Moving house

Ready to go

It seemed like ages since we had come back from France in August but the time had not been wasted. Plans, bookings, lists and more lists – I AM the epitome of a list maniac. But now everything was happening with military precision. We’d caught the overnight ferry to arrive in Avoise first thing on Saturday morning. We spent the day grocery shopping and whipping the garden back under control for the new owner.

The French, it appears, are not too concerned about being able to move straight into their new home once they have vacated their old one. We had had to fight hard to get the completion dates of our sale and purchase in the same week, never mind within a couple of days. As it was, we would be having one night with no place to call home – and nowhere for all our belongings. To solve this problem we had planned to move half our stuff (boxes, garden tools and so on) to our friends’ garage down the road and keep all the furniture in our little hire van overnight,  moving it into the new house the day after. We were due to pick up the hire van on Tuesday, so Sunday and Monday were spent trekking backwards and forwards with the stuff that was going to be stored in the garage down the road.

Now, it’s only about 80m between the two houses but it’s a one-way lane so between us we worked out a brilliant system of filling the car with boxes, which Colin would drive down the road, with me following with something too big to go in the car…bikes…garden tables etc. We’d unload them into the garage and then I would belt back up the lane to start shifting the next lot out while Colin drove off down the lane, through the village, up the hill and round the fields to come back down to the house from the top of the lane.

The whole process was further complicated by the fact that we had a massive pile of firewood stacked in the cave at La Tourelle which needed to be moved to our new home. I hadn’t actually considered the fact that we might be moving when I reordered 3 years’ worth of firewood last autumn. As the minimum order from our local wood mill is 4 stères (a stère of wood being the equivalent of 1 metre high by 1 metre deep by 1 metre wide) there was a large amount of logs that had to be removed from the cave, stacked carefully in the boot of the car, driven down the road, removed from the car and stacked neatly in the garage… over and over again.

By Monday evening we were exhausted, our arms felt like they had been run over by a steam roller but half our French life was now neatly stored away down the road, to be collected once we had moved into the mill.

On Tuesday morning we were up bright and early to drive into Sablé to pick up the hire van.  Getting it into the tiny courtyard at La Tourelle was a bit hair-raising as the old stone houses along the narrow lane open straight onto the street, with no room for error. How Colin managed to reverse through the gates into our little garden without needing recourse to the additional damage insurance we’d taken out, I don’t know.

We started loading the furniture immediately.  Our friend Jean-Paul was due to arrive after lunch, having insisted that he would be round to help load after his night shift. But to be honest, everything was going really well – every square centimetre was used to pack 13 years’ worth of lovingly collected furniture.  “Last piece and we’re done”, Colin called as he went back into the house.  As I waited on the tail-lift, he came out of the kitchen door with my mobile phone in his hand. “Three missed calls”. With La Tourelle being built into the cliff, mobile coverage is dire at the house. We’re always picking up voicemails for calls that never made it through. The first message was from Maître G, our notaire.  “ Madame Coles, please could you call me as a matter of urgency. We have discovered a big problem.” A second missed call from her a few minutes later was accompanied by the same message. I tried to call her but by now it was midday and the automatic answering service helpfully informed me that the switchboard would be closed for lunch until 2pm. With a sinking heart I listened to the third voicemail – this time from Chris, the estate agent. Still stood in the back of the van I shushed Colin as I listened to Chris’ crackling voice telling me that Maitre G needed to talk to me immediately. “Don’t worry, the completion on your sale for tomorrow is all fine. But she says that she urges you to seriously consider pulling out of your purchase!”

Sitting on the floor of our empty echoing livening room with the landline phone pressed to my ear after two of the longest hours wait of our lives, I listened as the notaire explained the problem. What am I saying? It wasn’t a problem – it was a DISASTER!

Moulin de la Roche - entrance

In SAFER hands?

Only two weeks to go until we jump on that ferry and drive down to La Tourelle for the last time; two weeks before signing those magic papers and handing over the keys to our buyer and picking up the keys for our gorgeous mill. Or so we thought until yesterday.

