Frog Soup

Funny how things change.  One of the reasons we left Brittany was the number of ex-pat Brits.  The place was becoming like one of the Spanish costas with very few natives left and a load of drunken people who wanted the warmer weather, cheaper booze and nice standard of living without bothering to integrate.

We swore that when we moved here we would avoid other Brits like the plague.

But a couple moved into our village and we sort of poked our noses around their door just to be neighbourly and say we were here.

Good job we did really because during a trip to the UK, they split up and she has come back here on her own to sort out getting out of their rented house and getting herself back to the UK.  She has MS.  She doesn’t speak French very well and she is obviously shell-shocked.  They had been in dispute with their landlady virtually since moving in and she had the worry of that hanging over her as well.

So - yesterday I went with her and her son to arrange a few things with them.  And it was good for me - I had forgotten how much we rely on the language and how utterly at sea one is when one can’t communicate.  As a language teacher I should remember.  As a human being I should remember that not being able to communicate is a basic human need denied.  One is reduced to the level of a very small child, helpless and dependent.

So I will help her out, smooth things over for her and facilitate her move back home - knowing all the time that once she goes I will probably never see her again, but I can’t walk by on the other side of the road. Not because she is another Brit, but because she is a human being. 

He is hopeless.  He has a complete and total addiction to chasing wildlife - any old thing will do, crows, voles (he has excavated half a field in his relentless pursuit of his ethnic vole cleansing of this area) but his real passion is hares.

We live in the hills that eventually become the Alps and the ground is stony.  Rabbits can’t hack it here but hares, they love it.  Twice in the last ten days, during our morning walk, Titch has put up a hare.  The first time he hurtled into a barbed wire fence as the hare shot under it … many days of bandages, arnica cream and yells of "Stop chewing your bloody bandage, you stupid hound".  This time he just left.  One minute I was looking at a large black and tan dog gambolling around the field and then suddenly there was a streak of brown followed by a larger streak of black and tan, disappearing out of sight.

We shouted.  We hollered.  We whistled.  But it was obvious that he was not going to come back until he was satisfied that the hare was in another county and outside his territory.  He doesn’t catch them.  The phrase "haring off" was invented for a reason.

We sat in the van and the Old Feller got crosser and crosser.  Eventually Titch came back having had a wonderful morning’s chase.  He is in disgrace, tied to the back gate being ignored.  One day he will go too far.

Me, Mum, Auntie to everyone.  Language teacher, cook, animal nut, textile addict (sewing, embroidery, knitting, crochet - anything I can get my paws on), Nature freak, devourer of books, and prime wishdosher operative in this house ( I call it that because I wished for it for over 10 years before the Old Feller got around to buying me a dishwasher)

There is Dad, the Old Feller, 70 in December, retired RN engineer, most opinionated, clever, caring, cantankerous, patient, foul-mouthed, frustrating man in the world.

There are the kids - all three of them, all dogs.  Gavroche the ancient Altzheimer ridden three-legged labrador.  Possibly the sweetest natured hound in the world but now suffering memory loss which can cause him to snap when he fails to recognise you.  Bit like yer old granddad shouting "Mr Effing Parkinson" at the next door neighbour, Mr Fox and trying to hit him with his walking stick!  He’s a very accommodating sort of cove and when we go for the twice daily walks, he just flops down when he’s had enough and says ‘Pick me up on the way back, chaps", which of course we do.

Dogge the long haired collie cross GSD - eleven years old now and starting to have wobbly back legs but a real handsome lad.  Our charmer.  Our ladies’ man.

Titch - what can one say about Titch, except that he isn’t, he is bloody enormous.  And he is Spanish.  He reminds me very much of the Antonio Banderas cat in Shrek - big sad eyes that lull you into a false sense of security just before he does something atrocious.  He is the most loving dog I have ever had in my half century on this earth but his wicked nature sometimes gets the better of him. 

A fourth canine is on her way to us but I’ll write more about her when she arrives.

In my previous post I referred to the upside-down house - this is why we call it the Bingergread Cottage.  It’s a typical sub-Alps farmhouse with enormous rooms upstairs originally designed as grain stores or hay lofts.

So for us - the living areas are downstairs - a huge kitchen where everything happens and a bedroom / office / TV room where everything else happens.  Upstairs is the Old Feller’s model train room (or La Gare) and my sewing room (known as Utter Clutter)

How we found this place is a story in itself.  We had already decided to leave Brittany where we had lived for 13 years but had taken a winter in Spain to think about it.  After 3 months on a Spanish campsite learning German from our neighbours we were completely decided - we’d go home via the East and do a bit of half-hearted house-hunting and take in a visit to a couple of friends near Grenoble.

It wasn’t encouraging.  Estate agents looked at us with undisguised pity and some actually laughed out loud.  You want what?  With land? Madame you won’t get a flat for that kind of price.  So we shrugged (we’d lived in France long enough to do a really good "who gives a…." shrug by then) and made off for the camp site to pack up and head for the under populated centre where prices might be lower.

I was idly flicking through a magazine I’d picked up in one of the snooty Estate Agents as the Old Feller drove and I nearly caused an accident when I saw exactly what we were looking for at a price well below half what I thought we would have to pay.  I screamed at him to stop, dug out the map, found the estate agent concerned and we headed off to see him as the afternoon wore towards dusk.

We galloped to the village in a frenzy and as we drove up the road I knew it was mine.  The house leaped up and down and shouted at me to buy it.  The neighbours came out to inspect us and finding that we spoke French and were not Dutch (they are not popular here) they insisted we buy it.

The next day we got the agent to come and let us in, it was in a terrible state and would need gutting and re-doing, but I loved it.

That was four years ago this month and I have never regretted it - upside down or not, it is mine and I love it.

Hello world

The meanderings of an (only marginally loonie) Brit. in Eastern France.

The upside down house is shared with a variety of dogs, Old Feller and lots of unfinished projects.  Neighbours are without exception very old or very young and French. 

And I am a freak because although I have a British accent, I am French - I have an Identity card to prove it and I go bonkers when people call me English - I am not …. at a very great stretch and backed into a corner I will accept Scottish. 

I have been over here for so long that I now feel a stranger in the UK, but that doesn’t make me completely at home here either, so I am emotionally a sort of gypsy.  Wherever I park my van is my home. 

And I am Bi-polar.  Apart from that, quite ordinary.

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