Dear Friends,
As that Roman chap once said, 'Tempus Fugit', and Tempus has certainly done more than his fair share of 'fugiting' this year.
Here we are already, with 2009 'recessing' into 2010 but we have come through, if not unscathed, then surviving. I did read somewhere recently that we are all £40,000 in debt, a bit hard to understand, but I will take their word for it, as long as they don't ask us to pay it back! We could always see if the French tax office will allow us to enter it as a tax allowance next year, but I don't think they'll be fooled.
BASIL FAWLTY COMES TO 'LES MOUSSEAUX'
Despite the collapse in the pound, we had almost as many gite guests as last year, though some of them brought out the Basil Fawlty in Adrian. We had more New Zealanders and Canadians than British! Running the risk of libel actions, I must say that one of two of them had their idiosyncracies and peculiarities.
I know New Zealand is often warmer than the UK, but April certainly isn't the 'cruellest month' here. Our first NZ guests found it very cold. Using the electric heater occasionally is one thing, but it was on permanently, with all the lights; and one morning we discovered they were heating the kitchen with all four rings and the oven of the gas cooker. No wonder the cylinder was exhausted in two days!
The Canadians turned up in a small sports car. They were a last minute booking, on their way north as part of a 12 month tour of Europe. They booked us on the basis of our extravagant claim to have 'Wifi' broadband. Unfortunately we can only get 512k/s when the wind is blowing from the west and nobody else is using the Internet. Our wonderful Orange 'Livebox' has a range of about ten feet, so you can see the problem.
Our guests became surprisingly irritable when they discovered the only way they could get the Internet was by sitting in the driver's seat of their car and sticking half the laptop through the window. They depended on Skype for essential communication, but here it is about as speedy and effective as the signal from Mariner One as it left the orbit of Uranus.
We also wondered (on the days when they were still talking to us) how they travelled all over Europe with so little luggage in a tiny sports car. 'It's easy,' I was told. 'Every time we get too much stuff, I mail it home.' A day or two later he came back from Noyant complaining bitterly about how much it had cost to post a pair of trousers and a couple of shirts back to Canada.
Later, they asked to borrow the washing machine. That was no problem, until they asked where the 'dryer' was. Sally happily pointed to the line in the orchard.
'What?' said our guests, 'You hang your washing OUTSIDE in the AIR?' (These quaint French customs). We were tempted to say that as the river was so low, we could no longer wash the clothes on the stones, but resisted.
Few of the other guests were as memorable, though one couple regularly used 300 litres of scalding hot water (from the solar panels) by 9 a.m. each morning. We could only speculate on what they were doing with it. On the day they departed, they said how marvellous the solar panels were to provide so much hot water. At the other extreme, a couple of blokes who came for a week's fishing, didn't use any hot water at all!
Winter was incredibly cold. It froze on several nights to minus 20C and we awoke to find there was no water; the well was frozen solid. After some tinkering, we managed to get a trickle flowing from the 'mains' water we seldom use, but the supply from the 'puits' remained frozen for a week. When we coaxed the electric pump back to life, it complained loudly and vibrated madly; water shot out around the metal collar where the pipes were connected. The ice had cracked the steel and we had to call out the plumber and search high and low for a replacement piece to repair it. Despite the intense frost, it was amazing how many tender plants, like cannas and dahlias, survived the winter and burst into growth in the summer.
The summer was extremely dry and almost as hot as in the heatwave of 2003. Despite the drought, our 'deep mulch' system seemed to work, as we had bumper crops of tomatoes, peppers, courgettes and aubergines. We launched ourselves into sun drying tomatoes this year, preserving them in olive oil or in the freezer for the winter.
AUTOMANIA
In February, we decided to buy a car, as the Daihatsu van is noisy and blows over on windy days (well, almost). I decided on a Citroen Berlingo and went on-line to request a test drive in Saumur. Weeks passed, and there was no response, so I tried again. Still no response. Finally, I telephoned the dealer.
'Oui, Monsieur,' he said, 'Come for a test drive at 10 a.m. on Thursday.'
We arrived promptly for the test drive, but nobody seemed in any hurry to acknowledge our presence. Finally, a salesman shuffled out. It is important to understand the relationship between a French salesman and the public. A French salesman sees himself as 'la creme de la creme'. The customers should think themselves fortunate if they are allowed some of his valuable time, and what he says should be accepted without question.
'Oui, Monsieur?' he enquired, looking down his Gallic nose at us. I explained we were there for our test drive.
