Paying with Fish

By Viv Booth

Living close to the beach promised long, relaxing days, reclining peacefully and contemplating life, not prolonged screeching and jumping along the sand with a live crustacean taking residence in your pants.
Life in France for Viv is not what was expected. Perception based upon memory and recall alone is just not up to scratch. Who knew about the live lions parked in open containers in rural car parks. What about the monkeys tethered to grass verges eyeing you suspiciously? Why do horses have their heads poked through town house kitchen windows? Are they hoping for sustenance for the long night ahead? Just what is this obsession with drains blowing smoke up sewage pipes and making the colour of water especially grey? And just because there is a bus stop, can it be presumed that any type of vehicle has ever stopped there? Residence in rural France might just be a tad more tricky than first anticipated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398436411

Viv Booth

Viv was born in Oldham in 1957, the youngest of four children. She is married to Martyn and between them they have five children and twelve grandchildren. After a varied career from Shop Assistant, to Business Analyst to Lecturer, Viv decided to follow her first love, writing.

Book preview

About the Author

Viv Booth was born in Oldham in 1957, the youngest of four children. Move forward fifty years and you have the meanderings of a short, slightly overweight, middle aged woman living in France, predominantly alone. Not a totally uncommon occurrence but pretty damn unusual for a Lancashire lass.

Dedication

I would like to dedicate this book to my husband Martyn, thank you for letting me be me.

Copyright Information ©

Viv Booth 2022

The right of Viv Booth to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398436404 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398436411 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thank you to all my family and friends, old and new, for their support and who define this book. Without you there would be no story.

Vous Avez Choisi?

Friday, 28 January

If we are going to live in France, I am going to have to learn some more French.

I am one of those people who think that if you are in a foreign country, you should immerse yourself in their culture, customs and language. I laugh at Karl Pilkington in ‘An Idiot Abroad’ for all the right reasons but also because in my haughty self-assured pontificating, I think to myself, I am just not going to be like that. Well, that is okay up to a point. It is fine when you are sat at home in your cosy English speaking environment, sounding very smug and probably very annoying, watching some poor man being made to ride a bucking bronco but it is a totally different thing when you get here.

The French must think I sound like a blithering idiot.

Cecil, our son-in-law, once told us that he had never been to France, only Paris. We thought this was hilarious in our ‘oh, so superior’, conceited, we are so sophisticated manner.

He was right.

There is a world of difference between having a romantic weekend in Paris or a holiday in Normandy than having a house hunting expedition in Brittany. When we arrived here in Brest in the early evening, we decided we would venture up the main high street to find somewhere to eat. There did not seem to be many restaurants to choose from, mainly shops, but it was because we were probably referencing the British high street and not the French. Eventually, we did find one that we liked the look of and after a childish exercise of pushing and shoving each other while shouting ‘you go first’, ‘no, you go first’, ‘no, you go first’, we finally bundled unceremoniously together through the door whilst giggling and glaring at each other in equal measures.

We managed to muster up enough decorum and ask for a table and mustered a ‘No’ when asked aloofly if we had made a reservation. With a typical Gallic shrug and a bit of a huff we were led to a table by a waiter with the air about him of ‘Oh, we’ve got a right pair here’.

This is when we realised we were in a different France. There was not a word of English on the menu and none of the words appeared to be those we had learned a long time ago in the Language Lab. All our ‘oh, we are not typical English men abroad’ attitude went out the window. It was a little bit of a blow to my self-esteem when reflecting later that I honestly thought there would be translation line underneath each selection on the menu, like there was when we went on package holidays to Spain, Greece and Italy. We were well-travelled you know.

We could not make head nor tail of it. We both poured over it, repeated parts of it out loud to ourselves and each other but it was no good, not a clue. At this point, when I thought we would have to slope off unseen and head for McDonald’s (which would be highly unlikely as most of the diners in the restaurant had been watching us intently since we first fell indoors), I noticed a chalk board advertising Plat du jour. Well, I knew what that meant and I was not bothered what it would consist of. At least we could order it and have something to eat. But as luck would have it said, it was Porc Curry. Practically the same spelling, thank goodness for that.

Saturday, 29 January

Morning

Today was our first day house hunting in France.

