About six years ago whilst still living in my tumbled-down farmhouse in the wilds of France, a friend said to me one day 'An English couple have bought the house down the road from you'. The news filled me with a certain amount of dread. The unwanted little village houses in the area were being bought up at an alarming rate by English people profiting from the Ryanair link to Carcassonne - they appeared for long weekends, their suitcases filled with Baked Beans and Heinz Salad Cream and would be seen wandering round the local supermarket comparing the price of 'rouge' in loud voices.
So off I trot dutifully to say hello (being the only English person in my commune) to see if they needed any help or information. And I was welcomed with open arms by Peter and Jane (not their real names - I don't think they read my blog and I know they won't mind me telling their story, but still). Peter and Jane were in their late fifties, Peter having taken early retirement after a heart alert. After a year of organising, searching and selling their four-bedroom house in Sussex, they moved. The house needed quite a lot of work doing to it, especially installing central heating, and I think the first year was a pretty exciting time for them, getting the house and garden into shape, and struggling with their French.
For of course, the language was the major problem - both of them had school French, but this doesn't get you far when discussing the installation of central heating with a tradesman who a) doesn't know a word of English and b) has a very pronounced accent du sud! In between working on the house, they attended probably hundreds of hours of lessons learning French. It did pay off, but I would say that it took them three years.
If they had been welcomed into the French community earlier, they would have learnt French far more quickly. But where we lived, the locals do not mix with the 'foreigners' - 'foreigners' being anyone not born within 20km of where they live.
I take my hat off to them, as they tried so, so hard to get their new life up and running. But despite all Peter's organisation and calculations, there were three things they had forgotten. Firstly, they were suddenly thrown together 24 hours a day, 365 days of the year which is trying for any couple when cut off from their roots; secondly where we lived, absolutely nothing happened, the local cinema was thirty minutes drive away and Carcassonne is not exactly the cultural hub of France; and thirdly, they left behind in England their two grown-up girls.
And that was the downfall - their daughters would pop out on holidays and weekends, but then their elder daughter had her first baby and Peter and Jane's first grandchild, and the distance suddenly seemed to double. I knew in the back of my mind that they would go back and so when they told me a month ago they were selling the house, I wasn't surprised. And of course now the problem arises that in their six years away the house prices in England have whizzed up much faster than in France, so they are going to have to seriously downgrade.
The story of Peter and Jane is probably not exceptional - there are many that go back after a lot of blood, sweat and tears trying to make a go of it. I miss them a great deal but probably will see more of them when they get back to England than since I have moved to Switzerland.
11 comments:
Carcassonne is an awful place -- Disney World South. They'd probably have been better off (though not a lot) in Castelnaudary (which I've no doubt spelled wrong). I know a couple in Toronto who have a house in Mirepoix but they only use it for two or three months in the summer. And by the end of that time, they can be at each other's throats. It's a lovely little town in stunning surrounds but doesn't offer much in the way of entertainment.
I think what happened to Peter and Jane isn't an uncommon syndrome, though. You retire, sell up and move to what, from a distance, looks like paradise but then discover that you don't speak the language nearly as well as you thought, you don't have any friends nearby and you don't have much to do with your time but develop neuroses. Your world becomes little more than a computer screen and the same old daily walk over the same old route.
Apart from the financial ramifications and physical upheaval of going back, it must take a lot to admit that you've made a huge mistake.
I've always said that I'd like to retire to Paris. But I'm not entirely sure that I would. Better, I think, to keep it as a place for regular visits. And far better to have a pang of regret at leaving than a pang of regret at staying.
Mirepoix is charming - I always used to go to the market on the Monday as I lived 20 minutes away. The only stunning part of Carcassonne is the view over the City from the motorway.
The market is terrific; you could have a good lunch just wandering around it. Did you know a tiny little village not far away called St-Julien-de-Briola? I've stayed there a couple of times, too. The quality of light in the late afternoon was amazingly translucent. There was another village nearby, the name of which I forget, that had a fabulous restaurant called Le Vieux Four. It was a one-man operation with a very limited menu; everything cooked in the old bakery oven. Even if only one or two of the half dozen tables were taken, I've seen the guy turn away people if they didn't have a reservation. It's where I first drank Fitou, which is a lovely wine.
Fitou is a lovely, solid wine - mmm. Shame I haven't got any here as I would have had a glass with the rack of lamb and flageolets we are having tonight! Don't know of St Jean de Briola - can't even visualise it on the map...
It was the merest dot on the map. Blink and you'd miss it.
There's a bistro here that I go to a lot (run by two former Parisiens) that sometimes has Fitou. Not often, though, unfortunately.
Why is Carcassonne awful? Is it because it's so touristy? Well, I know it is a bit - but I'm a sucker for castles and old walls. It's true that you get a lovely view from the motorway 'aire' - I've taken several photographs.
Castelnaudary...that's where cassoulet comes from, isn't it? We stopped and had some in a restaurant there once...it was a bit wasted on me because I just ate the beans and gave the meat (duck, I think it might have been) to my husband.
We visited Foix too but the castle was closed...:-(
They all finish by quitting. It's just a question of patience, a little nudge to help them on their way.
It's pointless to hang on limpet like to our shores. You know you will feel better back with the fish and chips.
The castle at Foix is, as I recall, much more "real" than anything in Carcassonne, which to me comes across as totally phony and gussied up for the tourists.
Cassoulet can be a sublime dish. I love the rivalry between Castelnaudary and Toulouse to produce the definitive version.
Stones aren't phoney, it's what's been put inside the shops that is. The stones are just as authentic and splendid as they always were. I like Carcassonne; it is a very dramatic place, and the boys love looking at all the medieval weaponry.
I don't think P&J made a mistake coming to France, Richard. They did what was right for them at the time. Then their circumstances changed and they decided their life was no longer right for them. Where's the mistake? We all move on and adapt to our circumstances. Nothing is static.
Sarah if they are happy with their time in France then I am happy for them.
My experience is that English or Americans coming to France don't get much out of it. They find it difficult to fit in and go home fairly quickly. Saying extraordinary things like, not friendly, poor service, complicated administration etc.
After all if your pleasure in life is finding 'good' curries then France isn't the place for you.
Richard - surely even you have to admit that French administration is is no joke!
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