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.