I had scoured the internet previously and I feel I knew every house that was available within our small budget for sale in Brittany. We only have £40,000 to play with, which in the UK is a small amount but in France today with the exchange rate of one Euro equalling 66 pence coupled with the cheapness and the availability of potential properties, we felt we would get something. There is an added pressure of trying to find something when you are in this situation though because it is not like trying to buy somewhere at home where you have the luxury of viewing properties over weeks or even months. House hunting in France feels more intense due to time and money constraints surrounding work and travel. However, there are definite plus points because as it is going to be a ‘holiday home’, there are not the same emotional considerations attached and let us be frank, it is quite exciting.

We had decided that we could not afford anything by the sea as coastal properties tend to be more expensive and we did not want a new property, like many of the Brits moving to France, we wanted an old, typical French property. Which is lucky for us really, as there are many available due to the fact that young French people want brand new houses, usually in the cities but even in the countryside they definitely want new builds, not ‘Maison’s ancient’. Many of the old houses available have been passed down through the families and are being sold either because there is no one left alive or more commonly that the younger family members have moved away.

Over a period of time we had viewed numerous properties on the internet – a very relaxing and pleasant pastime had narrowed them down to our ‘favourites’ and so had been in touch with three French estate agents. Today we were seeing a house in Uzel in the morning, represented by one estate agent and then two houses in Perret and Bothoa in the afternoon being marketed by a different realtor. We had arranged to meet Alain at the first immobilier in Loudeac this morning.

Online research stated that Loudeac is a pretty market town with many traditional buildings and mediaeval streets to enjoy with a population of just over 9,000. We had made the journey here from Brest in Finistere as we had never been to this part of France. We were unsure of the locations of hotels and we had heard that French hotels were not very good, so we have played it safe by staying at a Holiday Inn, big wusses, therefore, it has taken us two hours to reach the first of our destinations. We found a car park and made our way towards the first agents which we had located as we did a quick drive around the town before we parked. I did not really notice the type and history of the buildings as described in our research as it faded into the background as we first encountered the strange custom of piped music played in the streets. At first we thought that perhaps it was being played for a special occasion, for a fete or a market or something, but we quickly came to realise that this was not the case. This was just normal Saturday morning activity. It was like being on the set of The Prisoner.

It was, therefore, that the receptionist was met with the presence of two wide-eyed English people at her desk. When you are in the relative safe environment of a school classroom with your fellow classmates and tutor, practicing your French, it does seem moderately easy but when you are faced with a living, breathing real French person, it is a whole different matter. And in no way does ‘where is my aunt’s hat’ and ‘the monkey is in the tree’ equip you for a real-life conversational situation. Let alone one that includes uncommon English words such as conveyancing.

We did the best we could and we said in our best French, We come see house.

Luckily, the receptionist was ready for us. I believe it was quite an uncommon occurrence to have two English house hunters in the office on a Saturday morning. She explained to us that Alain was the estate agent who was going to show us the house and called to the said homme. It is strange but both Mr C and I are the same. We cannot speak a great deal of French, lack of confidence on my part being a large contributory factor but we can understand a vast amount. We, therefore, understood that we were going to view the house that we had seen in Uzel first but there was another house that had come onto the market in the same area and did we want to view that one? We acceded but between ourselves we did feel it was above our budget.

We made our way to Uzel in Alain’s car. Mr C sat in the front with myself in the back. We tried our best to communicate and did even achieve a little ‘chit chat’. Well, it was mostly Alain speaking and us trying to glean some information buried within the unbelievably fast spoken French.

It has to be said that there are a lot of similarities in France and the UK, although many people would have you believe otherwise, but it was our experience that some things are the same the world over, Estate Agent photographs of houses for sale being one of them. Unfortunately, the photos on the internet were of the outside only, which did in some instances resemble what stood before us but did not reveal that the house was down an alleyway behind a wool shop. The house was a two-bedroomed detached, which we knew, but the only outside space was a small walled garden at the front.

I mustered all my knowledge of the French language at my disposal and asked, The garden facing south?

Alain appeared to understand what I had said as he responded immediately with Good question, looking at me with approval, considered the question and then replied, I don’t know.

We entered the front door straight into a lounge, which was the only room on that floor but I was not prepared for the French people’s taste in oversized dark wood furniture. It was coupled with a staircase in the corner going up a floor and down a floor and an enormous deeply ornate drinks bar in the opposite corner. It all made me feel a little like Alice through the Looking Glass.

