One man's trash is another man's treasure...

Otherwise known as our forays to the brocantes, marchés aux puces, or flea markets, regularly held all over the area. My friends Lizzie, Alex and Erzsi are particularly adept at ferreting out the bargains, or adding to their collections of way cool stuff, always showing you something amazing they scoped for 2 euros. I never seem to find cheap treasures. In addition, I'm plagued by minimalist tendencies, but I do love to have a mooch.

Here's the scene on a crisp Sunday morning in October at the semi-annual brocante in Pézenas. Lizzie with her wonderful wooden horse tucked safely under her arm and Michelle with an excellent champagne bucket.

Here's what I bought, much to Henny's dismay. But you never know when you may need a fish tureen.

And just because she dissed my fish, of course it currently resides at her house, where she gets to look at it each and every day.

I can see my minimalist ideal slipping away when there are scores like this to be made!

Gone, gone, gone

The optimistic start date for the big contract I wrote about in the previous entry has come and gone, but we've not been idle at the little French house. Autumn has been stripping-out season. There's nothing left as you knew it. Currently very Little House of Horrors, the hanging wires and pipes adding to the gloom.

The wall between living room and bedroom was taken down.

Though tempted to leave it one narrow open-plan bowling alley, the wall is going back in, but it will be moved by 60 cm to accomodate eventual cupboards in the bedroom.

Every false ceiling in the house is history. The ground floor rooms will have sloped ceilings. The long beams will remain exposed. This photo shows how much height has been gained. It's given a small house a much airier feeling.

On the top floor of the tower, we'd always hoped to uncover an interesting beam structure; we weren't disappointed. The beams are pretty and mercifully healthy. I can't wait to see this ceiling with white plaster between the wood. Before, I could easily put my hand up and touch the ceiling we ripped down. Now there's a much greater sense of space and tall girls can throw their arms in the air!

The ground floor plan has been altered. I had a hallway to nowhere put in; we're hoping eventually to knock into the shed from here to create further living accomodation. Along the way, Freddie had to re-arrange the size of the bathroom, thereby attacking the only room that previously worked! Now the house is well and truly a shell.

We recently spent 5 and a half hours at Mr Kelly's office, finalizing plans for the big contract. Looking at his fat folder on LFH, his "before" photos actually made the house appear rather quaint when compared to the wreck it is now. This limbo state is a bit scary, but it's also incredibly exciting. Ideas get refined as you peer into the skeleton and discover what you've got to work with. We're itching for the permission to come through so we can get going!

Preparations Begin with the Koevoet

I've recently had meetings with both Freddie and Mr Kelly, the men who will be doing the renovations at LFH. We'll hopefully be getting under way with the big contract at the beginning of November, but in the meantime, preparations are being made and excitement mounts.

Once again Colin, the lovely mover, arrived with his van to clear out the house. He's getting to be a regular. Now the "conservatory" looks like this:

And Henny's garage looks like this:

I hasten to add that not all of that's mine, but I'm grateful to have my humble possessions out of harm's way for a few months.

LFH is being gutted from top to bottom. It is the intention to hand over an empty shell. To that end, as I write, Freddie and Ken are pulling the guts out of the tower. I couldn't resist having a little go myself, nor could Henny. For all you non-Dutch speakers, a koevoet is a crowbar (literal translation = cow's foot). Here you see one in action on the plastic panelling of the tower 1st floor.

In my various searches for French houses, I have seen gorgeous original features. Sadly none of them came with this house. Further more, I've always encountered two things: multi-patterned floral wallpaper and tongue-and-groove pine, the sauna look, used everywhere to cover up a multitude of sins, including damp and termites at my last house. It was only a matter of time before we discovered the floral wallpaper at Top-top. I love it most when its on the ceiling.

Dinners at the Beach

I'd heard about the legendary dinners at the beach. On my last visit, I was lucky enough to go twice. Henny, Hans and Christa, with various other friends, have been making this a tradition for some time. Hans said, I'm not eating sand in my food, so they do it in real style. Tables, chairs, linens, real plates, candles, and a big cooler filled with the delicious wines from Domaine Bourdic, Hans and Christa's vineyard.