Although the notaire had warned us that we wouldn’t get a confirmed date for the signing of the final contract, or Acte de vente, until the beginning of October, I’ve been itching to get everything sorted… book annual leave, book the ferry tickets, confirm the van hire, notify the friends who have offered to help, to see if they are still available…the list goes on. If you know me, you’ll know that I am a bit of a control freak. I like all the i’s dotted and t’s crossed, or I stress like mad!

‘I think I’ll give the agent a call and see if he can tell us anything’, I told Colin over breakfast. Spookily, no more than 5 minutes later the phone rang. It was the agent for the mill. After the usual pleasantries he got round to the petit problème that had arisen. Gulp! Heart sinks to boots.

Apparently, it had come to light that the land which comes with the mill also includes a half share of the small slip road which runs from the road down to our front gate (offending bit of land shown above), the neighbouring house owning the other half. As this hadn’t been included in the presale contract, le compromise de vente, he was going to have to send us an addendum and revised plan cadastral, land registry map, to sign and return. Phew!

But wait! Because we’re talking about a rural property here, all sales have to be passed under the nose of SAFER, Société d’aménagement foncier et d’établissement rural.  This government agency has the right of first purchase on most rural property that comes onto the market in France. The mill and gardens had already gone through this TWO MONTH(!) process but as the slip road had not been included in the original documentation, the notaire would have to resubmit. We wouldn’t be able to complete until the end of November!

If we had to complete on La Tourelle mid October and then wait until the end of November to complete on the mill, it raised a whole host of problems. Where would we store all our stuff for a month? I didn’t have any more leave to take – how could I get more time off work to go back to France a second time?

Keep calm, Ella. Think!

I decided to call the agent dealing with the sale of La Tourelle. Maybe he could suggest something.

Now, these two agents are good friends and often work together, but what a difference between them! Gérard is a charming, laid-back Frenchman who is completely happy to go with the flow of the lumbering French bureaucratic machine. Chris on the other hand is an expat from Essex, who has lived and worked in France for years and never quite reconciled himself to the French attitude to business and customer service. Don’t get me wrong – I admire the French refusal to let work dominate their life, but sometimes it can be so FRUSTRATING! Especially when I’m on the receiving end!

Chris immediately put my mind at rest. Yes, SAFER had two months to make a decision and, yes, they usually took their full two month quota, but for a payment of 100€ we could access their ‘express’ service. Chris had already agreed with Gérard to split the cost between them and get things moving.

So why hadn’t Gérard told me about this ‘express’ service? (Gallic shrug) Qui sait? Who knows?

Suffice to say that Gérard emailed today to say that he’d seen the notaire and we were all set to sign on the 20th October.

Blood pressure levels gradually returning to normal.

 

The River Sarthe at Avoise

Weekend escape

“…And for the weekend  a  band of heavy showers, moving in from the Atlantic, which could merge to become torrential downpours in places and temperatures rather disappointing for the time of year – about 17 degrees….”  The sunny smile of the weather presenter did not quite sit right with the news she was imparting. We were due for another typically English bank holiday.

I know, I know. We had only been back in England for less than a fortnight. We weren’t due back in France until October. But the prospect of yet another dismal, wet Bank holiday was just too much to bear. During a text chat with one of our French neighbours, earlier in the day, she had been complaining about the continuing canicule, heatwave, and how the garden was suffering. That clinched it then. Jump online, book tickets and shoot off after work on Friday to arrive in the early hours of Saturday morning.

A few hours of peaceful, uninterrupted sleep later, we set off into the bright sunshine to get supplies for the weekend. Saturday is market day in Sablé sur Sarthe, our nearest town, about 10 km away. We love strolling around the stalls, bursting with every kind of fruit and vegetable, mostly grown by the stall-holder themselves. A visit to the stall of our favourite fromager, Monsieur Souchet, is compulsory.

fromagerie Souchet

Not only does he always have a wonderful selection of cheeses but he is a consummate showman, wielding his cheese knife across the top of the cheese held above his head, until the customer is completely happy with the size of the piece to be cut, then entertaining his audience with his jokey banter, giving advice on the best cheese to select for a particular dish and teasing elderly ladies about the wildly romantic meals they are going to be preparing for their toy boys. Next, some fragrant apricots and a couple of small, juicy local melons. Having served us with our apricots the young girl calls over the stall owner. Madame always asks when you will be eating your melons, then carefully selects those of the exact ripeness required from the pile in front of her, writing a number on each to indicate the order in which they should be eaten – and she’s not been wrong yet. Last stop is to pick up some young lettuce plants and pain de sucre winter salad leaves, to take home for the allotment. The grey-haired market gardener nods in recognition – we are regular visitors to his stall- and offers a few tips on how to care for his babies. I don’t think he is too confident that we can grow anything in the frozen, northern wasteland that is England!

