There were plenty of warnings from locals, expats, internet forums etc.
Always make sure you employ local craftsmen to work on the house if you want to
be accepted by the French speaking community, they told us. This turned
out to be true but not for reasons you might expect.
Late last year I spent a few weeks at the house (yes, totally ignoring warnings
but a 3 month waiting list for an outrageously expensive artisan wasn't an
option) with a friend/builder who was to help me build a bathroom at the
house. Building rather than fitting is the correct term here as we had to
knock through to the barn and construct the walls, floor, ceiling etc.
All well and good, although knocking doorways through 3 foot thick stone
walls was never going to be straightforward and so it proved. The walls
are held together with a combination of mud, gravity and light footsteps and
comprise of two outer layers of meaty boulders filled with vast quantities of
little stones, chaff and walnut shells. An interesting take on cavity wall
insulation I presume.
During the course of these few weeks my builder managed to upset or offend
pretty much every contact or friend we made since we bought the house. I have
now heard 5 or 6 different plans of how the local residents plan to dispose of
him from burial under patios to magic tricks gone horribly wrong. It seems no
fate is bad enough and frankly, given that half of what he did is falling
apart, I'm considering joining the queue!
Ultimately some good has come from the whole thing because the community
seem to be pulling together in their mutual dislike of our Rhinestone Builder
and no blame has been attached to us.
Hard to pick the moral out of that one but the cliché is easy, all's well
that ends well.
Saturday 31 March 2012
Mountain bike trials.
It's been quite a while since my last update but frankly nothing's happened!
We’re still waiting for the house to sell and the move to happen. Best guess;
it's still a few weeks away but in the mean time this little tit-bit...
One of our trips to France last year coincided with a mountain bike trial taking place in our village. It's quite a big deal apparently, a national level event where riders race over an insanely dangerous course which passed by the front of our house.
On the day we were visiting Grumpy Welshman (5 mins walk across the village) and, when the little one got tired, we made our way home to put her to bed. Arriving at our house we found the way cordoned off and various neighbours chatting with course marshals in the road. Retired Farmer from next door insisted that we hang on as the riders were due past in 5 minutes.
After 20 minutes of waiting and desperately trying to keep the little one happy we found that the only way she would calm down was to be put down on the road where she could play with stones and in the mud. Wife came up with the genius idea of getting everyone a glass of wine which left us in the bizarre situation of sharing wine in a country road with strange Frenchmen and the baby sitting down playing on the tarmac and occasionally attempting to crawl off into the path of passing mountain bikes!
Standard day in village life I guess! :)
One of our trips to France last year coincided with a mountain bike trial taking place in our village. It's quite a big deal apparently, a national level event where riders race over an insanely dangerous course which passed by the front of our house.
On the day we were visiting Grumpy Welshman (5 mins walk across the village) and, when the little one got tired, we made our way home to put her to bed. Arriving at our house we found the way cordoned off and various neighbours chatting with course marshals in the road. Retired Farmer from next door insisted that we hang on as the riders were due past in 5 minutes.
After 20 minutes of waiting and desperately trying to keep the little one happy we found that the only way she would calm down was to be put down on the road where she could play with stones and in the mud. Wife came up with the genius idea of getting everyone a glass of wine which left us in the bizarre situation of sharing wine in a country road with strange Frenchmen and the baby sitting down playing on the tarmac and occasionally attempting to crawl off into the path of passing mountain bikes!
Standard day in village life I guess! :)
Thursday 8 March 2012
Bastille Day and Mrs T's Knockers.
We had the great privilege of spending last Bastille Day (or Just "le
quatorze Juillet" as the local French seem to know it, I'm not sure they
worry to much about the storming of the Bastille, it's much more the party
preparations that dominate their thoughts) in France.
The Mayor puts on a party/ lunch in the village park and invites a local restaurant to prepare meals for all of the residents. The first time we met the Mayor, my wife, in a translation horror moment, managed to tell him that she was very aroused rather than excited at the prospect of moving. French speakers will know exactly the error that was made there.