Hans, Henny, Christa and Alex setting up

We arrive after 6pm when most of the traffic is heading in the opposite direction. They have it down to a science, choosing a spot where you can drive right up to unload the cars. The brave have a swim first. It's been an odd summer in the Languedoc as it has been throughout Europe. The sea was bracing, but almost manageable after the initial shock.

We set up the dining area to the appreciation of puzzled onlookers who nod and say bon appétit. Don't use the word picnic, this is dining al fresco. Everyone brings a dish, there are several courses. We eat, drink, laugh, have great conversations in French, German, a little English and the odd bit of Dutch, while the sun sets. Divine.

Last time Henny, Christa and I were brave enough to try the sea again after dinner, in the shimmering light of an almost full moon. We screamed like demented school girls, but it was fantastic and completely exhilarating!

Cactus to Go

There were 3 giant prickly pear cactus installations in the garden. Now there are two. I got really tired of pulling their spines out of my flesh when accidently brushing past. So the challenge one hot afternoon: me vs. the cactus in the walled garden. I ripped it apart with my double-gloved hands and brute force. All my considerable weight was put into wrenching it from the earth and when bits of it came loose, I went flying in the other direction, accompanied by cod operatic yelps that must have been puzzling to L&A's guests sunning themselves at the pool below.

Here's a Before picture, but that ain't the half of it!


The roots were so pervasive that when they were yanked, stone tiles popped up on the paths 8 feet away, sort of like a mini-movie earthquake special effect .

Here it is, lined up for disposal, bagged into 6 heavy duty 25 kg sacks with the big trunk on top. Cactus takeaway, anyone?

I'm almost never happier than when we make a trip to the déchetterie. There are so many eyesores in and around my house, that when I actually get rid of something, it feels like a triumph. I know, how sad am I? But look, here's the cactus in Henny's car about to make its final journey. Tee hee hee.

Opera in Orange

Last summer a group of us went to the opera in the old Roman theatre in Orange. When we arrived, it was 42 degrees, the hottest place in France that day. The performances don't begin until almost 10pm when the sun has gone down, and last until the wee hours of the next morning. Even when we left at 2am, the temperature was still in the high 30's. We saw Aida. We really enjoyed it and decided to make the pilgrimmage again this summer.

The roman theatre is an amazing place. It seats 9000 people. We have the cheap seats up top, where if you're lucky, you get a breeze, and not so lucky, the occasional strains of the passing TGV. You clamber up 2000 year old steps and sit on large slabs of ancient stone. Cushion mandatory. The atmosphere's exciting as the town fills with spectators and we all file into the theatre. When the conductor comes to the podium, the crowd hushes down in an instant, waiting for the orchestra to strike up the first notes. Spine-tingling stuff.

This year the opera was Madama Butterfly. Eight of us went from Roujan and met up with my friends Hugh and Margo, who live not far from Orange, on the posh side of the Rhone. Margo had kindly done several rekkies to find us a nice cafe for dinner. Here's the Opera Gang.

L to R: Michelle, Alex, Margo, Yvonne, Hugh, Justin, Poppy, J de P, and Erzsi.

We were catching up over a drink when Jean de Pouzolles said, I don't wish to worry you, but look over your shoulder. The sky was black and it seemed to be heading our way. We were all reminded of our friends, Teddy & Nicola, who have more often than not experienced orages in Orange. If it rains, everyone goes home. Tickets are good for the following evening, but not so practical when you've come a long way.

At dinner, we felt the odd drop. Rumour ran through the town that the musicians were deciding whether or not to play. In the end, the show went on, but compared to last year, it was like being there in a completely different season. It didn't rain, but boy was it cold. We were wrapped up in everything we brought. Still, we had a good time as the smiles here will attest, or were the Goslings just putting a brave face on it?

Recycling

The day the dusty door-enlarging work began, Michelle and I returned from lunch to see these beautiful stones in the back of the builders' lorry. We glanced at each other, and in the same breath said, garden! We brought the trusty wheelbarrow round and began to pick over the detritus, rescuing these stunning rocks from ignominious dumping at the dechetterie to their new home marking borders in the garden. The builder said they were pierres de Pezenas, the local stone. I'm so glad Michelle & I didn't linger at the cafe over another glass of wine and saved them. I think they're really beautiful.