After a leisurely lunch in the garden we strolled down to the river to spend the afternoon lazing under a willow tree, reading and watching the kingfishers and martins swooping about across the water. An incoming text message from one of Colin’s mates, bemoaning the fact that the Bristol –Swindon footie match had been abandoned due to the appalling weather, just added to our enjoyment.

Having been forced to dine out that evening (well we’d packed all our kitchenware hadn’t we?) we returned home to indulge in our favourite evening pastime of ‘gate-hanging’.  A glass of sun-filled red wine in hand we hang over the front gate, discussing the day’s happenings, planning the next project and watching the oblivious owls and bats that silently hurtle around our heads and between the ancient, terracotta-tiled roofs of the village. We can be found here most evenings, winter or summer, but tonight, with the heat radiating out from the sun-baked stone walls and a glittering array of thousands of stars sliding slowly across the sky, I felt gloriously contented and ‘at home’.

It doesn’t get much better than this – I hope we’ll be as happy in the mill as we have been here.

Medieval Festival at Parcé sur Sarthe

Medieval Festivities

All good things come to an end, they say – including our holiday. The journey back through the wormhole was not not quite as pleasant in reverse. But we have some lovely memories to help us get through the next few weeks and months. For our last weekend in Avoise we decided we had definitely had enough of packing. Everything was done apart from those things we would need for camping out in the house for a day when we came back in October; a mattress on the floor in the bedroom, the coffee maker  and two each of plates, glasses, mugs and cutlery for breakfast on the day of our move.

With the following Monday being Assumption Day, a public holiday in France, there was again a whole host of events on over the weekend. Following the success of their Fêtes Médiévales two years ago, the villagers of Parcé sur Sarthe had decided to do the same thing again this year. Having missed it in 2014 we were determined to go this year and on Saturday morning we cycled over to partake of the revelry. There was a fabulous atmosphere in the little place with everyone dressed up in medieval costume, a medieval market, dancing and music, jousting and falconry displays and a generally happy, family feel.

eagle small

Even the bag searches and bands of heavily armed gendarmes with automatic weapon clutched across their chests, patrolling the village couldn’t put a dampener on the festive feeling, but it certainly brings home how unsafe the French feel in the aftermath of recent terrorist attacks.

On Sunday the weather was again unbelievably lovely (I’ve been so disillusioned with summers in France and England in recent years that I dread peeking out through the curtains in the morning) We decided to take a picnic and explore the area surrounding our new mill. We spent a few hours strolling around local villages and ended up at the Chateau de Thévalles, which has a lovely restored watermill, just a few kilometres up river from our mill. In the spirit of research we did the guided tour.

IMG_6755

Céline, the young student who was earning some extra money during the summer holidays by taking tourists around the mill was lovely and very informative. When I explained why I was asking so many questions she seemed genuinely interested and chatted away asking about how we had found our mill and what were our plans for renovation. Did we have millstones? Was the mechanism still there? Were we going to restore the wheel to working order? Le Moulin de Thévalles, like ours, has been rebuilt several times and the latest building dates back to the 1800’s. It was fascinating to see how over the years the power of the river had been used to grind grain for flour and animal feed, pump water up to the chateau on the hill to water the gardens, power everything from sewing machines to farm machinery and more recently, in the 1900’s, to generate electricity for the chateau.

The latter was particularly interesting to Colin who was taking numerous photos on his phone of linkages and generators. Our vendor maintains that he has been using the water wheel to generate the electricity to run the central heating.  Unfortunately, the ‘turbine ‘ is no longer working – in my more sceptical moods, I don’t believe it ever did. But it would be incredible if we could find a way to make it work!

