From hill to hill - part 1
In search of a dream.
Ordinary life does not interest me. – AnaÏs Nin
Dearest readers,
Welcome all, new and old subscribers, passers by and friends, it’s lovely to see you here. Since the week that has passed has left little and given even less to inspire me, I thought I would finally write the story of our transition from a hill in Ireland, to a hill in France. This will roll out in several parts as and when inspiration for other writing ebbs and flows…
I really hope you enjoy our journey.
This is part one of an adventure that was to become the most complicated, often frustrating but always beautiful, period of my life.
The search for a home.
William and I spent two long and agonisingly frustrating years researching different areas of France, religiously house hunting online, organising trips which were subsequently halted by almost every obstacle imaginable. Work commitments multiplied, one of our cars needed to be repaired or replaced, ferries we’d booked were cancelled due to storms, flights we’d booked were cancelled due to air traffic control disruptions over Paris or simply, in my case, by being indecisive and changing my mind at the last minute as to which area would be the most ideal for all our dreams to be realised. There were so many to choose from and even more must have’s to factor into the equation.
We had already tackled the daunting task of moving from one country to another when we moved from Derbyshire in the UK to County Westmeath in Ireland. I will tell you that hilarious and epic story another day! For sure, it was on a much smaller scale but we thought we were a step ahead - naive, so naive - of the many others who were seeking lifestyle changes. We passed thirteen wonderful years in Ireland, they were good years, we made many friends and were successful but, the weather…
Irish weather was a conquest, a fight every day and we were never going to win!
We finally organised a very quick trip to south west France at the end of March 2004. We (I) had organised to stay at the house of some of my oldest and dearest friends who own what is still my second favourite house here. However, the whole week was ambushed not only by terrible weather; blizzards and frost thwarted almost every house visit we’d planned. We were so cold a delivery of logs had to be ordered, to keep us warm for the week. William, of course, was horrified! And, to add a little more apathy to our already waning enthusiasm, we all came down with a horrible bug, more than likely picked up on the flight over. Most of that week, which I had been so excited about, was spent wrapped in blankets in front of the stove unable to muster the energy to move. The day before we had to leave spring weather decided to make its gloriously warm appearance which made leaving with no more idea of when we might return or what for, even harder. As we flew back, descending into Dublin airport through thick black cloud, so low it seemed to touch the runway as we landed, I felt a wave of depression settle that took me several long weeks to crawl out of. My dream of ever finding our future forever home left behind in French springtime.
Eight weeks later, the following May, William was asked by a friend to help dismantle the flood gates on one of the canals at La Rochelle in the Charente Maritime. The work was scheduled to take a week but was finished with two days to spare. He grasped the opportunity and the two of them headed south armed with an unfeasible pile of properties I’d spent the entire previous day gathering and sending, complete with maps, by email. They had just forty-eight hours. A ridiculously short amount of time which I prayed would be enough for him to garner at least an idea of the areas we had failed to see earlier in the year. As well as, hopefully, visit a few of the houses on my long list.
We had decided to limit our search to two departments, the Aveyron and the Tarn et Garonne.
The Tarn et Garonne was a department that I had visited twice before and really loved. Not least because my best friends sister, Juliette and husband Richard, known and loved dearly since childhood, had already bought a house in the beautiful rural area close to Lauzerte. The house where we stayed in March. To me it made perfect sense to buy something within easy driving distance of them. I’d only seen them a handful of times since moving to Ireland 13 years prior and missed them all terribly. And really, what was there not to like about this quintessentially French part of France? The gentle rolling landscape, the fabulous light, roads lined with Napoleons Plane trees, the beautiful ‘Quercy blanc’ stone the houses were built with and of course, in summer, the acres and acres of sunflowers, their vivid yellow heads permanently turned in unison to the sun, it really was more than enticing. It was the sensible option…
I was far less well aquatinted with the Aveyron. I had visited once before during the canicule of 2003 when I took a short and unbearably hot trip with my daughter, intrigued to see the house my Uncle had bought close to Najac. The area felt darker, more dramatic and mysterious with its hilly, wooded landscape and fairytale villages. Ten of which, I later discovered, had been given the prestigious title ‘Les plus beaux villages de France. There were very few expats in this department unlike the Tarn et Garonne where so many British had already made their second homes and fewer still that lived permanently.
The Aveyron felt wild and undiscovered and pulled at my untamed sense of adventure… I was bewitched!
Hence, armed with all the paperwork I had sent them, my two intrepid property hunters spent an exhausting and fruitless day and a half driving to and fro between so many of the houses and old farms I had sent as possibilities. Many they were to even find; once you know this country, as we do now, this wasn't surprising. Back then we didn’t have all singing, all dancing mobile telephones to check a GPS location, they made calls and that was it! I could feel that black cloud descending again as I listened to grim details of buildings that had been described on-line as in need of repair when in fact what the buildings were just plies of stones, collapsed timbers from a fallen roof, no services, no windows, very little of the buildings were still intact. They described houses set in valleys so deep and damp, mosquitoes infested every room. One had been used to dry garlic, the smell nearly knocking them over as they walked in though there wasn’t a bulb of garlic to be seen, only a hundred years of white flaky skins. Others were just one room, the rest of the house taken over entirely by nature. Most weren’t even recognisable as the image I’d sent. By early afternoon on the second day, feeling disappointed and exhausted they stopped in Villefranche de Rouergue for coffee before driving the five hours back to La Rochelle where he would leave on the ferry back to Ireland the following day.
