still not the weather to be working in without creature comforts and our château was definitely lacking in those. It’s true we had not yet sampled the lifestyle we had aimed for, but we knew the ports of Brittany had stocked the local markets with masses of fresh seafood. So even if we hadn’t yet had the chance to appreciate the shellfish, we were here and the world was our oyster, whelk, clam, cockle, crab, lobster and mussel …

  * * *

  * I now know that ‘chasing’ involves digging out the wall to sink in ducting, but at the time I didn’t really understand what he was talking about.

  * Basically a bed and breakfast.

  * As a side note, Angela’s boiled eggs are ‘egg’cellent (sorry!). You place the eggs into cold water just covered, bring them to the boil, turn off and cover. After thirteen minutes, empty out the water and run cold water over them until they are cold. When peeled they will be cooked to perfection and look great – give it a go, and don’t spare the salt.

  * Toll road.

  * Floating islands – a dessert of French origin, consisting of meringues floating on crème anglaise.

  chapter two

  FEBRUARY

  In the short, dark days of February, without lighting in the château, productivity was limited by daylight. It just doesn’t yet feel like the promise of spring is round the corner, however the hardy snowdrops do make an appearance and we were delighted to have clumps of them round the moat and in the woods over by the orangery. But you always have to be wary of feeling too confident about the changes happening through the months. The old saying goes, ‘As the day lengthens so the cold strengthens’. It may have been the lack of glass and sources of heat in the château, but that winter was cold in a way that went into your bones. We even saw the moat freeze for the first time in that first February. Although the freeze wasn’t deep, definitely not deep enough to allow us to walk on it, it was sufficient to foil the herons and kingfishers. But we were a little preoccupied sorting out the alligators nearest to our canoe to notice the wildlife during our first winter at the château.

  We were very aware that the French enjoy the seasonality of food but the food that is available to be eaten and harvested at this time of year is traditionally very limited. Some things have been stored, such as apples and potatoes, but other vegetables are still available to harvest. Root vegetables, choux* and brassicas of every type were on sale. We also noticed sacks of leeks and boxes of carrots that were all sandy coming on sale the very first time. Surprisingly, topinambour* are widely available and even though we affectionately refer to them as ‘fartichokes’ because of their ability to cause ‘gas’, they do make an extremely tasty soup.

  With a lot of worthwhile tasks, it is often the case that things get a lot worse before they get better. That was certainly the case with the château. We decided to start by cleaning the areas of the château that the children would be in and that was not trivial. First the entrance hall got a quick lick, then we moved onto the dining room, which needed a lot more attention as that was where we were going to base ourselves. The tower off the dining room had a toilet and a bath. We never understood how the Bagliones could have a high-status salle-à-manger and then a toilet so close but it worked out conveniently and we brought the toilet (not the bath) back to life fairly quickly, initially with jugs filled from the tap in the cellar.

  On our first inspection, the toilet had driven Angela from the room gagging, so that made the decision about who was going to clean it. I’d brought up a couple of huge metal jugs of water, then proceeded to fill and flush the cistern until there were no lumps! After that it was all about brushing and then scrubbing with sprays and cloths. Now, cleaning rooms on our ground floor really has to be explained to be understood, as the ceilings are fifteen feet high and they needed to be brushed too, so it was a physical but I have to say satisfying task. After a couple of hours, I felt it was safe for Angela and the children to go in. All germs had been dealt with, the cistern charged, some spare jugs filled and even the sink and ancient bath looked acceptable, if not desirable. As the waste was going into the moat and there was definitely no septic tank or holding tank, we made the decision that paper and anything that didn’t come out of your body had to go into a little waste bin we put in there. It reminded me of holidays to hot Mediterranean countries decades before, and the feeling that this was all a bit uncivilised. However, the thought of used loo roll floating around the moat was horrible, so we resigned ourselves, and our guests, to the indignity of the bin until our new sewage system was up and running. I also made the decision to feed the children more sweetcorn (it was bound to pay dividends when I started fishing). Within a couple of weeks we had connected the cistern to the mains water. It had its own pipe that went from the tower on one side of the cellar across to the tower on the other. It passed through open doors and was attached to nails in the ceiling so no one would trip over it. It was ugly, but it was only temporary, and it worked.

  There were a couple of other tasks that had to be done immediately and it was safer for Angela and the children not to be around, so I dropped them back at the gîte and set about sorting them. Problem number one was the threshold into the entrance hall – it was seriously dodgy. When I walked on it, it flexed a matter of inches and it was obviously about to give way. It’s not particularly welcoming if your first words to anyone who turns up are ‘Be careful!’ or ‘Don’t step there!’ I made the decision to do a temporary fix as long as it was safe – our rule about only doing things that we would not have to undo later did not apply where our immediate safety was at stake. I only understood the extent of the issue when I removed the plaster and lath ceiling in the sous sol * below – a dusty, messy and generally unpleasant job.

  The tiled entrance above was basically levitating and it needed to be braced ASAP. I had set up my workshop in the cellar cider store so I went and grabbed every sort of bracket I could find. Within a couple of hours, I had put together a seriously Frankenstein arrangement that could have easily supported the Irish rugby team jumping on it. It reminded me of my Scrapheap Challenge days, when I always subscribed to functionality first – looks were irrelevant. I don’t think Angela ever saw the monstrosity but it lasted the couple of years I needed it to until it was time to replace all the joists and redo the ceiling in what was to become our boot room. Cleaning up took as long as the job but it was great to be able to forget about the danger of walking through the door.

  The next job was equally pressing but not as obvious. The buyer’s report highlighted the front door as having lead paint on it and as it was in constant use it had to be stripped. I was reminded every time I walked through the door. We had had time to plan our priorities and do our research so we were not going to go down the route of using a heat gun and sanding, instead we had sourced an eco-chemical that held the lead compound in suspension that was then was easily disposed of. Carpe diem. It was just a matter of getting on with it. But the temperatures were low and it was cold outside, so it ended up requiring longer to ‘cure’ than anticipated.

  Once applied, I put cling film onto the chemicals, then, after an hour of chemical action, I scraped off the paint and the chemical goop and collected it into a large dru
m. Then it was time to wash it all down, rinsing the cloths regularly to capture the lead in solution. The only water I had was cold and so, despite my Marigold gloves, my hands were a little chilly and, after a while, a little numb. It’s a big door so it was a long job and I ended up working on it until late into the night. With no lights to turn on, I illuminated our front door with work lamps and, when those batteries failed, I ran the car with the headlights on so I could get it finished.

  The front door was undoubtedly the hardest thing we had to strip as it was intricate and very big, so to reach the top required large stepladders. It was with great relief that I finished it and tidied away all my equipment eight hours later. The next day in the daylight it didn’t look that bad, which was a great relief as it took us several months before we got around to repainting it.