I hope just to tell the story of moving from provincial England to very rural France. I'm not going to be doing too much navel gazing, just giving you a narrative on what happens and hopefully make you laugh at our antics/stupididty every now and then. If this inspires anyone to move over there, that would make me very happy (Just after I'd eaten my hat).

Saturday, 31 March 2012

Cultural handgrenade.

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.

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