'Mais, c'est pas possible!' he chortled. 'La vehicle, c'est à Angers!' Anyway, the test drive would have been pointless as now Citroen was producing a new model. It would cost more but was infinitely better than the old one (which in any case was as rare as hen's teeth now). If we were really good, he might consider ordering us one for delivery in June or July, or perhaps August. He could offer us a 50 euro discount if we ordered immediately.
We asked about the full price and he snorted. 'Ça depend!' The price was a closely guarded national secret, but surely one we could afford, with credit. When we insisted on knowing, he acknowledged it would probably be somewhere between 16,000 euros (for a basic model, not worthy of our consideration) to 22,000 for a diesel with a few extras.
We hurriedly bid him 'adieu' (definitely NOT au revoir). He looked slightly affronted, but he clearly 'ne regretted rien'.
We vowed we would never be seen dead in a Citroen, even in a Citroen hearse; and moved on to Fiat. Here we found, remarkably, a friendly and co-operative salesman, though he looked about 14. The dealership was deserted, except for a dozen staff who were very busy shuffling pieces of paper and operating computers. The workshop was empty while three mechanics swept an immaculate floor. But there WAS a Fiat Doblo to try out.
The test drive went well and we were impressed with this car, until we asked the price. The price again, was unnegotiable and varied from 16,000 euros for an underpowered petrol model to about 19,000 for the diesel 1.9. The salesman seemed fatalistic when we said we would need time to consider. 'Je suis sûr que vous trouverez votre bonheur!' he purred, in a rather existential fashion.
That evening, knowing some English friends had imported cars from Belgium or Poland, I went on the Internet. I didn't fancy driving the Daihatsu to Warsaw, but if needs must..... But to my astonishment, I discovered a 1.9 diesel Doblo was available in the UK for £8,500. Under half the French price! A rapid telephone call to the dealer in Portsmouth and we had placed order, with a sales rep. who treated us as if we were royalty and he was the lowest peasant in the kingdom.
By March, we made the trip to the UK. The ferry was due into Portsmouth at 8 a.m. and we would be met to be taken to the dealer's to pick up our shining new Doblo. We planned to travel to Frome and later that weekend to Reading, before getting the ferry back on the Sunday evening.
As we drove out of Portsmouth an hour later, we were besotted with our new vehicle. It was quiet; it was fast; it was comfortable. It even had a luxurious sound system. Such a sensible purchase! Such a good deal! Such a fantastic car! Ah, beware hubris!
We decided to stop in Salisbury. We found a large store on an industrial estate on the outskirts accessible by a narrow road. I tried to do a three point turn. The first 'point' went like a dream. I'm sure the third 'point' would have worked well. But the second 'point' involved using reverse.
I moved the gear lever into the recommended position. Nothing. No resistance. No 'clunk'. No gear! I tried pressing the gear handle down. I tried pulling it up. I tried shaking it all about. Nothing. Rien. Nada.
By now, there were nine or ten cars trailing back in the road behind us and Sally became impatient. 'Push it to the left, ' she snapped. 'No, push it to the right'' Exasperated by my inability to do something as simple as put the car in reverse gear, she clambered into the driving seat. She tried once. She tried twice. She tried a third time. She had to admit defeat.
By now, several impatient drivers had jumped out of their cars and thinking here was a simpleton who didn't know how to drive, jumped into the Doblo themselves and tried to find reverse gear. It took some time for them to be convinced the vehicle didn't have even a suspicion of a reverse gear.
With help, we completed the three point turn by pushing and pulling, and drove into a store carpark. We begged the use of a telephone ('We don't need a mobile?' said Adrian) and angrily phoned the car dealer.
'It's almost five o'clock, ' they said. 'We're closing for the night. Take it to the Salisbury Fiat dealer.'
At the Salisbury dealer, a grizzled old mechanic, the embodiment of all wisdom on things vehicular, shook his head sadly. 'Don't tell them I said this,' he muttered, 'but I don't think that car has EVER had a reverse gear!'
Devastated by this news, and fearing the worst (they'd sold us a pup thinking we'd be on the next ferry out of there!) we had no alternative but to press on to Frome to get a bed for the night.
The next morning at the crack of dawn we headed back to Portsmouth, arriving as the dealer opened at 8.30 a.m. I brushed aside the salesman's apologies by repeating the damning allegations of the Salisbury mechanic. 'I don't think this car has EVER had a reverse gear,' I screamed, stamping my foot.