Compromis de vente

Compromis de vente

They say that moving house is up there with death and divorce in the stress rankings and while no one I know has yet popped their clogs there has been plenty of house-move stress and marital disharmony. Not between me and Colin I hasten to add.

On Tuesday afternoon we turned up as planned at Gérard’s office, ready to sign the compromis for the mill, together with the vendors-except that the vendors weren’t there. Apparently they weren’t able to make the appointment on Tuesday but Gérard was under the impression that we were returning to England earlier than we actually were, so was intending to get us to sign first then bring the vendors in the following day. We agreed that, as we would be around the following day, we would postpone the signing until the vendor was able to attend too. It did give us an opportunity to go through the contract on our own with Gérard, which was just as well as it turned out, as we found several discrepancies, including an additional 800 euros in fees , which we had negotiated would be included in the total asking price. We also discovered that the fosse (septic tank), despite the vendor’s assurances, was not actually aux normes (conforming to the legal standards introduced by the French government in 2012.) This didn’t come as a big shock, as I really didn’t trust the owner based on the short acquaintance we had had with him on our second viewing. He had however agreed to pay to have the necessary work carried out before the final contract was signed. Gérard didn’t actually have an appointment booked with the vendor for the next day and, when he still hadn’t called the following morning to confirm a time, I decided to bring a little pressure to bear via our mutual friend Chris. Chris phoned back with a time and a promise that the 800 euros would be included in the price.

Once again on Wednesday afternoon, we found ourselves sitting in Gérard’s office waiting for the vendor. They were late and Gérard explained that as Madame started work very early in the morning, she tended to like a siesta after lunch. Finally they arrived; Monsieur a short, rather self-important little man in his early sixties, with thick glasses, several days’ worth of stubble and who smelled strongly of alcohol as he sat down beside us. His wife was a thin bird-like woman who seemed quite nervous. The meeting got underway and Gérard explained to Colin and me that although the property was in the name of Monsieur, and he was the legal owner who would receive the money from the sale, because it was a family home, Madame also needed to sign the compromis on behalf of the family. This was obviously news to Madame who suddenly realised she had power of veto and declared that she had never really wanted to sell the mill anyway! Colin and I looked at each other in horror as the mood in the small office changed dramatically. Monsieur sat bolt upright, feet planted apart, his hands on his knees and loudly stated that it was his house and he would do what he liked with it. It took Gérard quite a while to calm them both and convince Madame to continue with the meeting. The next blow came when she realised that they would need to vacate the mill by mid-October. She exploded that they had nowhere to go, her job was in the town, the children were at school there and that they would only be able to afford a flat to rent. And there was no way she was moving into a flat!! Despite the mill having been on the market for over eighteen months, the extent of their preparation for this move seemed to have been a quick look on Le Bon Coin, an online small private ads site. Once again, Gérard came to the rescue, assuring her that their money would get a nice three-bedroomed rented house with a garden until they found somewhere more permanent and it could all be sorted in plenty of time for October.

Somehow we managed to get to the point of signing. In France, all parties are required to sign or initial every page of the contract itself, electric, gas, water, sewage, asbestos, lead, flood and mining reports. As this amounted to well over forty pages, in true French bureaucratic style, there was a bizarre carousel of papers passing from one to another, round the table until everything had been signed. And then we started again, because the vendors were using their own notaire, and he needed his own original signed copies of everything! Finally we all shook hands and Gérard showed Monsieur and Madame out.

As we walked back to the car we felt relief rather than elation. Apparently, Monsieur had decided that they were going to start a new life ‘on the other side of the Atlantic’ and nothing was going to stop him – not even his wife and children. One thing we were sure of – that marriage was not likely to last much longer.

France – closed for August

“Sorry to call you so early…but were you under the impression, as I was, that you were due to sign the compromis for the mill next week?”  My heart sank as I listened to our agent telling me that he had been trying to talk to the notaire that morning, but that she and her PA had both gone off on holiday for two weeks. We only had a week of our stay left in France and it looked like everything was going pear-shaped. I confirmed that Maître G had said she was going away but that she had given me her PA’s email address to send some documents to, in her absence – and now it looked like the PA had disappeared too.

