April is known for showers but it is spring and the sap is well and truly rising. We didn’t really know what to expect. It was wonderful. We didn’t have the showers that first year and maybe it was because we were still coming to terms with living in our château, but it seemed like spring was even more springy.
There is something very special about ‘owning’ trees. If you look at the life cycle of an oak it can be said to ‘grow for 200 years, live for 200 years and die for 200 years’. Some live a lot longer, but it’s a great description. Based on such longevity, ownership is a nonsense. Like with the château, we are only custodians. The trees will be there long after we have gone. Our largest tree is to the south-west of our land. It is huge but you have to get up close to see just how massive it is. On the internet there are calculators that allow you to enter a circumference and it will give you an approximate age. When we did that for our tree it showed that it dated back to at least the 1660s, to the reign of the House of Bourbon and to Louis XIV, the Sun King. At that time, our château didn’t exist. Instead, the original twelfth-century castle would have stood on the island we now occupy. If only trees could talk …
When the bare trees start to bud and leaves start to appear, the landscape around us changes from browns and greys to a faintly green tinge, then suddenly fresh and vibrant greens. The evergreens around us cannot influence the landscape to the point that the countryside feels green; it’s only when all the native trees come into leaf that the colour palette changes.
The lime trees on the island were in need of pollarding and their thick limbs provided abundant foliage. Around the moat the alders had taken over the banks and, at the far side of the moat, to the north, some splendid sweet and horse chestnuts and oaks dominate the view. Over to the east of our plot, our woods and swamp are full of oak, beech, birch, sycamore and even some walnuts. When the leaves first appear, it is all fresh and it doesn’t take long before the château and our little bit of France is surrounded by leafy trees. As we walked round the château, it was wonderful that everything we could see was ours, yet when we climbed the stairs and looked out we had views over miles of beautiful countryside.
The first of everything at the château always felt overwhelmingly exciting, with feelings and passions that came tumbling. I went for many walks with Arthur and Dorothy during the times that Dick was away. The routine gave me comfort and time to breathe, and we all loved the peacefulness of our surroundings and the fresh air.
During April, my regular walk down the drive to the end, back, round the moat and round the château started changing visually daily. Every day there was something new before my eyes. Grasses that I had never seen before: green, brown and purple that looked like feathers. Wild daffodils popped up around the bank by the moat. One day, they were just there and they gave me a real jolt of excitement: daffodils. Our daffodils. Ours! The big dilemma was if I should pick them and bring them into the house or simply enjoy looking at them on our walks. Wild primulas also sprang up in abundance around the moat. Suddenly there were so many different shades of yellow. One day the bank looked golden. We started to come and have little picnics there under the trees. It became a haven for us, especially when the sun shone …
With the seed planted for our wedding party, I had my heart set on having our wedding breakfast in the orangery. The orangery was the château’s original winter garden. I had learnt the Bagliones used to host tea parties there, so I had an immediate connection to the building. The windows are Art Deco fan shapes that extend from the ceiling down to the troughs and cover the entire front and right-hand side of the building and the roof is an apex with delicate slate tiles. It is a stunning building to have and I clearly remember saying I would have bought the château simply for the orangery.
We had seen lots of rustic farm-type outbuildings for sale as part of an estate but never an elegant orangery. It was very special and the perfect place to host our wedding breakfast. So one sunny day, Arthur, Dorothy and I took a detour from our routine walk and headed over the long grass to see what state it was in. At this time, the meadow was just that: a meadow of wild grasses and a few wild flowers. It looked stunning to me but there was no path as such. But we still always went the same route and, looking back, I’ve realised we subconsciously followed the path that Jacques and Isabelle led us on the very first time they took us to the orangery and we shared the harvest of the quince tree. Since then, Jacques has told us the original path was white and it curved up at the edges. It must have been big enough to take a horse, maybe even a carriage.
