Seeing the logs for the trees

Phew! It’s been a busy few weeks (which is my excuse for not having posted a blog for a while). My portfolio of properties for sale via the Allez-Francais.com website has grown with a further four owners entrusting me to act as their estate agent. One of my clients, Jean, wrote to me after all the details and photographs of her house had been posted on the website with the following comment: “Great example of how to market a property - you should be an estate agent!”

Jean and her husband Dave have lived in France for over 20 years and, having started off in Normandy, they have gradually worked their way further south as they have developed a series of old barns. They are ready for an easier life now and Dave started to tell me about their dream for their final project – to build a timber framed and clad house. I showed him a photo of our house in Busserolles and he went weak at the knees! This was just what they had imagined their dream house would look like so I invited them to come over and have a look. They were so excited to see our house and their enthusiasm was infectious; it really reinforced for us how lucky we are and how right we were to have forsaken the stone cottage vision that we originally started with. “However much you want for it, I’ll pay you” said Dave!

My other major work project has been the hunt for a suitable property for my clients from New Zealand who have taken me on as a Property Finder. The difficulty with this one is that I have found them a perfect property far too quickly! They do not arrive in France until March but I have found them a fantastic property that fits all their criteria and their budget (just) already. I am trying to secure a verbal agreement with the vendor but understandably they are reluctant to take it off the market to wait until a viewing in March. I think we will have to run the risk that it is sold by the time March comes around so I am continuing to view other alternatives – so far none have even come close!

The weather turned really cold here last week with a temperature of minus 10 recorded one morning. We are snug as bugs in our house though thanks to our fabulous wood burner which radiates heat through to every room. However, we inherited a limited supply of seasoned and dry firewood and the log pile has been reducing at an alarming rate. Whilst I have a whole acre of wood to go at with my chainsaw, it is wood that will not be ready for the fire for at least another 12 months. With the children visiting us over Christmas, I did not want to have to ration log usage so decided to try and buy in some more logs.

Despite seeing enormous stacks of wood around the area, I had been told that people are very protective of their log stocks and reluctant to sell. I reckoned I could work the charm however and decided to try asking at a local smallholding. I had never met the owners but they had huge piles of firewood all around their house. It turned out to be some experience!

In the yard was an old man who limped heavily towards me, reminding me of Lurch from the Addams family. He eyed me with great suspicion as I explained my request in halting French. Despite my best efforts to spread some neighbourliness, no smile cracked his impassive face. “We will ask my brother”, he grunted.

I sheepishly followed him towards the farmhouse, the journey seeming to take forever as he dragged his useless leg after him. The door was opened and I was ushered inside. The scene that greeted me was like something out of a horror movie. In a single downstairs room with broken wooden floorboards and lit only by a single dim bulb suspended from the ceiling, was a wooden kitchen table piled high with unwashed pots and cutlery. In one corner was an unmade double bed (did the two bachelor brothers share the bed?!?!), in the other an ancient and filthy wood burning stove which was obviously the sole method of heating and cooking. Sat at the table was the brother who stared at me from sunken eyes set within his pale, almost white face.

“Bonjour, comment ça va?” I tried in my cheeriest voice. “Mauvais” was the grunted response – “bad”. Lurch explained what I wanted and an alarmed look passed between them along with much shaking of heads. Sensing this was not going well I mumbled that it really was not a problem and made moves towards the door. “Cancer” and “death” were the next words I understood and I realised then that Lurch’s brother was dying of cancer – “prostate” was another word I picked up on. Feeling desperately sorry for this tragic pair but not having a clue what I could do to help them (other than not take any of their firewood) I made my excuses and left.

I have to confess that the experience left me a little shaken; partly because I felt so helpless and useless but also because it is amazing that in the 21^st century, people still live in these sort of conditions in a civilised country like France. But perhaps they choose to live like that?

I went for a safer option next and asked my French teacher is she could recommend someone – the upshot of which was a trailer load of logs delivered the next day by a charming local cattle farmer. And best of all, they burn beautifully!

Finally, with Christmas approaching, our local mayor (who is a Christmas Tree farmer) has arranged for the village streets of Busserolles to be lined with around 50 trees that the local councillors have been out and decorated. As newcomers living right on the edge of the village, we feel privileged to have one at the end of our drive. On that note, may I wish my readers a very peaceful and happy Christmas.