France is notorious for shutting down completely during August. It’s one of those love/hate things for us. The French have their priorities right when it comes to work-life balance. They have strict rules for when they work and nothing gets in the way of their family and leisure time when they’re not working. But with my British hat on, it seems crazy that everyone goes off on an extended summer vacation just as the the busiest time of year starts in the summer. Restaurants and bars will close for their congés annuels, annual holidays, just as the tourists flock in. We’ve been stuck, waiting for several weeks in the past, for a spare part for the car,because the factory has shut down for August, just to be told with a gallic shrug – C’est les congés annuels. 

We rather anxiously spent the day waiting for the agent’s next call. “Leave it with me”, he’d said as he hung up, but we were still worried. We had decided that it would be a good idea to go back and walk round the village where ‘our’ mill was, just to check out the local amenities and acquaint ourselves a bit more with the area! It was really nice to see the place again, if only from the outside – especially as the weather had at last changed for the better and we could appreciate the beautiful setting in gorgeous sunshine.

Our agent was as good as his word and phoned back later to say that the agent for the mill was now back off his holidays and had been sent all the necessary paperwork by the notaire, so we could go ahead with the signing on Tuesday, as planned. Phew!

It’s been a busy few days, with a flying visit down to the Corbière region to see Colin’s sister and her partner who live down there. The amazing mountains and forests of the area and the peace and tranquillity of their isolated home was a complete change from the green rolling farmland of our area in the Sarthe. It was like being in a different country and made a lovely break.

Back ‘home’ in Avoise today, we’ve been visited by our neighbours from up the road,  who popped by to say hello, as well as their daughter and her friends visiting from Houston, who admired our 16th century house. After a lovely lazy lunch over at the home of Marianne and Jean-Paul who live in the next village and have been such good friends to us over the years, we decided that packing could wait until tomorrow and sat in the garden, reading and soaking up the sun. We’ve been really touched by our neighbours’ sadness to see us go (even if we are only moving 15 kilometres away!). Even the young guy from next door, who moved in relatively recently, and who we barely know, came over the other evening to say he had heard we were leaving and how he would miss us! It’s taken a while to build these relationships, especially as we are here for such a short time each year, but the warmth and generosity of the Avoisiens has made our time here really special.

Les Même Pô Peur - Avoise Fête de la Plage

Les Grandes Vacances

We’re back through the wormhole – a few hours driving and ferry and we are suddenly back living our parallel existence.  It’s quite a weird feeling. A familiar home, with everything as we left it, the daily routines, a lovely circle of friends and neighbours – but all quite different from those we were involved with just the previous day.

The last weekend in July is always the Fête de la Plage – the annual village summer celebration. It’s a little misleading as there is no plage, or beach in the village – just a beautifully kept park with boat ramp into the river Sarthe.  Nonetheless, every summer the whole village gathers for a sit-down meal followed by torchlight- procession and a wonderful fireworks display and disco on Saturday night. Sunday is a lazy day of wandering round the bric à brac (carboot sale) haggling for bits and bobs for the house, sitting in the warm sun over a kir or two,  listening to the jazz band and people-watching. Being the first weekend of the mass exodus which is the French annual holiday, when everyone heads out of the cities into the countryside or to the coast, the village suddenly springs to life as all the French second-home owners arrive to dust off the house and gardens that have been neglected since Christmas or even last summer. Elderly village residents are joined by their children and grandchildren and even the municipal campsite starts to look busy. There’s a lovely atmosphere of community and holiday, which sadly will disappear again at the end of August. It’ll be sad to leave Avoise but we have every intention of returning each year to join in the Fête de la Plage, and catch up with the village gossip.

This week has been busy, starting with a visit to the notaire’s office to sign the pre-sale contract or compromis. The system in France is quite different from the UK, where either party is free to pull out, right up to the exchange of contracts about a week before the ‘move’day. In France the vendor and purchaser sign a legally binding contract as soon as the price is agreed. The buyer also has to hand over their deposit to the notaire at that point. They then have 10 days ‘cooling-off’ period to withdraw, but after that if either party decides not to proceed, there is a financial penalty- usually 10% of the purchase price.