Hobbits Be Gone

Mr Kelly said he could send the boys round for a week. Of the many jobs at LFH, please would I prioritize which I'd like done first. This was a bit of a no-brainer. There were two doors I had to bend in half to walk through. If they weren't enlarged, I'd have no brains left if I forgot to duck at the appropriate moment. Since I'm still camping in the living room, these were the only portals to the rest of the house, and more importantly, the bathroom in the middle of the night. After I'd parted my hair a couple of times without sustaining lasting damage, enlarging the Hobbit doors moved right to the top of the list.

The quaint front door. Looks like it should be in the bottom of a large tree in a fairy tale. The top was at the height of my shoulder.



I was jubilant to witness the beginning of its demise.



Et voila!

One down, one to go. Both these doors are located in the base of the old pigeonnier, so the walls are structural, very thick and made of stone. The door leading from the bedroom to the hallway proved a little more challenging. I not only wanted this doorway raised, but the whole thing moved slightly to one side. When heavy-duty drilling wasn't doing the trick, it was discovered that here the tower was made of re-inforced concrete in iron cage supports. A meaner, nastier tool duly arrived, powered by a compressor that shook the neighbourhood.

A larger hole had to be made to accomodate the new lintels. The door you see on the other side is the former Hobbit door, now already full-size.

And here is the new bedroom door in place. Note the thickness of the wall, here over 70 cm.




When I was contemplating the purchase of this house, Teddy said, don't let the doors put you off, you can make a house worthy of your height. It made an impression on me, and now it's true. I no longer have to stoop. But it's funny I should write this today. I've just this minute had the estimate for phase 2 of the building works. I might not be crouching, but I am on my knees. Ouch!

The street where I live

Top-top is on a narrow street, so mercifully there isn't any through traffic unless it's coming to visit me. It's not the easiest street to find, as Mr Kelly, my builder, will attest. He finally arrived after having been to the Mairie to ask for directions, even there being met by shrugs of uncertainty. I'd sent him a photo of the house to help. Although the pigeonnier is elevated, it can only be seen from L&A's (where it's almost the West Wing) and the immediate neighbours. It's a bit out of the way, and I like that.

Recently some people were searching for a party going on down the road. They were holding a little map, asked me in French did I know rue Saint Laurent? I was proud to point them in the right direction with absolute certainty. It is, after all, where I live. This is my neighbour's garden, what you see right outside my front gate, on my secret street.

Family Gardening

My most recent trip to France was 7-12 June, another great visit. We celebrated two birthdays, the contractor visited to look the house over, and I got everything moved out of Abeilhan. The right balance of practicalities accomplished with excellent socializing in between.

Even though I've been spending most of my time in Roujan, I stayed one last night in Abeilhan, to be ready for the movers who were arriving the next morning. Me and a dead bird. Poor thing got in through the loft and couldn't get out. The move I thought would be easier this time around did throw up a few challenges, like the bed base I inherited from the previous owner that wouldn't go down the stairs. So the boys demolished it and took it to the dechetterie in bits. By 2 pm we were done and enjoying a very refreshing demi-peche (lager with peach syrup) at the Grand Cafe. The house in Abeilhan is now emptier than when I bought it, and ready to change hands on 9 July. Hooray.

Over at Top-top, things are really progressing garden-wise. I saw the new fence in person, with sweet young oleander planted next to it. The vegetables are doing well. At Ali's birthday supper, there were tender courgettes from Top-top on the menu. The tomato plants are dripping with fruit, still green for now, but not much longer.

One evening Lizzie & Josh came over for a little gardening session.

I was so pleased to be there, for a change. This city girl hangs on every word they utter. We dismantled the tepee the beans had grown on and expanded the strawberry patch. Lizzie coached us in separating out the baby plants and we put them in the newly turned earth.

