9. resistance is futile

The few weeks between officially owning the school and the Christmas holidays felt like years. We couldn't wait to be back and to make a start. We passed the time by making lists of 'to-do' jobs (lifting the floorboards of the classrooms, taking down the suspended ceilings, chopping down the small trees in front of the windows...) and discussing taps, shower heads (jumbo or regular?) and kitchen sinks. But I was also and above all preparing myself for the eviction of an alien resident, a squatter of the worse type, the Borg of the flora's kind whose very name sends shivers down every gardener's spine... The Japanese knotweed.

For whatever reason, a soon as we became Lords of our castle, all I could think about was a comment the Mayor's deputy made on our first viewing of the school when we were in the back garden and struggling to make our way through some overgrown plants that barred the door leading back to the playground: "We keep hammering it out but whatever we do, it always comes back". It was huge and was spreading all along the back of the préau's wall (it can be seen on the picture of the back garden on post 5). Then there was a piece on the news about this resilient bamboo-looking plant that invaded the countryside. I recognized the pest immediately.
I scoured the Internet in search of a solution, but quickly became alarmed: even the organic gardeners were going nuts and throwing in the green towel, reaching out of despair for the bottles of Round Up in their hundreds to deal with this Borg-plant.

resistance is futile

So it's fresh from a trip to B&Q and armed with secateurs, gardening gloves and Dave's almighty chainsaw that we arrived to the school on Boxing day. Fox nearly thwarted our battle plan by falling down Cathy & Dave's stairs on Christmas day (Cathy had lovingly polished them we learned later) but he managed to clear out the area by cutting down the canes and gathering their leaves. We burned as much of it as we could and sprayed Round Up as if it was going out of fashion. We planned to come back two days later for another burn/spray session followed by heavy work in the classroom when disaster struck. By trying to stifle a sneeze at 4am Fox properly broke his already fractured rib, sending him on his first trip to the French A&E, leaving him in pain and unable to do anything more than pick up the occasional twig. Dave fortunately came to our rescue.

Dave at work

8. road trip

Prior to the excitement of actually finally getting our hands on the keys to the house we had charged Papa Claude with the task of locating a van for us to purchase. He took on the challenge with great commitment and found us a Renault Kangoo van. We thought it would be a sensible choice to buy a van as we would be taking trips to the 'dechetterie' (rubbish dump), picking up furniture and white goods and also traveling back and forth from England with the contents of our flat. Hardly the glamourous sporty soft top I envisaged in its place. It was a nail biting time because I had arranged for the cash for the van and the house to be sent a WEEK before so that when we arrived it would be there all ready to go. Simple. But the best laid plans....

We took the train to Paris and then on to Laon, north east of Paris to stay with Papa Claude and Michelle, who is an excellent cook. Our plan was to collect the van, drive south to Cathy and Dave and then on to the house where the moolah should have already arrived to complete the purchase. The money hadn't arrived on the Friday we arrived. No money. No van. No trip south. Poor Seb was having kittens, but fortunately it had arrived in Papa Claude's account by late morning, phew! I thought we would have a short trip to a nearby to see the van owner, but two hours later that evening we found ourselves just north of Paris in Beauvais. Papa had clearly scoured the countryside looking for a 'bon achat'. So that night we drove off in our butch new white van. We giggled all the way back to Laon.

We stayed two nights with Papa and Michelle. The following day there was various tinkering with the van and collecting tools that we had been given and getting ready for our drive south. But punctuating all this were the fabulous five course meals prepared by Michelle. An unforgettable train of food effortlessly emanated from the kitchen at every meal. Every morsel of food was delicious and seductive. But by the time Sunday lunch came I was so full I thought I might have a food hemorrhage. I remarked to Seb that she was killing us with kindness which papa Claude thought hysterical.