On this particular day, I could see dense patches of violet all around the Art Deco building. From a distance I truly had no idea what this was … it was clustered around the left side of the orangery and under the trees on the right. As I approached it became clearer: it was hundreds, possibly thousands, of untouched, untrodden on, completely beautiful bluebells. They looked like little pixie hats. I’d never been this close to nature and I could not wait to tell Dick. I think Dick was more excited to hear of my excitement than the bluebells themselves – having lived in London I had always been one step from nature, so life at the château meant I was seeing, living and feeling seasonality for the first time.
There was a little fight between me and the doors to the orangery because of the wisteria that had grown over it. It was so heavy over the door that it had curled through every crevice; in fact, it had made some new ones too. Once inside, I quickly realised just how much this plant had savaged the windows and taken over the ceiling. Another job to add to the long to-do list before it caused any more damage. Had it not been for the damage, I may have chosen to keep it – it looked quite whimsical. The walls and the ceiling were dirty white and there was a hole around a metre wide but the potential was all there. Right now, I knew the least we could do, and probably the most we could do, was a little repair, a good paint and an even bigger clean.
Another day while out walking, I got thinking about the wolf (and how I was glad they were not around now!). Beautiful creatures but also a little bit scary – so knowing that the wolf that used to live at the top of our stairs was the last one in this area gave me peace. I also started to think it would be great to bring this piece of history back to the château. Not with a real wolf or taxidermy, but a faux taxidermy replica, so when the kids went to bed in the evening I started looking to see if such a thing existed as a piece of art. I thought I would surprise Dick and give it to him as a wedding present – a nod to the past as we started creating our own Strawbridge story at the château.
I came across a UK-based company that sold unicorns, giraffes, zebras and took commissions, all faux and by the looks of it not bad value. The company is called Broken Hare and it’s run by a husband and wife duo, Jon and Katherine. They are based in Wales and make everything themselves in their studio. The following day I called them. Dick and I believe it’s always best to call. There is a well-known theory about us all being connected by six degrees of separation – and every time there is a connection outside of the one you are making I always feel happy and believe it’s a good sign. On this occasion it very quickly became apparent that there was another connection: I had hosted a tea party for Katherine in Wales many years ago and Dick had even attended to serve tea. In fact, there is a wonderful picture of Dick with feather boas round his neck surrounded by thirty women at Katherine’s party. I love the picture so much that I included it in the introduction of my Vintage Tea Party Year book. We giggled at the coincidence – what a small world.
Jon and Katherine loved the wolf story and were very excited about working together. How could you not be drawn into this piece of history? Their passion for their craft was abundantly clear and before I knew it I had purchased two unicorns, a zebra, a giraffe and wanted a commission for the wolf. We ‘shook hands’ and an agreement to deliver the items and come and see the château to discuss the wolf was sealed. It was very exciting. I knew that I was sacrificing something practical for some statement faux tax
idermy – we definitely had not budgeted for these luxuries – but I wanted to start making the house ours and for me that meant ensuring I kept my love of fantasy alive.
It was all too obvious that we needed an electrician who wanted to work – or at least one we could communicate with enough to find out why he didn’t want to work. We decided to see if there were any certified electricians available within the ex-pat community; we needed someone who could sign off any work he did. When we had been searching for a translator prior to purchasing the château, we had found a lady called Valerie who made a living helping British people living in France to navigate their way through the bureaucracy. She put us in touch with some British ‘artisans’ who lived north of us.
That is a very interesting differentiation. In Britain we have workers and tradesmen, whereas in France they have artisans. We cannot say how they are perceived in the community – those are nuances we are still trying to absorb – however, we do know that our French friends are always interested in contacting and using anyone we found to be industrious or reliable. It is not possible to generalise, and the quality and work ethics vary greatly by individuals, but we have been told on more than one occasion that the quality of some ex-pat ‘builders’ or ‘plasterers’ or ‘craftsman’ should be questioned. It is joked that many get their qualifications on the ferry when they decide to move to France. There is undoubtedly a bit of truth in it, as people often redefine themselves when they make a move. We have experienced both good and bad. All I can say is a strong recommendation from someone you respect is the best way to find someone reliable. We have kissed a fair number of frogs before finding our current team of princes and princesses, and by that we are not talking about French people!