Our purchaser was not able to be present for this signing as he was due for an operation, so he was giving power of attorney to the notaire, to sign on his behalf. It’s quite normal in France for both parties to use the same notaire to handle the legal and fiscal side of the transaction. Their role is to act on behalf of the state to ensure that everything is done properly, rather than to represent either party. We could have chosen to use our own notaire, in which case the state-set fees would have been divided between the two notaires – but it seemed sensible to avoid the time that is always wasted, waiting for queries and communications between solicitors to be sent and replied to.

We immediately liked the notaire that our estate agent had recommended. Maître (the professional title given to a qualified notaire) G is a smart, chatty young woman with a wicked sense of humour and a somewhat wacky French/American accent when she speaks English, which she does well. Although La Tourelle is officially in my name, and only I needed to be involved in this signing, the house has also been Colin’s home from the outset and it was good to be able to swop backwards and forwards between English and French, so that he could follow the conversation more easily.

We were a bit concerned to find that although our American buyer had returned the form giving power of attorney to Maître G, he had failed to get his signature witnessed so it would have to be sent back to the States for him to do so. We were assured that this would not be a problem as I could still sign that morning and she or her colleague would sign as soon as the requisite paperwork, duly signed and witnessed, had been received.

I had originally wanted to delay the signing of the compromis  for the mill until our buyer’s ten day cooling- off period was up, terrified of being in the situation where we were contractually committed to buying the mill, then finding the sale of La Tourelle had fallen through.

Maître G reassured us that she could add a clause suspensive, or condition, to our purchase contract that would mean that it would only be legally binding provided that our buyer completed the purchase of our house. Better still, whereas waiting until the end of the cooling-off period protected us from him suddenly pulling out in the early stages, the clause suspensive  would give us peace of mind for the entire process.

We agreed that we would make an appointment to sign the compromis for the mill for next Monday, when the estate agent handling that property had returned from his summer holidays.

The first step of the legal process underway, we spent a couple of days starting to pack for the move. The signing of the Acte de Vente, or final contract, is due to happen in October, but as we only have these two weeks actually in France before then, we need to get as much done as possible while we are here.

It’s amazing how much stuff you accumulate over thirteen years in a house – even when you are only there a few weeks of the year. As we ummed and aahed over what to keep and what to put in the pile for the déchetterie, municipal recycling depot, I found myself still making a mental note of little decorating jobs that needed doing, plants I wanted to put in the garden or things it would be good to improve. It was almost like packing things for your grown up son or daughter as they prepare to fly the nest. I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn’t my responsibility any more – I soon won’t have a say in what happens in this house’s future life.  But there is another house out there , waiting for us to lavish love and attention on it – so it’s not all sad!

A ‘once in a generation decision’

WHAT!!??

I was in shock – utter disbelief. How could they? What were they thinking!

I really hadn’t expected the Leave Campaign to win the referendum on whether or not Britain should pull out of the European Union. I’d been blithely reassuring our friends in France that the British would never vote to leave – we had too much to lose. For months, as the media hysteria grew on both sides of the Channel they’d been asking us how it would affect our plans. I hadn’t even given it any serious consideration – it obviously was never going to happen.

And then it did.

Over the next few days I went from incredulous to furious to desolate. We were Europeans – how could they suddenly just decide to take that away from us? What would the impact be on having our home in France? Would we soon need a visa to pop over for the weekend? Could we see exorbitant taxes imposed on us as property owners, once we were no longer EU citizens? (The French government had already tried that once, until the EU told them it was unlawful) Would we even be able to afford to retire once the British economy slid back into recession (as it most certainly would) and our pensions became worthless? Already the pound was starting to plummet against the euro and every day the news stories got worse.

