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! :)

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!!

Ranting with a Smile!

It must be said that I enjoy writing with a bit of a ranting style but please believe me I love being in France and this I knew long before our decision to move there. I see the challenges and culture clashes as succour to my soul and wouldn't have it any other way.

May France forever be France and may I live there as a courteous guest and never long to change it.

Bricomarché!! (Rules not Service!)

Perhaps it is through some national sense of unease at the rise of supermarkets and gradual decline of local shops that the French shopping experience in large national chains (Such as Bricomarché) is so utterly obtuse.

The amount of form filling, ticket holding, needless waiting, shoulder shrugging, rules and bureaucracy is staggering. It's not as if any of it is aimed at providing superb service or efficiencies that are passed onto the consumer (far from it, I could do my DIY shopping at Harrods for less). It seems to me to be uniquely aimed at ensuring, the shopper fully understands the immense privilege he should feel by spending his money at Bricomarché!

Last autumn, I had the misfortune of attempting to return four, four meter lengths of copper pipe and some valves to our local store, which I visit regularly and have spent a considerable amount of time and money in. Some of the process I was aware of, by studying how the locals did it, so I knew that as you walk into the shop, you need to catch the attention of the lady behind the counter who will give you a ticket. It turns out that the ticket says "4 x copper pipe" (Or words to that effect) on it. This served the purpose of allowing me through the automatic barrier to the customer returns department, without being accused of stealing copper pipes. The customer services department is the other end of the same counter where I handed my ticket over to the same lady, who then took the time to read the ticket she had, not ten seconds previously, written and actually checked to make sure there were, as she had just written, 4 copper pipes about my person.

So far so good, I was maintaining a sense of humour at being thrown into farce but then made my first mistake, I produced the 2 valves from my pocket. Oh dear god, if my hand had contained a live grenade, the look on her face could not have been more appalled. My French (lessons underway) is not what it should be but through observation of a particularly animated conversation between her and her colleague I got the impression I had committed a grave, possibly capital, offense. My broken pleas that she had seen me walk into the shop and was watching me the whole time were met with "but where is your ticket?", when I suggested that she write me a ticket now, she called the manager!

Further arm waving conversations between all three of them, intermingled with furtive glances in my direction (Still holding my four, four meter pipes aloft, like some contemporary jouster ready to charge, and the incriminating valves in a slightly more sheepish fashion) seemed to produce a bit of progress. I was not, it seems, to accused of theft (again!) and they would be happy to deal with my returns provided I had my receipt.

Ah!

My second mistake was to lose my receipt, more arms were waved (or possibly the same ones but more vigorously), further conversations were had and once again the manager was called over.

French or no I got the very clear message that they could not help me. Sense of humour gone by now, I thought to myself "I don't need Bricomarché as much as they need me, I going to go for a Franglaise rant". This I did and I rather surprised myself at how well I could make a point in angry French! Had my rant been song it would have had the title "Rules not Service". You get the idea.

As I prepared to storm out, not easy with my 4 meter pipes clattering into everything within a two meter radius, I was called back and told everything would be fine, full refund, no (more) questions asked just as long as I took the refund as a credit onto my loyalty card. So it seems the rules can be bent as a very last resort!

I'm sure this approach is not going to be the basis of my future transactions in France but hanging onto my paperwork will certainly have to be. That's all folks.

Actually buying a house in France!

Perhaps this should have been my first post but maybe I've been trying to forget the wholr tortuous process. Seriously it really does seem to take forever.  Considering we were first time buyers, buying a house with no chain, I'd have to say that 8 months between agreeing the price and actually owning the house is a little excessive.  It only took Henry V 6 months to take Rouen by siege (Although 5 months of that could have been taken up by trying to work out the road system!).


For the entirity of this process we had only the most tenuious grasp on exactly what was happening.  I won't bore you with details but I do feel the need to say that between my wife and I we had to provide nearly 1000 signatures!  That's one each for every piece of paper in the contract (twice as there was an ammendment) and every page of the surveyors report!


Ultimately what we have is, or at least will be, amazing.  There are 2 houses around a courtyard-garden and an enormous barn space that we have no idea what to do with but will provide sumptuous accomodation for Monti (Our little 1972 Fiat 500), not that he requires much in the way of space.   All this for less than the cost of our 3 bed semi in provincial England.

Builder's advance!

Well it hasn't taken long for something odd to happen.

We have a father and son builders team working on the french house. Originally from deepest Essex, they live in the area and work for €10 an hour each (doesn't cost us too much though because they only manage to work 4 hours at a time and a full Monday to Thursday would be a very good week!). If ever you thought the term "salt of the Earth" was a cliche then you need to meet our Clacton builder and his octogenarian dad complete with matching roll up fags, tattoos and a beaten up old car as a works van.

I heard from my wife (She's over at the house with my mum for the week.) last night, that they were going for a pizza with the builders and a couple of other friends we have met over there.  Not so surprising as it seems to be difficult to work with/employ someone in rural France without socialising or becoming friends, which for all it's wonderful positives, adds to the whole culture shock thing.


After they got back the word was that my mum had a few hand squeezes with octogenarian builder and would accept a dinner invite if he asked! Oh good god, it's uncomfortable writing about it sitting in another country.  At least they are home tomorrow, hopefully both of them.

Welcome to the village.

One of my early trips to the houses was a week of intensive cleaning and painting of the little house.  I came on my own without knowing anyone in the village and with rather a single minded objective that would never withstand events in the village!

On about my third afternoon 3 gentleman approached the house and introduced themselves as the retired farmer from next door, "Local Service" (See below) and a grumpy Welshman (GW) who could do some translating for me (My French is probably better that school boy but not a lot) especially for Local Service (LS) as he speaks a local Patois which is barely French.

It was explained to me that as a welcome to the village I was to be taken into Retired Farmer's (RF) cellar. Once safely ensconced there I was thankfully served alcohol and none of the other things which came to mind. Drinks (Given this was mid-afternoon) included with wine (2 bottles), pineau (Eau de vie and grape juice) and some rocket fuel made from blackthorn shoots.

During my stay I was shown RF's collection of corkscrews and given a crash course on the local patois the LS regularly saying incomprehensible things followed by "Traduction!" as instruction for GW to translate. This game was fine and perfectly normal until he grabbed a topless calendar and proclaimed loudly "titties traduction!". There are after all many similarities between the English and French languages.

After this bewildering afternoon we emerged blinking into the sunshine and all piled into LS's car (Yes I know but still!) and drove about 200 meters to LS's house where he insisted that we start on the Pastis. GW had bailed by this stage and I was left to fend for myself for 40 minutes of stuttering French/Patois and sign language.

After I'd staggered back I have to confess I didn't get any more painting done.

How did we get here?

So it came to pass that after a couple of holidays in remote European villages. We decided we would like to move to France.

Long story short, we bought a house last year are now just a month out from moving in, our house in the UK having sold to the only bidder. This means we have reached the point of no return.

It might be considered a rash decision for all of us: me, my wife, our 18 month old baby girl with premature terrible twos and a cat with a closed door complex but decision made so here we go!

Anyway, so much has happened just owning the house in France and popping over when we can to try to decorate, repair or build bits of it that I'm just going to throw in random topics for my first few entries. This should (I make it sound like there's a plan!) get the background sorted before I do anything chronological. That said if it's happening now I'll let you know.