The salesman, another fresh-faced callow youth, became very flustered but insisted, like a schoolboy, 'But honestly, I DID reverse it yesterday! Cross my heart and hope to die' (the latter words accompanied by the appropriate hand gestures.)
When I suggested we would leave the car with them and tear up our cheque, the manager was summoned, who until this moment had been enjoying a day off. He came dashing into work ten minutes later, still dressed in his gardening clothes.
He did his best to resolve the issue. We had a reassuring telephone call with the head of Fiat customer relations in the UK, assuring us the warranty was Europe wide; we had extracted signed statements from the manager that taking the vehicle did nothing to affect our statutory rights, and a mechanic had done his best to discover the fault. As it was now late on Friday, and we were due back in France on Sunday, he couldn't guarantee to fix the fault that quickly. The best plan was to take the vehicle, with no reverse gear, and have it fixed under the warranty in France.
We had several more adventures that weekend as we travelled from Somerset to Reading and back to Portsmouth. The vehicle was trapped in a pub car park. We met on-coming traffic on narrow lanes ('No, YOU reverse! But we CAN'T. I don't believe you! YOU reverse!'). Finally we were asked to reverse into a narrow compartment on the ferry.
The final ignominy was taking the vehicle to the dealership in Saumur.
'Alors, votre Fiat d'Angleterre n'a pas une marche en arriere!' said the mechanic, with irony. 'Now 'ad you bought it 'ere!'
The salesman drifted gloomily into the workshop. 'So you 'ave found your 'bonheur'', he mused, unaware of the even greater irony of his statement.
But they fixed it, under the warranty, and now it works fine. The French tax office tried hard to make us pay VAT twice. They wouldn't believe it cost so little, but we did finally convince them.
'SHIPWRECKED ON THE LOIRE'
During the summer, we managed a few canoe trips on the local rivers. One trip ended abruptly with us getting soaked in a heavy thunderstorm; and the second one, with some friends from Saumur, almost ended in disaster.
We'd decided to padddle across the Loire to Montsoreau on the south bank where we would have lunch. The Loire here is broad, and looks tranquil.
When we first surveyed the site, the river came right up to the banks, but on our return visit, there were large expanses of mud banks which meant dragging the canoe and our little rowing boat across shallow water and sand. This was fine for us, who are used to such things, but our friends had turned up in their best clothes and shoes and were not at all happy. Sally and I were soon well out into the current in the canoe, with Bertie sitting between us, heading for the far bank a kilometre away. About two thirds of the distance across I looked back to see where our friends were in the rowing boat. There was no sign of them!
Straining my eyes, I peered downstream where the Loire wrapped around a large sandbank and then headed towards a railway bridge. On the horizon was a little blue boat, bobbing on the current, with someone waving madly, as they headed downstream in at a rate of knots.
Eventually they made it to the far bank, but about a kilometre downstream of where they were heading. We heard later that the story of how Adrian and Sally tried to drown them was circulating in the 'ex-pat' community! But the Loire is a very deceptive river and an expanse of calm, placid water hides a raging current below the surface!
VIVA ESPANA
Sally went apple picking from late August to November. As well as earning a little money it also signs us up for French health care. We are both now officially agricultural labourers. Sally will even be entitled to a French pension of around 15 euros a year when she retires!
In November, we set off south to visit our friends, Roger and Sheila, in Northern Spain (Asturias).
The journey was mostly uneventful, except for one stretch of road between Bordeaux and Bayonne in south west France. The motorway here abruptly becomes a dual carriageway, and the speed limit is reduced to 90 km an hour. There is also a stretch where overtaking by lorries is forbidden for about 40 kilometres. The result is a convoy of 100 lorries travelling nose to tail at 89.5 km an hour.
By pulling into the fast lane, you can overtake the lorries very slowly, but only if you exceed the speed limit. Then you have the impossible job of getting back into the slow lane through a solid line of lorries while other French speed freaks flash their lights at you for hogging the fast lane.
While you are trying to avoid a horrible death in a multiple pile up, French road engineers have set a cunning little trap for you. For no explicable reason, the speed limit is suddenly reduced to 70 km an hour for a stretch of road one or two kilometres long. By the time you notice the sign, it's already too late, as your attention has been grabbed by the flashing lights of speed cameras hidden in trees by the roadside.
The 'locals' all know about this and slow down just before the cameras, but unwary foreigners, like us, always get caught. These small sections of road generate enough speed fine income in one day to repay the French national debt for a month. More of this later.
