The second house we wanted to see was a much larger building, but the agent just drove by.  It seemed that if you did not have the money ready to buy, you were a waste of time.  No good explaining we had travelled for over 10 hours and covered many miles for a half view of one house.

Having said our farewells to the agent and mentally scratching him from our ‘helper’ list, we drove to our second appointment, arriving just before lunch-time and a couple of hours ahead of schedule.  Never mind, we thought, these agents are British and should be easier to deal with, at least we would be able to understand them.  We also found out when we finally met her that the lady’s first name was one we recognized – could she actually be the Fairy Godmother we were looking for?  This place wasn’t a shop, but appeared to be a private house in the throes of being completed. We knocked on the door – no answer.  We could see people inside and knocked again.  No answer.  After knocking a third time a woman came to the door and told us that even though we had driven over 300 miles, we were too early and should come back at the right time.  We decided to call in at the café across the road, have lunch, and call back later. 

We opened the door of the little bar/café and went inside.  People were eating and drinking at the bar and looked at us a bit puzzled. 

“What do you want?” 

“We would like some food please.”

“We’re shut!” 

“But it’s lunch time.” 

“Yes, that’s why we’re shut!” 

Funny customs in this village we thought.  This was to be the same around most of the villages we have since visited.  Almost everything shuts at 12 noon for two hours, even some of the cafés.  Lunch is a leisurely pastime and regardless of whether you are in a shop, café, bank or whatever, at 12 noon, they shut.  Lights go off and doors are locked.  We were given proof of this when, having queued for about half an hour to see the cashier at the bank, we got to the desk and the assistant turned off the lights and said “Lunch!”  Luckily there was a bar next door to the bank which actually remained open for the whole day.

We finally went back to the agents for our appointment at the correct time.  We asked if she was the Fairy Godmother we were looking for and were told definitely not – they knew the reputation of this ‘other Fairy Godmother’ and did not want to be confused with her.  Judging from the attitude of the ‘wrong’ Fairy Godmother, the right one had to be far better.  Manners maketh man, but obviously not woman! 

The agent and her husband told us they only had one house for us to look at and we were driven to a house which they said was  ‘just round the corner.’  After about 25 minutes, we arrived!

We were told we would not be able to get into the cellar of the house as no-one could find the key.  As we got out of the car I noticed that the ground was very spongy although we had not had any rain for quite some time. 

The house was quite nice.  Only a small front garden, in a triangular shape with a small fountain.  There was a lovely dove-cote at the front of the house and a set of stone steps to the front door.  Inside the house we were met by a large wooden staircase which looked pretty impressive.  Each of the rooms had a lovely plaster ceiling, complete with light rose and moulded pictures around the coving of the ceilings. 

We started up the huge staircase.  We noticed that the stairs cut half way through the windows at the side of the house and realized later that the original stairs had long gone and those we had climbed were obviously bought from another house and put in to ‘almost’ fit.  All the rooms were large but there was no heating installed so we thought it may be a little expensive to have heating put in.

Whilst inside, the agent mentioned that English people owned the house and were moving.  That would account for the unfinished plumbing, bad restoration, the dreadful linoleum on the floors, and the locked and boarded cellar door.

The agent took us to the rear of the house and showed us the barn, which was part of the property.  I started sinking in the ground and began to realize that the land around the house was extremely water-logged and that the cellar was probably flooded – hence the ‘loss’ of the key.  The barn was reasonable on the ground floor but the floorboards were extremely dangerous on the first floor and would need replacing, in fact, most of the floor had rotted away completely.  This could have been other major expense.

Back at the agent’s house, we again bade farewell and said we would be in touch.  Not a hope!

(I was going to call my book "Tashmoosh" as we had spoken to a lady in the after sales part of a large department store here to whom we had been guided by a shop assistant.  In quite good English, she asked 'Did the man have a Tash-moosh?'  Many phrases in France seem to be the opposite of what we would expect, for example, this year, last year and next year become 'This year, Year last and Year next!')

MASTERING THE LANGUAGE

 

During the previous twelve months, we had attended an evening course to learn French and were delighted to attain our National Vocational Qualification’s (NVQ’s) at the end of the course.  Classes had been fun, and we made a few friends there, some who were just learning a new language, others who had holiday homes in France and still others who were contemplating moving permanently, like us. 

Andy and I got the nicknames of Popeye (because of his pipe) and Fag-Ash Lil (I am a smoker and dived for a cigarette instead of coffee during our breaks in lessons).  At the end of the course, we had the NVQ certificates, but realised we could not speak French, could not read French and certainly could not understand it.  However, once we got to France all the words we had learned fell into place and although pronunciation is extremely important (many words sounding almost identical), we muddled by. 

Towards the end of the course we were told by our tutor that the entire evening must be in French only, anyone caught speaking English would be fined and the money given to charity.  Andy struggled with the words and whispered “What’s ……?”  I whispered back “Meatballs!”  He did not hear me and asked again.  “Meatballs!” I said, a little louder.  The teacher shot over to my side – that’s 50 pence please!  She had not heard Andy, just me.  Never mind, I was not the only one, she had collected around £20 sterling by the end of the evening.

A chance of a course called “Get by in French” came up by accident at work.  Normally these courses are aimed at Naval personnel who are about to leave the Navy and civilians are not allowed on them.  However, someone had forgotten to put ‘Service Personnel only’ in the advert and I jumped in straight away. 

I had been working in the Occupational Health Centre in Portsmouth Naval Base and several of my friends there were helping with my French.  Peter, the Environmental Health Officer, knew quite a lot of French and was a frequent visitor to France on holidays although he did not own a property there.  Sian, the Head of one of the departments, knew a lot of French and was really helpful.  She also visited France a lot on holidays with her family and would be a visitor to us once we were established there. 

Our teacher at evening classes had been English, teaching French, and the teacher in the Naval Base was French-Canadian.  There is a difference in French spoken in France and French spoken in Canada, where the words can sometimes be a bit archaic.  We actually learnt a lot of French, but when arriving in France we found that words are fairly easy but that actual conversation is much harder.  All French words are either ‘masculine - le’ or ‘feminine - la’ and you have to use the correct ‘gender’ for each word.  Also, if there is more than one item that you are speaking about, the le or la has an ‘s’ added.  Strangely enough, when the ‘s’ is added you don’t pronounce it with the ‘le’, but add it to the next word – for example, an English woman is – la Madame Anglaise, an Englishman is le monsieur Anglais but a man and a woman become le s’anglais.  Hard to learn but eventually it becomes easier.  I think the strangest thing is that an English man and woman become English men!  Even if there are 100 women and just one man – they all become men!

On the ‘tashmoosh’ theme, an elderly, white-haired gent becomes ‘gentleman ancient, hair white’.