Firstly, we went downstairs to the kitchen, which was not fully fitted but again filled with very rustic large standalone furniture and an old sink in the corner and I had a sneaky suspicion that there was woodworm in those beams the amount of dust that was lying around. Following this, we made our way up two sets of stairs to the bedroom floor. The theme of the oversized furniture continued up here but the bathroom was a sight to behold and was an assault on my over wrought senses. The bathroom suite itself was orange but it was not just one shade of this extremely striking colour but an ensemble of differing hues, dark to light, filtering down the porcelain. If this delight was not enough, the wallpaper sealed the vision before us. It was red, white, turquoise and lime green in colour with the pattern resembling a multitude of Hawaiian shirts pasted to the walls for our enchantment.

Needless to say, this was not the house of our dreams and so we went to view the house that Alain had suggested. When we entered through the front door, covered by a shattered glass canopy, I became to realise the style of furniture in the other house was standard French décor and wallpaper. They just love it and the more clashing colour and patterns involved, the better. This house was not for us either. The slightly terrifying ‘chucky’ like doll that was sat rather menacingly on the double bed did not add to the allure but evil spirits would be warded off by the proximity of the house to the church, facing it in fact. However, the downside of the chiming of bells at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning cancelled that out. The clincher that made me realise I would not be running headlong into purchasing this gem was the old shirt pegged on a frayed washing line in the attic, surrounded by a multitude of dead mice.

Afternoon

We drove from Loudeac and the rotting mammals towards Bothoa and Perret to view our next two houses advertised through a different estate agent based near the first property in Bothoa. When I say based near, it was in the middle of nowhere, as you seem to find in France. All that was there surrounded by fields was a Boulangerie, a car park and the estate agents. Of course, we had not timed it correctly and we arrived during the lunch hour. Well, I use that term loosely because they take two hours and more for their midday break.

We sat patiently in the car park to await the return of the agents, which they did at about 14.40 and we strode into the building, outwardly a lot more confidently than we felt. However, the agents knew some English and again we were a bit of a rarity, so they knew why we were there and which houses we wanted to view, which did not tax our grasp of French too much. The next bit did, however. It took a long time for the agents to explain and for us to understand, our fault completely, it has to be said, no one would be accompanying us to the viewings. We were to be let loose alone. Once the agents were happy we had comprehended what they were saying, they handed over two enormous brass keys, one for each property and waved us dismissively out of the premises.

We left with reluctance and not a little confused, as we had no idea how to get to the houses. I am, it has to be said, a fair map reader but we had gleaned in the melee that was the conversation in the agent’s premises, that although the second house was in Bothoa, the first was not in Perret but in a tiny hamlet nearby. This was going to severely test my orienteering skills.

On the internet the first house on our list looked like a little castle, perched securely atop of a hill.

Yes, it is up a hill, a dirty great big winding and mountain. Well, not a mountain exactly, but a flipping big mound. We struggled at first to identify the house because when we eventually managed to find the hamlet with our meagre understanding of the directions, it appeared to be a series of farm buildings with no singular spectacular edifice to be seen. Further investigation into the courtyard of the said farm buildings revealed our quest, for sat in the corner betwixt a cow shed and a stable, was ‘the’ castle. It was basically a two up and down double fronted tiny-terraced house with a rounded wall and a turret. We did not even enter, utilising the impressive brass key as one look through the glassless windows was enough. We scurried back into the hire car, watched closely by a very curious red-faced farm worker. We then tried to manoeuvre out of the courtyard while giggling uncontrollably about how we could not bring a bunch of hormonal teenagers up a mountain in rural France for a holiday in farm building.

Engineering the descent down the hill from the house was hampered slightly by the small turning circle abutted by hay and cow muck and the sheer indifference to his own mortal safety by the labourer, who refused to move from his vantage point. Our journey away once started was further impeded by a surly looking dog, which insisted on walking down the middle of the one-track road at a palatial pace while throwing his enormous penis from side to side, slapping the middle of his back, creating a fascinating metronome effect on our now hysterically laughing spirits.

It was clear once we had managed to overtake the well-endowed canine that the house was not the Englishman’s little castle in