Although funds were tight, we were always searching for people who were willing to do an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage. Sometimes it feels as if being the owners of a château makes people believe you have either more money than sense or are a bit simple. One British builder contacted us and quoted us to supply us with a plasterer to skim a room. It was a couple of days’ work but the quote was ridiculously high so we phoned the plasterer up directly to work out why, only to discover that he knew nothing about the job and wasn’t interested in it. When we discussed his rates it was apparent that the broker had basically doubled it as commission. Suffice to say, I told him to f*** off and not to bother coming anywhere near us ever again.
There was another occasion when we learnt the true value of being on-hand to supervise work. We had a couple of simple rooms that we felt should be quick and easy to transform. The plan was to make them into studies to allow us to work in a degree of tranquillity amidst the chaos that was our home. We followed a recommendation and employed a builder who had the resources to do the job. It was not cheap as they claimed it required a plasterer and an assistant. Halfway through the job we were surprised to find the both men at the supermarket in the middle of the afternoon buying beer. When we challenged them, they tried telling us plastering was hard work and they were tired, even though there were two of them doing the job usually done by one. Yet another builder to avoid in the future.
With so much rewiring required we were frantic to find someone qualified in French electrics with a reliable work ethic. Luckily Alan and his daughter/helper were available and to our delight were reasonable, reliable and turned up exactly when they said they would.
With seven months until our wedding we had hoped that our list of jobs would start to get smaller. Instead, it continued to grow. To add to our challenges, we decided we needed to sort out another suite upstairs so that we had somewhere for guests to stay with us that had all the mod cons (you know: lights, running water, a loo). This may seem like simple stuff, but the entire house was still running from one socket at this point. Heating wasn’t included as it was April so it should be warm enough and I had convinced Angela that we should subscribe to the idea of putting on a jumper if you are chilly. Like our family suite, it was a temporary fix, so not to the same standard as our letting suites. This may appear like a distraction from our main tasks, but it would mean we could have more people come to stay – even if they had to be fit enough to walk up seventy-five stairs.
The suite on the second floor exactly mirrored our family suite on the floor below. The bathroom also looked like a corridor that had been widened and it caused no end of pain. I wanted a ‘quick and easy to erect’ shower cubicle and so bought one that was meant to be installed in minutes. My arse was it simple! The instructions were allegedly in French and English, though they may as well have been in Swahili. I wrestled with plastic nuts and tubing made from cheese* for hours before I managed to get the cubicle up drip and leak free. It was not of the best quality as it was to be in commission for less than a year and we couldn’t imagine it being reused in the château in the future. In fact, its finest quality was that it was the cheapest we could find. That said, it was a shower, and it even had jets that squirted out sideways in imitation of massage jets. The loo and sinks were from our barn of plumbing treasures. We slapped some paint on the walls to pretend it was not an extension of our building site and it was done.
Getting planning permission in a country where you know the language and can understand the system can seem daunting. Try doing it in another language in another country! We had all decided that my parents’ home was eventually going to be the rather large coach house on the island, beside the château. We knew the benefits of multi-generational living but we also recognised that we all needed a little bit of space. Historically part of the building had been used as the cook’s house. It is the only outbuilding on our island and, although there were many other outbuildings that surrounded the walled garden to choose from, some already with planning permission, we loved the idea that when the kids are old enough we will be able to say, ‘Go run over to Grandma and Grandad’s house.’ So we set about finding an architect.