So on the Sunday, after a Henry the Eighth style banquet, lots of hugs and kisses, we started our drive down south. It seems that all roads lead to Paris, which was a definite no no. We plotted a route looping around the bottom of Paris and then than dashing south. It was grim up north. There seemed to be nothing but earth and grey sky and the horizon dividing the two, a dull minimalist painting. As though the battle fields of the wars had only recently been ploughed to grow corn. Half way down the rain started. A relentless sheet of water that made sight of the road near impossible, but did anyone slow down? No! They sped up. Cars were whizzing past us in wet splashy blurs. French drivers either fear nothing or have some kind of direct line insurance with god and drive like crazies in the secure knowledge they have a ready brek shield around them.

Having missed a turn off and added a good hour or so to our journey (grrr) we finally arrived at Cathy and Dave's who had kindly prepared a surprise dinner for us. Not in Michelle's five course league but wholeheartedly welcomed.

On Monday the money for the house arrived, so we were all set for completing and the rest you already know. Seb could now at least get some sleep. He has vowed NEVER to move after this as the stress is just too much.

7. the importance of being a native

Being the L-plate french speaker I have been the mysterious silent creature (at least I like to think so) listening in attentively while serious and intense property talk has been flying around me. Without Sebastien, a native speaker, I don't think we would have taken on such an undertaking of refurbishing the house. I totally take my hat off to Cathy and Dave who have bought property without fully knowing what was happening. Even for Sebastien, some of the documents have been hard to decipher, as with any legal document, the legalese can be hard to unravel and turn into every day language. We kept marveling at how brave they were by taking the plunge.

When we finally came to sign the deeds in December it was felt quite Victorian in its arrangement. You all trot off to the Notaires little office. He sits at his desk while all the others are arranged in a semi-circle in front of him then the papers are read out so that all know what they have agreed to. Apart from Sebastien and I there was one of the agents (not the one Papa had called a crook, thankfully), the Area Manager for the Agency, the Lady Mayoress and a representative from the local Treasury ( there to ensure that the filthy luca was dealt with properly as it was a sale from the commune). We had met the Mayor on one other previous occasion when she had kicked the house to show us how sturdy it was. I feared more for her leg than the house. Being a lady of some years (it would would impolite to guess her age) she has great character and we warmed to her very quickly especially when she joked that she was in charge of the water supply in the area and if anyone narked her off she would turn off their supply. Totally appealed to my dark side.

While we stood in the hall waiting to go into the office I got chatting to the Area Manager. I had heard him chipping in with a bit of French earlier and so asked him how long he had been in France, I'm always interested to see what level of French people have after having lived in the country a while. It's an obvious concern as I don't want to end up being the English village idiot who is always sitting there smiling and with the odd 'oui ou non'. I had already made my first faux pas to a 8 year old when I meant to say that I am burping and had actually told him was shitting, which made us both laugh hysterically, for a good while.

When he told me 20 years my eyes must have gogged a little. TWENTY YEARS! I was a little ashamed that a fellow countryman had been there so long and still just had a smattering to get by in a job that was about to rob us of a sizeable chunk of cash that was disproportionate to the work they had actually performed for us (hence the 'crook' comment). There also seemed to be a hint of self-defence about him too which later emerged as a whiny comment during the 2 hour long process in the office. I have to say I enjoyed all the formality and of the reading out of the papers, the general chitter chatter, smiles, jokes and ambiance of being welcomed into a community. Very different from the British system where you chuck the money at each other, grab the keys and move in. Half way through while there was a pause while we waited for a document or during the long signing periods (which you have to do about a million times) everyone was back to friendly chat and Mr Twenty Years said, in a raised voice, across to me 'You're well in there'. Firstly I thought what a rude goof, but could only pity someone who said he lived in the 'Door-doyne', so cloaked myself back in my mysterious silence and pretended to understand everything that was going on around me. After all the formalities the Mayor said that she hoped that we would make the village 'lively and gay'. Careful what you wish for we chuckled.

None of that detracted from the sheer joy were experiencing when we drove back to the house to have one last look before we had to drive back across country to stay with our friends before going back to London, groaning all the way. But we had done it!! Bought our dream home, now we only had to make it habitable, eek!!!