| It was near to the village of
Roquebrun that we were shown a “house” by the local
immobilier, that she thought, we would be interested in buying. The
house was in fact, an old wine cave that had been abandoned about thirty
years before, and had no vehicle access. There were no windows in the
building and the front door, was a large wooden door big enough to allow
a car to be driven in. It was so badly decomposed at the bottom, that
the various village dogs, were able to crawl beneath it. At the back of
the house was an aperture that had been closed with a “door”
made of old planks. Debris had been deposited outside to enable access
to the garden, 3 meters below. When the immobilier opened the front
door, the first thing that caught our eye were the two large wine tanks
made of concrete but embellished with what appeared to be wooden barrel
ends. |
 |
They turned out to be a very clever
piece of moulding in concrete. In the middle of the room was a wine
press that we were later to discover was called a ‘champagne press.’
The floors were earth and there were no stairs to the first floor,
access being gained by climbing up on a short length of home made wooden
ladder. We looked at each other and knew immediately that this was
exactly what we had been looking for. A visit to the immobilier’s
office to sign “La promesse”, a document in which you sign to
say you will buy the property, at the price quoted, and except for few
clauses, is binding on both parties. |
| We took three weeks just to empty the
rubbish from the building, during which time we encountered the first of
our many problems, a tunnel under the house that brought rainwater from
the road in front and emptied it into the cellar below the rear of the
house. A telephone call was made to the town hall to make an appointment
for someone from the Council to come and survey the problem. The
appointed day duly arrived, and we were at the house in good time for
the appointment. At that time we were staying with friends some 50kms
away. The time of the appointment came and went and so we started to do
some work whilst we were waiting. I then heard Carol talking to the men
who drove the Council’s tractor and trailer around the villages to
empty the dustbins. They had come to survey our problem. I showed them
into the cellar below the house and pointed out the tunnel. It was about
eighteen inches square and I was surprised when the larger of the two
men started to crawl into it on his stomach, whilst I remained with the
second worker in the cellar. He very quickly disappeared and shortly
after, we heard him muttering and then shouting, followed by a “plop”
at our feet. I looked down in time to see a very large toad disappearing
up the tunnel in the direction that the first worker had obviously
ejected him. Another “plop”, and then another, and yet
another, followed more muttering and shouting. Worker number one then re
appeared and explained that he thought the tunnel was one that arrived
at a grill in front of our house at road surface, and that it should not
be emptying rainwater into our cellar. Would I be so kind as to ask my
Wife to throw some water down the grill in order that he could confirm
that this was in fact the source of our problem. I went upstairs and
asked Carol to pour some water down the grill and then returned to the
cellar in time to see the second worker beginning to disappear along the
tunnel. Unfortunately for him, Carol had misunderstood the quantity of
water required, to prove the route of the tunnel, and so, threw a very
large and full bucket of water through the grill. This soaked the
workman, who was now trying to crawl quickly out of the tunnel. At the
same time the toads that had previously been ejected were trying to
regain access, causing more shouting and the use of French words, that I
had never heard before and have never found in a French – English
Dictionary. After several minutes of muttering between the workers, in
unintelligible French, they decided that the only satisfactory way for
me to end my problem was to pour large amounts of concrete into the
grill and seal the entrance at the road end. Upon inspection, I realised
that to do so would cause a huge problem to my neighbour whose door was
lower than the grill, and at the end of a short cul de sac where any
rainwater would collect to about a meter in depth. I pointed this out to
the workmen, and they replied. “But that is no problem here in the
midi, it seldom rains”. Whilst I accepted that, it seldom rained in
the Midi, I could not help but think of the times that it did rain. When
at that moment, my new neighbour arrived on the scene I was quick to
point out my problem, and also that the suggested solution could present
a problem for him, only to get the reply “But here in the Midi it
seldom rains”. I was trying to imagine the consequences of blocking
a drain in London, and started to worry about my actions if I did so in
France, especially as a foreigner. Just then, one of the two Councilors
in the village who was universally known as “Monsieur le Mayor”
because of his eagerness to seek out and advise all and sundry on the
Councils work, arrived on the scene. In desperation I tried to discuss
the advice that I had been given, about blocking the drain and its
probable consequences, only to be told “But here in the Midi it
seldom rains” They then promptly left to drink a Pastis and
undoubtedly discuss the new English member of the community, whilst I
stood looking at the grill to ponder my options alone. |