Word of mouth soon led us to an English, fully in-the-system, French-speaking man who could do exactly what we needed. My parents’ needs were quickly understood and the process began. It took months and many tos and fros to get it over the line. It was not the plans; they were quite straightforward. It was the system in place in the centre of Mayenne that kept losing bits of paperwork (at least, that is what we were told!). But it all worked out well and, a few hurdles later, we were granted permission to get started. Sadly, the roof of the coach house was in a bad condition, so this needed to be fixed before we could commence any other work – this meant we had to park it until our wedding was over, but still dreams of my parents’ house started to come together. As always, there was a lot of work to be done, which would have to be done in phases, but it felt within our grasp.
Though I had spent weeks being excited at every new flower, every bumblebee, every new smell, every new taste, I was not really looking forward to my and Dorothy’s first birthdays at the château. Dorothy’s birthday is the day after mine – and Dick was missing them both as he was away in America again, while Mum was still in the UK running the restaurant. Dad had been home to see Mum but she always felt happier that Dad was with me when Dick was away. I love her for this, but that is just my mum – always putting others first.
We always joke that my dad is the biggest kid of all and, after a little chat about what to do to celebrate our birthdays, we decided on a trip to Disneyland, Paris. I knew Dad and I would have a giggle and the kids would probably enjoy themselves too. It did not take long for me to see the positive in this. It’s not very often as a grown-up that you get to spend quality time with one of your parents, especially when you have kids – and to be honest Disneyland is not Dick or my mum’s cup of tea. So off we went for a couple of days. It was the first time the château had been by herself, and I have to say she never left my mind, but we had a ball and I loved how close we were. I could not wait to get to know Paris like I knew London. There were so many hidden gems waiting for Dick and me to explore.
When we were �
��courting’ there were many occasions that I’d travel up from Cornwall to London. As there were still chickens and geese at my smallholding, I would bring fresh eggs with me for us to enjoy when we had the opportunity for a leisurely breakfast. I took for granted what it was like to have truly fresh eggs ‘straight from the chicken’s bum’ but it was a revelation for Angela. Life is about enjoying even the most mundane of activities and making them special. I have always loved Angela’s desire to make an occasion out of every meal or every drink we have together – setting the table for us always involves napkins and lovely china and glass. It may take a little effort, but it is so worthwhile.
As Angela’s Vintage Patisserie business was thriving, and that involved lots of weekend events, during my visits we grabbed our fun when we could. Friday evenings and Saturdays were always busy, preparing all the bespoke cakes, patisseries and sandwiches, and then hosting up to half a dozen tea parties in different locations in the capital. By the time everything had been cleared up and turned round for the next event they were long old days. (Right from our first weekend together in London, I was in awe of Angela’s work ethic – despite finishing late she would have her alarm set for an early start so every event had the attention she felt it deserved. When I say early, sometimes it would be 3am to allow her time to bake and prepare for the next morning. That is early in anyone’s book!) So if we had a Sunday morning free it was savoured. Breakfast would be prepared together, which made Angela a bit twitchy, as she loves looking after me and allowing me to relax as she busies herself around the kitchen. However, when it was our time together, we would prepare all manner of meals.
When I brought produce up from Cornwall it would be the centrepiece of our meal. Unusually, breakfast would be large and varied. This was ten years ago and mashed, ripe avocado with salt, freshly ground pepper and a little squeeze of lemon juice, served on toasted sourdough, was not yet common, but we loved it – especially with soft poached eggs and crispy rashers of streaky bacon. It’s a simple fact, but it’s impossible to poach a truly fresh egg badly! Eggs that are fresh hold together and by cracking them into a teacup and then lowering them into gently simmering, salted water, your job is done. A couple of minutes later and they just need to be lifted out with a slotted spoon and served. It’s a hangover from my childhood, but I love a little splash of vinegar in the poaching water – there will be some spurious folklore rationale for adding vinegar, but I just like the flavour. These breakfasts are amongst our fondest memories. We were cocooned away from the outside world and revelling in each other’s company, and little by little I was seducing this beautiful city girl to the dark side, because she may not have known it yet, but she wanted a life where your chickens provide you with eggs for breakfast that are so fresh that they are still warm.
A Year at the Chateau Page 12