When you cross the border into Spain, you only realise that you have entered a different country as you pay to leave the motorway and the road signs look slightly different. There are no customs or immigration controls. Britain remains the only place in the EU where you are cross-examined about the purpose of your journey going in, and searched and X-rayed on the way out. Such is the UK paranoia about 'Europe'.
The Spanish have no word for 'environment', or if they do, they have long since stopped using it. Spanish motorways wrap round the mountainsides and Atlantic coast, slicing through ancient picturesque villages with Roman bridges and tunneling through areas which would be proclaimed of outstanding natural beauty in the UK. It is in the cities and towns that their indifference to the environment reaches its peak. Six lanes of motorway are perched on flyovers that pass quite literally two or three metres from windows in the blocks of workers' flats. Everyone drives flat out at 100 km an hour, and overtaking occurs to left and to right, even as you plunge into an urban tunnel. At one point, Bertie was so terrified by a large black SUV looming up on us, that he leapt from the back seat into my arms (and I was driving at the time!)
We stopped, nervous wrecks by this time, in Laredo, a coastal town near Santander. We found bars which had magnificent seafood menus on the doors, but found them packed with elderly men in flat caps, drinking 'vino tinto' and cider. Asking about the food, we were told that was for the 'turistas' in the summer, not in November.
Eventually we found a 'gourmet' restaurant, open even in November, called 'El Snack Bar'. (I'm not kidding!) The customers were drinking rather than eating, though the sun was shining and tables were outside. The menu choice reminded me of the 'spam, spam, spam' sketch in Monty Python, but I ordered fried merguez, fried egg, fried chorizo and fried chips.
It was some hours later when we arrived in Santolaya de Cabranes in Asturias, where our friends lived. A beautiful little village set in the mountains, it was a marked contrast to the urban nightmare and environmental holocaust which represents most of the Spanish coast. But I had hardly time to greet our friends before 'El Snack Bar' took its toll on me and I rushed to use the local sanitation. I was laid low for the rest of the evening.
We enjoyed our visit, but discovered that in Spain, unlike France, dogs are unwelcome anywhere! Not just bars and restaurants, but shops and museums all had the same sign ... 'No perros!' Bertie almost suffered nervous breakdowns having to be left alone so frequently, so far from home. For November, the weather was surprisingly warm and sunny, and lots of late holidaymakers thronged the little port by the estuary and lemon trees were in flower, with bougainvillea and morning glories. Wonderful! Our stay was far too short.
FINES AND DRIVING LICENCES
A few days after our return, a buff envelope appeared in the postbox at the top of the drive. In it was a speeding fine for exceeding the 90 km limit by 3 km an hour. A stain on Adrian's driving record, unblemished for 40 years!
Now the French don't mess about when collecting fines. You have several options. Pay up NOW and it costs 45 euros. Want to appeal? Ok, pay 70 euros NOW, and risk losing it all. OR don't pay at all. The fine will go up to 250 euros and they'll come round and shoot your dog! Guess what? I paid up on line.
Now I'm not one to whinge about a speeding fine, especially after all the times I've sanctimoniously told friends, 'Well, if you don't want to be fined, you should stick to the speed limits!' But an annoying sequitur was that my UK driving licence had to be replaced with a French one, so that the points could be added to it. I'd had the UK one for decades, and the photo still shows me as a cherubic youth with hair.
The bright sparks who run our 'departement' of Maine et Loire had the clever idea some time ago that they would move lots of things done in the 'sous prefectures' in places like Saumur, to the main Prefecture, a massive palacial building in the centre of Angers. No doubt they thought this would save money, but it means that those living on the fringes of the Departement have to travel over 100 kilometres there and back.
Our first journey to Angers was uneventful, but we discovered that the Prefecture had no easy access, except from a warren of one way streets, and that the extensive roadworks to put in a new tram system made travel anywhere in the vicinity nearly impossible. The Prefecture was crowded that day, with hundreds queuing for car registrations, driving licences and other requirements. There was a ticket system for each 'window' but some people just vanished from the queue, having given up or expired during the long wait.
Now a French 'fonctionnaire' is not there to serve the public; it is the public's job to earn his respect. His main objective in life is to catch you out, and prove to you that you are a congenital idiot. 'Quoi?? You 'ave forgotten ze certified copy of your maternal grandmother's wedding certificate! Idiot! It says clearly on ze form WRY678, 'ere, in small print, grandmother's certificate, essentiel!!'