While we were hoeing the soil, Josh said, isn't this happy work? Such a simple statement, but it really touched me, being connected to people I love and my own bit of dirt.

Afterwards, it was my assignment from the Boss to give the garden a real saturation watering. I was out there 'til after 9:30 wrapped in that muddy 50-metre beast of a hose; obviously I have yet to work out the best irrigation strategy! I went to bed early, satisfied, only to be woken an hour later by an almighty lightning strike. It was soon chucking it down, over 3 inches in the buckets the next morning...isn't it always the way, when you do a really good soaker, mother nature steps in with one of her own? Never mind, the light show from the "bedsit" was spectacular!

The New Fence

Patience is a fleeting virtue with me. I've learnt from doing up my first house that things take time, especially when you don't live there full-time to pester potential contractors. So it's extra rewarding when something begins to take shape and you can actually see progress.

When Mme B sold the house, she divided her land in two. Roughly half of it went to me with the house; the other half was sold to my neighbour Jerome. I wish I could have afforded both parcels, but I think she was on an ancient family promise to do it this way in any case.

So a new fence was required, if for no other reason than to stop me dreaming of the huge pool I could never have afforded to build there. Jerome suggested he and Freddie work on the fence together and we split the cost of materials. In the meantime, Michelle, bless her, dug the holes with Jean-Pierre.

I was delighted when work began at a cracking pace first thing the gloriously sunny morning of 7 May. Nothing like a churning cement mixer to bring out the neighbours. They were all as charming and welcoming as they could be. Lucky me.

Here is the work in progress. The posts are in. No longer visible is the red and white tape the geometre had used for delineation. I was glad to see it go. Living in Hoxton for so long, to me it said just one thing "Crime scene. Do not cross".

I had to catch my plane before the fence was finished, so Lizzie sent this picture of it up and running. She and Josh have already begun to plant the natural boundary with these laurier roses. It's going to be beautiful. Lettuces aren't doing badly either!

A Room with a View

In London I've lived for 20 years in a big room with lots of windows but no views. Brick walls with neighbours far too close on every side. It couldn't be more urban. But all things come to those who wait.

In Abeilhan, there were pleasant street scenes out every window. This one benefits from a little zoom action, but still...

Then the roof terrace was created, with views due west and amazing sunsets.

It was going to take some beating, but that's one of the things Top-top has going for it. Since it faces east, this is dawn from the bedsit.

Just think what it's going to be like if I can get windows cut into the east-facing side of the pigeonnier and create my dream bedroom on the top floor overlooking the horizon. For now, I can only provide a teaser by bending round the corner.

Je suis Roujanaise

That fairy dust I referred to in a previous entry was thankfully still clinging to me. Just before the completion of the Top-top purchase, I accepted an offer on my house in Abeilhan. I was surprised it went so quickly. I had been warned: it's a buyer's market, the price is too high, the market is slow, so how fantastic to get a decent offer in such good time. Love those fairies, thank you.

This meant that I might as well move from one house to the other. From a well-appointed completely re-wired and re-plumbed house with two new bathrooms and a new kitchen to, well, Top-top. Where I twitch with fear everytime I plug something into an electrical socket. It can, of course, only get better.

Luckily I have this guy, Justin Gosling, on my side. Hey, it's my blog and I can plug the whole family if I want to. Seriously, I didn't buy the house before Justin (or Freddie as he is also known) checked it out with me. He'd talked me out of one 3 yrs ago, but figured we could do something with this one.

On 4 May, I packed my humble belongings into lots of Pampers boxes, courtesy of Izzy, my friend Nicole's one yr old. And did a lot of stairs. Michelle came over in the afternoon to help and hold my hand, followed by the boys with the van. Despite a bit of light rain, the move went really smoothly. I was over-joyed to have most of it finished (there'll be another smaller load when I'm there in June). My big bed was now in Roujan. This would be my first night there, sleeping in my own house.

I'd recently had all the pine the French use to cover any and everything ripped out of the ground floor bedroom.

It looked like this:

And now it looks like this, with insulation poking out of the ceiling and lots of scary wires hanging around:

All things considered, I decided the safest place to camp for now was in the living room. So, I'm in my bedsit with the big garden. A real Roujanaise at last.

