Free Our House is Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth Page B

the weekly markets.
    The novice will be enticed to make an appointment to look at the property and, like real estate ads the world over, the house will be a ruin literally on the railway line so that the station master can simply reach out his bedroom window to change the signal. It will be engulfed by ivy, there will be no bathroom at all, and the ‘easy stroll’ will not account for the fact that it is up and down a number of excessively steep hills. The market is only in summer and the rest of the year the only facilities are a two-hour round trip to do the weekly shopping. It will take a whole day to view just one or two properties that by no means remotely come close to what you are looking for. Kim’s ads told the exact truth about both the state of the property and the exact location. So this was why Stuart was able to have a very real shortlist, as we were already familiar with the area from our stay there the year before. After just a few weeks the previous summer, we felt that we had truly found ‘our’ place in France. Each time we travelled and stayed in another département , we were constantly drawn back to the area in and around the Dordogne. In just a very short time, the rolling green hills, golden-stone houses and tiny villages had taken a very strong hold on our hearts. In fact, when we were invited by Sylvie to the Pyrenees, it was extraordinary how, as the landscape became harsher and more dry and the architecture significantly changed, our hearts sank, for it wasn’t the France we had come to love in such a very short time.
    Stuart was able to see six houses in just two days. Kim’s one strange characteristic was that she must be the only real estate agent in the whole world who can’t drive. She actually confessed this to us later, as her ploy with all her potential clients was to simply ask, ‘Is it alright if you drive?’ Simple question, hard to refuse. And so Stuart found himself driving through the snow on unfamiliar winding country lanes to see the properties.

My Notebook and The Lists
    This is an example from my notebook, all very hastily scrawled to construct each day’s myriad activities.
Monday 12 July 2010:Stuart – hardware – undercoat, wheelbarrow, enquire about van hire. BUY BREAD.
Wall.
Ring Erik about bed legs, van?
Ring about grass, call roofer.
Decision re table for Tuesday after Troc visit.
Start measuring kitchen, look at IKEA catalogues, etc.
    Thus, this shorthand translates to a full day of activity — again. How does it translate? Well, most of Stuart’s days, despite our meticulous organisation, started with a trip to the bricolage for more supplies plus a quick dash to the boulangerie for more pain for lunch, plus the daily treat. A day in France simply wasn’t worth living without a tantalising pastry every single day. How well I remember our first trip, when the biggest daily decision was which pastry to have that day. Or, would we be extremely decadent and indulge in two? Maybe a breakfast croissant , followed by another pâtisserie delight for afternoon tea? At least renovating is one way to have rigorous physical activity to offset the consumption of French pastries.
    The apparently simple word ‘wall’ in fact denoted the question ‘Will we have time today to start knocking down the wall that divides what will be the space between the kitchen and living room?’ This job in itself in a ‘normal’ day would be a huge undertaking, but here, when each day flows rapidly through your fingers, it became yet another task to try to simply fit in. How knocking down a wall can become reduced to just one word in a list is now impossible to even grasp. However, that’s the world of renovating, especially when your timeframe is an absurd three weeks.

Life at Home
    I frequently drove to work consumed by my own secret little world. As I drove along the coastline there would be a bubble of