We had come over especially for this event and had already paid for our ticket (to get our meal) but were unprepared for Grumpy Welshman (GW) to tell us, at 7pm on the 13th, that everybody brings plenty of food along to share with their neighbours. Now being a couple of very competitive people, keen to ingratiate ourselves with the locals, we couldn't possibly miss this opportunity so a mad supermarket dash had to be made. What we produced, to be fair, was quite good, 4 individual pastry sheets with savoury toppings of hams, cheeses, balsamic onions, roasted peppers etc in various combinations.
On the day itself we decided, on advice from GW to get to the park early to make sure we'd get seat, He'd assured us that the French were very punctual on such events. We should have known better.
We arrived at the park at 10.45 for an 11 o'clock start and were the first ones there! After wandering among the empty tables for a few minutes wondering if we had the right day, Local Service (LS) caught up with us and insisted that we come back to his house, adjacent to the park, for a drink.
So now we are drinking Pastis in LS's house at 11 in the morning with a varied collection of other old men sitting around his kitchen table, LS's wife scowling at us and all watching Nicolas Sarkozy giving his Bastille Day address in front of the troops. Not so much culture shock as shell shock.
The party did get going in the park and we were introduced to quite a lot of people and our pastries were even given the thumbs up by a local pastry chef. While our new neighbours circulated past bringing a selection of illegally produced forms of alcohol, one in particular went into a long story including a hand gesture (Which I'm fairly sure means "Madonna" in sign language) and, quite clearly "Margret Thatcher"!
Intrigued we sought translation and were told that he used to work security in Brussels and had to deliver Mrs T a message whereupon she answered her hotel room door in a skirt and bra. A further translation revealed he had used words to the effect of "Great knockers".
It would be a shame to write any more than that!
The Mayor puts on a party/ lunch in the village park and invites a local restaurant to prepare meals for all of the residents. The first time we met the Mayor, my wife, in a translation horror moment, managed to tell him that she was very aroused rather than excited at the prospect of moving. French speakers will know exactly the error that was made there.
We had come over especially for this event and had already paid for our ticket (to get our meal) but were unprepared for Grumpy Welshman (GW) to tell us, at 7pm on the 13th, that everybody brings plenty of food along to share with their neighbours. Now being a couple of very competitive people, keen to ingratiate ourselves with the locals, we couldn't possibly miss this opportunity so a mad supermarket dash had to be made. What we produced, to be fair, was quite good, 4 individual pastry sheets with savoury toppings of hams, cheeses, balsamic onions, roasted peppers etc in various combinations.
On the day itself we decided, on advice from GW to get to the park early to make sure we'd get seat, He'd assured us that the French were very punctual on such events. We should have known better.
We arrived at the park at 10.45 for an 11 o'clock start and were the first ones there! After wandering among the empty tables for a few minutes wondering if we had the right day, Local Service (LS) caught up with us and insisted that we come back to his house, adjacent to the park, for a drink.
So now we are drinking Pastis in LS's house at 11 in the morning with a varied collection of other old men sitting around his kitchen table, LS's wife scowling at us and all watching Nicolas Sarkozy giving his Bastille Day address in front of the troops. Not so much culture shock as shell shock.
The party did get going in the park and we were introduced to quite a lot of people and our pastries were even given the thumbs up by a local pastry chef. While our new neighbours circulated past bringing a selection of illegally produced forms of alcohol, one in particular went into a long story including a hand gesture (Which I'm fairly sure means "Madonna" in sign language) and, quite clearly "Margret Thatcher"!
Intrigued we sought translation and were told that he used to work security in Brussels and had to deliver Mrs T a message whereupon she answered her hotel room door in a skirt and bra. A further translation revealed he had used words to the effect of "Great knockers".
It would be a shame to write any more than that!
Tuesday 6 March 2012
Electric eccentric!
The standard for electrical installation in France is have armoured conduit threaded with individual wires for positive, neutral and occasionally earth. This is all good and well until one of two problems occurs.
Firstly where several connections have been made you can have upwards of 10 individual wires running through a single conduit. This makes making changes to the system very difficult because (even when correctly coloured) 4 blue wires will look exactly the same at either end.