However, he was to be disappointed as Sally had checked all the forms carefully and we had a sackful of the necessary documents and proofs of identity. Of course, the licence couldn't be issued there and then. It would be ready in a 'quinzaine'.
Just over a week later, the phone rang. The licence was ready.
'You must come and fetch it, and hand in the old one, ' we were told.
'But it's 130 kilometres there and back,' we explained. 'Surely we can exchange them by 'courrier'.' That sounded reasonable, we were told. Ok, by post would be fine.
A few minutes later, the phone rang again.
'Non!' said a voice. 'It is impératif you must come vous-même! Par courrier, c'est pas possible!'
My objections to this on the grounds of global warming and sustainability fell on deaf ears. He was adamant.
Our second journey to Angers was not easy. Road works at Baugé‚ caused the first hold up; then there was a serious accident on the motorway into Angers, causing huge tailbacks. We took an alternative route into the centre, and became lost. As we parked it started to rain.
Sally pointed across a little park near where we had parked and to a little church half hidden amid office blocks. 'That's the church by the Prefecture, ' she asserted. I wasn't so sure. Besides, it looked to be a couple of kilometres away.
As we walked across the little park, the rain began to fall more heavily. The shower became a downpour; the wind blew. Neither of us had brought coats as the sun had been shining when we left.
Soaked to the skin, we reached the little church, but the Prefecture seemed to have vanished. None of the landmarks looked familiar.
We asked in a 'boulangerie'. 'J'ai aucune idée, ' she said. We asked in a bar. 'Prefecture???' Qu'est-ce que c'est?' said the barman, pretending not to understand us, while glowering at the two drowned rats in front of him, who were clearly not going to order anything. 'Il n'y a pas une 'Prefecture' à Angers!'
In desperation, we asked some workmen in the little park. They pointed to a boulevard off to the left, and told us to follow that. It would be about a ten minute walk.
Forty five minutes later, having walked in what amounted to a complete circle, we reached the doors of the Prefecture. It was about twenty five metres from the other side of the little church we had reached an hour previously.
We looked as if we had just swum the Loire, but today the Prefecture was uncharacteristically quiet. We only had to wait five minutes while the hatchet-faced harridan behind the 'permis de conduire' counter humiliated a young French woman wanting her first licence.
Then it was our turn. I explained we'd come for our driving licence.
'Mais, Monsieur,' she said, 'je suis desolé, l'ordinateur est en panne!' (The computer system has broken down.) It was impossible to issue a driving licence that day.
She was on the point of asking us to call again, when she saw the murderous look on my face, and the way I grasped my pen like a stiletto. Sally was also looking daggers and groaning, 'C'est impossible! '
'Mais vous dites c'est pas possible d'envoyer le permis par courrier!' I snapped.
Now a French bureaucrat's entire motivation in life is to cause inconvenience and anguish to the public (especially the English), but a miracle happened. The harridan's face cracked into a beatific smile:
'Mais, Monsieur, TOUT est possible!'
Today would be that rare day, that one day in a lifetime, in a career, when she would actually HELP a member of the public. It would be a story to tell her grandchildren in later years.
It only took ten minutes to take all our details. She even allowed us to keep the provisions in the UK licence which allowed us to tow caravans and drive small lorries, something the French licence doesn't normally allow without a doctorate in HGV engineering.
The licence arrived by post, three days later!
Meanwhile, work on our next 'gite' continues, as it seems to continue every year. It's a little like the Forth Bridge, because as soon as I think I'm near finishing, another major job appears, like having to render the walls or replace a beam. But I scoff at the TV programmes in which a one-armed asthmatic single-handedly renovates a rusty water tower in six weeks, usually for around £10,000, turning it into a luxury home with an Aga and hand-carved furniture. Life really ain't like that! One day soon, our 'Grand Design' will be complete and I can get back to gardening.
We have a 'new' website as the lovely people at freezoka.com decided to stop hosting the other one with 24 hours notice. That means our website at mousseaux.co.cc and all the email addresses ending that way is defunct.
Our new website is http://www.loire-gites.eu linked also to the domain 'loire-gites.co.uk'. Our friends in Spain kindly suggested we should call our website 'loire-GITS.eu' but we decided that might create the wrong impression.
Have a great 2010.
Lots of love and best wishes from,
Adrian and Sally
Emails:
holidays@loire-gites.eu
adriangfox@gmail.com
sally.scott-white@orange.fr
adrian.fox@orange.fr
lacderille@orange.fr
adrian.fox@gawab.com
moussette@gawab.com
...that's enough emails... ed.
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