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!

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!!

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.