A Delicate Balance

From the moment the top-top garden team were given the keys months before, they had been hatching magnificent ideas for the new space. But we had to be careful. We couldn't do so much that Mme B would feel alienated when she returned, nor did we want to spend too much before the deal was in the bag. So Josh had to resist pulling down an old baby gate, chopping down a dead tree, and rotivating the entire garden. He kept wondering, when?

The day of the official handover, moments after the toast in the previous picture, Michelle, Josh and Poppy arrived. Josh had that hungry look for power tools, but had to wait just a little longer. We waved good-bye to Mme Bossi and her daughter Cecile. "The staff" went for lunch at the Grand Cafe. After omelettes all round, we adjourned to the top-top garden.

Months of planning leapt into action. They were off like runners out of the blocks: rotivating, strimming, sawing, pruning, weeding, planting, watering. The garden was a joyous hive of activity!

Josh rotivated several new beds and sawed down a tree, Michelle planted carrots and radishes, I was on weed duty (they're breaking the city girl in gently). Ali bought a funky new wheelbarrow, and Lizzie was a blur between trimming bushes, getting to grips with the well, fielding questions and plotting the new design.

One more member of the team merits a mention. Josh was dog-sitting so we even had a mascot. This is Dolly.

By the end of the afternoon, new plants were in and the design had taken shape. I couldn't believe it. It's going to be fantastic! Thank you one and all !!

Mine at Last

When I signed the preliminary contract in December, I still didn't have the financing together, though I was led to believe by various advisors that it would all work out. After a few false starts, at the end of March, I really did have my hands on the money to buy the top-top house. Cue huge sigh of relief.

Mme Bossi and I set our date for 10 April at the notaire's office. Lizzie and Nicola, who'd been there for the preliminary round, thankfully again came to support me. Our notaire introduced us to the other parties as Mme Bachem et son staff. It set a light-hearted tone for the proceedings as Mme Bossi and I signed and initialed ourselves into a frenzy. An hour later, I was the owner of not one, but two little French houses. (Abeilhan is still mine for now, though I don't mean to be greedy).

We went back to the new house, where Ali greeted us with a bottle of champagne and Mme Bossi finally solved the mystery of the missing water meter. No wonder we were stumped; it lives a block down the street, who knew? She turned the water on and we strolled back to the house, only to find that whoever had moved her dishwasher hadn't bothered to cap it off. Water was gushing everywhere. Mme B ran back down the street to turn it off (note: stopcock actually inside the house would be a nifty idea). Ali put down the champagne and ran for mops and buckets. We soaked up the flood, and then had a toast in the courtyard, my trousers still rolled up from the little baptism. O Happy Day!

Top-top Man

One of this year's bonus discoveries is that Josh, Lizzie's 14 year old nephew, has taken a keen interest in gardening. He started off helping his aunt, and is now developing into a talented gardener in his own right.

Here's a link to Josh's blog: http://web.mac.com/lecouvent/iWeb/gardens/Welcome.html

It's a must-read when I'm trapped at my desk in London and need to check on the 'growths'. I really appreciate all his efforts in the garden. Thanks pal, you're the top-top man!

Here's Josh working the heavy machinery.

The Garden Came First

When Mme B and I shook on the deal, long before any money changed hands, she gave Lizzie the keys to the garden when she went back to Switzerland in October. It's the type of act that makes a notaire break into a cold sweat. Madame is a trusting soul, but I suppose she also knew that if things didn't work out, at least some work would get done in the neglected garden. There was no hiding the gleam in Lizzie's eye; she couldn't wait to get her mitts on it.

Lizzie and Josh began to turn the garden around last autumn, so this spring we already have some great looking (and tasting) vegetables.

It went from this:



To this:


And I don't even own it yet!
Here's how my garden was named. At Le Couvent, L&A have the bottom garden and the top garden. So the new addition (mine) quickly became known as TopTop. I like it. You can also call the house LFH. If you are a French citizen of Roujan, you probably know it as Le Pigeonnier. All of these are welcomed and acceptable. But 'pigeon trailer' is not.