Secondly it seems to encourage the amateur, have a go, electrician to, well... have a go! This time you can guarantee that no wire remains the same colour on its way into or out of a junction box. Wiring up a light with yellow and green wire for the positive gives you a distinctly uneasy feeling and becomes a journey into the unknown.
Firstly where several connections have been made you can have upwards of 10 individual wires running through a single conduit. This makes making changes to the system very difficult because (even when correctly coloured) 4 blue wires will look exactly the same at either end.
Secondly it seems to encourage the amateur, have a go, electrician to, well... have a go! This time you can guarantee that no wire remains the same colour on its way into or out of a junction box. Wiring up a light with yellow and green wire for the positive gives you a distinctly uneasy feeling and becomes a journey into the unknown.
Monday 5 March 2012
stop, Stop, STOP!!!
On the whole the French are very good at driving and seem to have a similar driving culture to that which I'm used to in the UK. This similarity however, seems to accentuate the differences which, while subtle, are still significant and interesting so please forgive my little bit of train spotting here. Alternatively skip to the next post, I'm sure it'll be out of my system by then.
Firstly, there's signalling on French Autoroutes. There is definitely a system but I'll de damned if I can work out what it is. here's what I do know (you may beg to differ, I'll take no offence!). Overtaking with a constant signal seems to mean "I'm staying out to overtake the next car also". If you are behind the overtaking car then constant signalling seems to mean "I don't want you to overtake the next car, I want you to get out of the way now". Not signalling when overtaking is a definite sign of weakness therefore you have no authority in the fast lane whatsoever so pull over sharpish. I have asked a Frenchman to explain these manoeuvres in detail but I (and he) ended up more confused than when we started.
Secondly there are the "STOP" signs everywhere which are apparently taken very seriously by the local Gendarmes (A tautology, I know!). This makes any accustomed driver hare towards the signs and slam the brakes on to come to a full stop before bothering to look and pull out. The effect is rather like a formula 1 pit-stop. The most disturbing result of this is trying to drive along the road which has the right of way and having the sensation that every car joining from the right is about to hit you.
Lastly (Not that this is a comprehensive list but still) there is the more "French" attitude towards health and safety on the roads. On one of our trips over we saw an autoroute sign saying incident in 12 km so we counted down the distance and sure enough approached blue flashing lights and a Gendarme waving us through in the slow lane. What he was waving us past however was a car in the fast lane fully ablaze! So we played the Gendarmerie's exploding car roulette, fortunately we found an empty chamber!
Buckle up and safe journey!!
Firstly, there's signalling on French Autoroutes. There is definitely a system but I'll de damned if I can work out what it is. here's what I do know (you may beg to differ, I'll take no offence!). Overtaking with a constant signal seems to mean "I'm staying out to overtake the next car also". If you are behind the overtaking car then constant signalling seems to mean "I don't want you to overtake the next car, I want you to get out of the way now". Not signalling when overtaking is a definite sign of weakness therefore you have no authority in the fast lane whatsoever so pull over sharpish. I have asked a Frenchman to explain these manoeuvres in detail but I (and he) ended up more confused than when we started.
Secondly there are the "STOP" signs everywhere which are apparently taken very seriously by the local Gendarmes (A tautology, I know!). This makes any accustomed driver hare towards the signs and slam the brakes on to come to a full stop before bothering to look and pull out. The effect is rather like a formula 1 pit-stop. The most disturbing result of this is trying to drive along the road which has the right of way and having the sensation that every car joining from the right is about to hit you.
Lastly (Not that this is a comprehensive list but still) there is the more "French" attitude towards health and safety on the roads. On one of our trips over we saw an autoroute sign saying incident in 12 km so we counted down the distance and sure enough approached blue flashing lights and a Gendarme waving us through in the slow lane. What he was waving us past however was a car in the fast lane fully ablaze! So we played the Gendarmerie's exploding car roulette, fortunately we found an empty chamber!
Buckle up and safe journey!!
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