I've just watched an episode of Grand Designs on Channel 4 - about a couple who wanted to design and project manage the creation of their dream house, a Gothic pastiche. Obviously, they ran into all kinds of problems, blew the budget by 75 % and ended up with an absolute monstrosity (but one that they loved) and the whole thing rang all kinds of cords with yours truly, based on our experiences taking over the house in Duilhac.
We went down on 19 January, taking the Eurostar to Lille and then the TGV down to the South of France. Let it be said right away: we'll be doing that again! Travelling by train makes such a difference to taking the plane and we arrived relaxed and ready to take on the challenges of moving in.
I probably spent quite a lot of the time planning the new kitchen, dreaming up new details and weighing the pros and cons: should we go for travertin or Jerusalem stone for the floor? Would it be worth it to knock down one of the plaster walls straight away? I had been researching on the internet for weeks prior to this trip and even thought it feasible that I could break the old tiles off the floor and knock down the kitchen in a couple of days, in preparation for the arrival of the purchased stone slabs (opus romain pattern, i imagined) and the kitchen elements.
Right!
On walking through the doors I had to instantly reassess and forget all about fitting a dining table and two sofas in the kitchen/dining area of the ground floor. Somehow, in my mind, the house had grown from a maison de village to maison de maitre. (And let it be said right away, all this was my folly. Luis, grounded, had never really indulged or been part of these fantasies).
Walking up the stairs to the first floor I realised why, at the back of my mind, I had written that first floor room off entirely originally - before dreaming it up as a dining hall with a rectangular 2m 40 solid oak dining table and a modernist chandelier. The room is a little square and essentially serves as the passage way to the bedroom - and to the mezzanine upstairs.
Still, thus far, it was all a question of size really and we weren't too disappointed. After all, the house was cute and it was ours. We could still get a new kitchen with floors luxe et voluptu, sounding of medieval times and modernity all at once (for a mere £3000 or thereabouts).
Besides, those first few hours were all about unloading the van, getting all the boxes in and the few pieces of furniture we had with us. That being done, we went round to the local "snack" which was - surprisingly - open and which could serve two vegetarians a tomato tartine and a galette fromage chevre while the driver dug into a bloody duck's breast. With the fire crackling it all seemed alright. Back at the house we got the bedroom ready and passed out.
The following morning the ramoneur knocked on the door at 8.30 to clean the chimney. The first of many scenes that were like out of a book or a film. The man - Catalan, small, round and swarthy and with a pencil thin moustache - sported a beret and was accompanied by small dirty but very sweet and eager-to-please boy. Having done the job, smoking a cigarette with his black face up the chimney, he was curious to know if we needed other work done. He was, after all, not just a chimney sweeper but also a mason, plumber and electrician and knew a whole team of builders who would be called upon at any time. I explained to him about basically knocking down the kitchen and getting a new floor and he assured me he was man for all of that.
Meanwhile, Harry arrived, on the recommendation of the agent who sold us the house. Harry speaks French with a bit of an accent but it took me a while to figure out he's German. He's a biker with wild eyes, a bushy beard and a lean, wiry frame. Mad and intense (he was keen to get talks over with quickly so he could head into the mountains "for concentration!!") but really seems to know what he's talking about. Apparently the exterior walls are crumbling. Dead cement. Instead of bringing out the old stones, as I had dreamt of us doing one day, he suggested we drill out the bad cement, replace it with new, and coat the whole house with a water proof membrane and a nice coat of paint.
So no new kitchen, no exposed stone, no floor slabs from the Holy Land. In a case of dead cement killing all too vivid dreams we - even I - have realised it will make sense to do as he recommends and have more or less given him the go-ahead to do what must be done.
To be continued.
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