Next door to the café was an estate agent.
When William called me later that afternoon I could hear the excitement in his voice, not only had he found a property that was perfect but he was there with the estate agent, who had miraculously changed her schedule to accommodate his. I remember well the excitement in his voice as he walked me verbally around the property, descriptions tumbling in a jumble of indecipherable words as he tried to explain to me in detail each and every new discovery - I felt so euphoric hearing this unexpected news - or perhaps it was relief - I had to sit down. It was almost as if I’d been holding my breath for the entire two years during our search and the act of exhaling had made me dizzy.
The house, an old farmhouse, was in the Aveyron, it had a huge barn (not included in the sale but that’s another story) and various outbuildings, steps up to the front door and two small fields, all of this nestled on the side of a hill overlooking spectacular views. It sounded perfect. William assured me it was perfect, he made an offer.
Our offer was accepted!
Six weeks and many phone calls later we received the compromis de vente which was to be signed and returned but it wasn’t until October of the same year that all three of us flew back to France to sign the documents necessary to finalise the sale. An abnormally long wait even by French standards!
In order to be on time for the appointment we had left our beds at 2 am to catch an early flight from Dublin. The plane took off in chilly Irish drizzle and landed in the warm and sunny Aveyron. We arrived with just minutes to spare due a problem with the hire car and spent a nightmarish two hours with the Notaire who had a terrible nervous tic and a worse stutter. Coupled with the local Aveyronaise accent on top, I could barely understand a word he said, much less comprehend the doorstep sized sheaf of documents we both had to initial and date by way of recognition of having read and agreed. At the end of a very long and confusing two hours during which we understood little of what was printed and much less what was spoken, the house was ours though and the keys were passed to us by M et Mdm Marty, the previous and very adorable owners who’d been present throughout the proceedings.
I held the giant iron key in my hand as if it was the most precious gift ever…
This was to be the first time I would see the house other than in the few photos William had taken whilst viewing the property in May. To say I was excited would be vastly understated - I was delirious with anticipation. As we drove the winding lane that climbs up the hill to our tiny hamlet, through the trees lining both sides, I caught glimpses of the view he’d described to me countless times over the last few months. Whilst my husband can be very eloquent when he wants to be, he had entirely failed to convey the staggeringly beautiful and breathtaking panorama stretching 80 km to the distant Cantal Mountains and beyond that appeared as we reached the top. I was spellbound; it was one of the few occasions in my life I was unable to utter a single word. The joy and excitement of finally being here mixed with the anticipation of the months prior overwhelmed me - I forgot that I still hadn’t seen the house we’d just bought, hugging William with tears pouring down my face and holding tightly to my daughters hand, I fell immediately in love.
Recovering from my momentary speechlessness and almost three years of bottled up emotion, wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned from the beauty in front of me to the house behind and stared for the first time at our dream house. The property was enormous, far more sprawling than I’d expected, rambling buildings were everywhere and in need of much love and work. The courtyard was covered with 40 years of debris washed from the lane, weeds had taken over entirely. The two enormous stone gate posts, which we didn’t even discover until months after we’d begun clearing, were lying, toppled in the undergrowth to either side of the opening. We had to hack away brambles to climb the steps to the front door before we could turn the huge iron key in the lock. The years of work ahead of us necessary to make the house habitable did not register in my over tired and emotional state that day and without even seeing inside I fell in love for the second time in as many hours.
It took us a further, agonisingly long six months to complete work contracts that William had already begun for clients and sell our house in Ireland which, on hindsight, we were fortunate to have sold when we did. Ireland had reached the peak of an almost ten year economic boom, just three months later the Celtic tiger that had roared its way through the mid 1990s and the first five years of the 21st century suddenly stopped, looked backwards over its shoulder at the carnage, turned on its heals and fled, leaving the country reeling as it plunged headlong into a long and debilitating recession.
Little did we know, France was about to take the same economic turn and our life was about to change from all recognition.
To be continued…
If you are interested in the expat life and would like to read others, just tap the links below and if you are reading this as an expat living in France, please drop me a comment below, I’d love to here from you, maybe we could start a little French Substack community, maybe even a worldwide expat community!
I love reading one's pursuit of dreams, from conception to reality. Like yours, It's an exciting journey of overcoming obstacles, stepping through doors meant for us to open, beckoning us to follow the path of stepping stones leading to serendipitous opportunities that will ultimately fulfill our cherished dreams. I believe this is the first chapter of a book, one that fulfills another long awaited dream. You have a gift dearest, so happy to see it realized. Love n hugs.
I read this as soon as it popped up on my 'to read' list. I was spellbound, feeling your emotions and reflecting them in my own. You do such a great job of sharing that hope, that desperation, that despair and, ultimately, that relief and sheer, utter joy. Thank you.
(Then I got to the end and saw you had recommended my own letter, and that joy was compounded even more. Thank you. And what a great idea that is, recommending others in a letter! I shall be stealing this myself!)
Thank you so much for this!