Closer Inspection

I had only just gotten back to London, having used up all my holidays -- and then some. Could I really be entertaining the idea of buying another house in France when I'd barely finished renovating the first? It was completely crazy, but it simply wouldn't go away.

I asked Mme B if it would be okay, in the first instance, if Lizzie & Ali could take some photographs for me. She kindly agreed. Great friends and intrepid spies, L&A went up the hill on reconnaissance. Within three hours, I had 90 photographs! To ponder, over and over and over again.

It is here that I can begin to dispel some of the romantic notions of the first blog entry. On closer inspection, this place was in need of some serious work! I wasn't sure I liked anything on the inside. But overall, it had some real advantages. Roujan is a bigger village with more amenities where most of my friends live, which is good for a non-driving wimp like me. And very unusually, this house had a big garden with beautiful views, right in the centre of the village. Such finds are truly rare. I booked a flight.

From one side, the house has some character, with the old pigeonnier. You enter through a lush vine.





But from the other side, it looks like a trailer!








However, the potential was there. The garden would be amazing one day -- maybe even the house. With just enough money on an overdraft for a deposit, my offer was accepted. It meant I had to rush home and begin raising the rest of the dosh, which took months. Luckily Madame was in no particular hurry over the winter, and I must have been sprinkled from head to toe in some kind of house-buying fairy dust. Things worked out astonishingly well.

Houses in locations like this don't come up very often. This one never hit the open market. My heartfelt thanks to all my friends and neighbours in Roujan, who not only helped, but actively encouraged this transaction, and to my friends world-wide who supported the dream. The preliminary contract was signed on 11 December 2006. How happy am I?

First Encounter

I'd dreamt of owning a house in France for as long as I can remember. I toyed briefly with a small garret in Paris -- don't we all -- but I began to look seriously in the Languedoc region in the south of France in 1999. A lot of ground was covered, from the Rhone to the Pyrenees and back again. Houses came and went for various reasons before I finally took the plunge and put my signature on an Acte de vente in 2004.

At the time I was staying at my friends Lizzie & Ali's splendid 17th Century chambres d'hotes, Le Couvent.

Late the sweltering afternoon of 26 July (the day I'd signed the final deed), a fire broke out nearby. It's terrifying in that part of the world, where it's baking hot and tinder dry. The Canadairs, filled with water, were swooping so low they seemed to skim the top of the Virgin's mantle. We later learned that it had been the déchetterie (UK = tip, US = dump) that had gone up.

After the drama subsided, I remember noticing the house above Le Couvent for the first time. What a fantastic position. I said, I wish I could buy that house up there. Lizzie explained that it had been in the same family for several generations. The way French inheritance laws work, you assume it will go to the children, so I never really thought about it again. Besides, I had just bought this sweet house in Abeilhan, 8 kms away. The ink on the contract was barely dry.

Fast forward nearly three years. The renovation in Abeilhan is just about finished, costing -- like they all do -- about double your original intent. I'd run into my share of drama in the form of termites, but the house had finally been sorted. A roof terrace had been added with magnificent views; the house now had its bit of highly-coveted outdoor space. The sunsets were breathtaking! I loved spending time there, particularly with my wonderful friends in the surrounding villages, and was looking forward to getting some enjoyment out of the place now that tools had been downed.

During a routine visit at the end of September 2006, L&A couldn't wait to show me the new bikes they'd just bought for guests to use. Where did you find such great bikes? From Madame B who lives in the house above, she's having a clear-out because she wants to sell the house. Oh-oh. Time stood still for a moment. There was a look of wide-eyed recognition...you mean to tell me that house is for sale?? My life changed from almost that instant.

Like an old-fashioned screen goddess, she's best lit from underneath.

I had to return to London the next day, having only snooped around the outside. I found myself waking up in the middle of the night; I couldn't get the house out of my mind. I hadn't seen inside and didn't know the price, but it was in the best location I could ever imagine. I got in touch with the owner. Mme B was getting ready to pack up and head back to Switzerland, where she lives most of the year.

She asked, could I come down to see it the next fortnight?