There still hadn’t been any offers on our French house, and to be fair our plans were still very much dependent on our lottery ticket delivering the goods. But that hadn’t stopped us from having a second viewing of the mill and continuing to plan the to-do list when we got in. Over the last few months the vendor had reduced the price considerably and knowing that we were obviously interested, the agent had assured us that he could get it down to within our budget if we signed a compromis de vente committing to purchase within the next 6 months. Sorely tempted as we were, we knew that it would be mad to commit – we couldn’t go ahead until we had realised the funds from the sale of our house and there was no guarantee that we would find a buyer in the next six months. Many of the local properties for sale had been on the market for over 5 years! Under the French system we would lose our 10% deposit if we had to back out of buying the mill.

And now this!

There was no way we would be able to find an English buyer now. Everything was ruined. Everything was uncertain. Colin and I felt so low it was like there had been a death in the family.

And then two days later our agent phoned to say he had a viewing booked for the following day. Somewhat cheered but not exactly hopeful I wasn’t even particularly excited when he rang back the following day to give me feedback.

“Hi Ella, are you sitting down?”  He sounded so excited and happy, I held my breath. “He loved it and made an offer on the spot!”

There followed a couple of days of negotiations on the price, with me constantly running back to my enormous spreadsheet of calculations. Taxes, fees, exchange rates. Would we be able to afford the mill?

Now, as luck would have it, our agent and the agent handling the mill were good friends. I don’t know what conversations happened behind the scenes but suddenly all the agency and legal fees were included in the asking price and finally we were able to say Yes!

The dream was starting to become a reality.

Moulin de la Roche

Why am I writing this?

In 2002 Colin and I had only been together for a few months when we decided to spend a couple of weeks camping in France. As we toured the beautiful areas along the Loire and Cher rivers I fell in love with the country all over again and the seed of an idea began to grow. By the end of the fortnight, the clandestine glances into the windows of estate agents had developed into me dragging Colin from one agency to the next in whichever town we found ourselves. We returned in October to house-hunt in earnest. A small inheritance from my mum was going to provide the deposit and if I was really careful and creative, I could just afford the mortgage repayments on a holiday home in France. By February 2003 we had ourselves the shell of a beautiful stone 16th century village house, complete with tower and stone spiral staircase!

Roll forward thirteen years…IMG_5708

After many happy years of hard slog and every holiday spent lovingly bringing back the house to its full glory we had finally ‘finished’.  OK, so there was always something else we could have done, but retirement was approaching and we started to think about what we might do with more leisure time. Of course it was a given that we would spend more time in France, but was this house going to be our forever French home? It was fabulous as a lock-up-and-leave holiday home, but with little land around it to indulge our passion for gardening and its village location restricting the amount of sun we got in the winter – I started to wonder.

At first Colin was reluctant, but he admitted that he could do with a new project to get his teeth into when he retired. He patiently listened (or pretended to) as I rattled on about the slow-down in the already depressed French housing market, showed him details of ‘doer-uppers’ that we might be able to afford and even indulgently agreed to let me get ‘La Tourelle’ valued and put it on with an agent ‘just to test the market’. Over the years we had made some wonderful friends in the village and there was no way we wanted to move away from them, so this somewhat restricted the size of the area we could search in. After 9 months we had had a few viewings but no offers – the French didn’t want to move to a small rural village where there was no employment and the English weren’t interested as we were miles from the nearest airport. (A distinct plus, as far as we were concerned – we had wanted to be in la vraie France, not in a tourist honeypot or an expat enclave).

And then I saw it! Love at first sight! An old stone-built water mill on the edge of another village, not far from ours. The price was ridiculous  – way beyond our reach, especially as it obviously needed work, but as I showed the pictures to Colin that evening, I’d already moved in, in my head. On our next visit to France I persuaded him that it wouldn’t do any harm to book a viewing and that was it! He was smitten!

I even discovered that my normally calm, sensible husband had been showing pictures of the mill to all his mates down the pub, explaining what we would be doing to the place as soon as we got it…

Looking back on the laughter and tears that had gone into our previous renovation project, I regretted not keeping a diary to look back on. As our new love affair begins I’ve decided that I’m going to keep a blog to chart all the highs and lows, victories and disasters along the way. It’s primarily for me, Colin (if he wants to read it) and our families – but if you are reading this and don’t fall into the aforementioned audience, a very warm welcome to you. I’ll try and keep it updated regularly and if you feel like adding a comment, please do.