Lanuedoc - Living in France
Buying a House
It was near to the village of Roquebrun that we were shown a “house”, by the local immobilier.  She thought, we would be very interested in buying it. 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 puopleto jump down to access 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.
To complete the necessary forms we made a visit to the immobilier’s office and signed  “La promesse”, a document in which you agree to  buy the property, at the price quoted, and except for few clauses, is binding on both parties.
I was asked by the immobilier, if the British Government employed me. At the time I was a member of the Metropolitan Police and I explained that as such was not strictly employed by the Government as I had sworn allegiance to the Queen. As a result, under the heading, employer, I was shown as working for “La Reine d’Angleterre”.
Three months later we were the proud owners of our little piece of France and during our next holiday, set about converting our ruin into a habitable house.

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.