What Lies Beneath?

I’m taking a break and writing as I’m working because I want to share whilst it’s all still fresh.

Today was supposed to be a ‘clean’ day. Yesterday, I was so grumpy after trying and failing to plan the layout of the kitchen that I needed some serious therapy. Cue intensive hammer & chisel action on the fireplace.

Lally & brickwork: 1
Old fire-blackened plaster: 0

After 3 bags of rubble, the clean up took me nearly as long as the work so today I swore I’d just make a start on the mouldy wallpaper.

Ha! I certainly made a start on the wallpaper, but then found some wood. And some plaster. And then I grabbed the chisel and started working.

Here’s the thing: The plaster I’m about to tackle looks really old.
It’s lath and plaster with proper horsehair mixed in. Does that mean the wood underneath will stop? Or does the wood pre-date the plaster? Am I about to make a huge mistake?

Only one way to find out…

THE BOITE A LETTRES:

Mine doesn’t conform to post office standard apparently, so one of the first things I do is buy and fit a new one. One of the things the Notaire kept repeating was that ANY changes to the outside of the house have to be agreed with the Architecte de Batiments de France, a process that involves applications in triplicate and sometimes pentaplicate. M le Maire, who is also M le Docteur at the surgery next door comes round to introduce himself so I take the opportunity to establish that La Poste ranks higher than the Architecte and my boite a lettres is exempt. Phew. He looks uncannily like my youngest sister’s husband, a man I would definitely trust on matters postale, so I take his kind advice on where to put the new boite.

FIRST NIGHT IN THE LITTLE HOUSE

I’VE GOT THE KEYS!

Officially. Unofficially, I’ve had them since I arrived back in France as the vendor’s representatives gave them to me so that I could unload my car, measure up, stand in the middle of the floor with my mouth open looking dazed for hours at a time…

The HHs come round and we celebrate with champagne. As well as having first introduced me to the Little House, they have loaned me a bed. I have a lot to thank them for!



When they have gone and it’s just the Little House and me; I dance for joy and sing in every room, including the Grenier. The acoustics are generally excellent, especially in the front bedroom. I feel the hour is a bit late to take out the trumpet, especially given that Mme M next door has already leaned out of her window as the HHs were leaving. Fortunately they know each other.

Note to self: Try not to upset the neighbours

The Build-Up

CHOOSING A HOUSE:

Ha! There are rules for this one and I broke them all. I recall an evening less than 6 months ago, standing in a garden, smoking with some new canasta-playing chums, Immo amongst them, saying:
Yes, I’d love to live out here, but I’m not rushing into anything. I think I’ll rent for a while, look around, see what area takes my fancy. Put in a few low offers here and there, see what comes back…
Double Ha! Wise words indeed. Do all that, then do what I did and chuck rationale out of the window, fall in love with somewhere and buy it because a tarot card you pick randomly out of a pack says you should.
I think I’ve been lucky. My Little House is in a pretty village with a swimming lake 5 minutes walk from my front door. It’s near a main auto route, easily accessible from several airports, has a railway station, and I got it at a good price. Occult influences notwithstanding, look around, weigh up the pros and cons and don’t pay over the odds.

MAKING AN OFFER:

I’ve always been rubbish at this bit. When I bought my first house, even though I was temping in the property industry, I still laid all my cards on the table and offered what I was prepared to pay. The estate agent obviously came back asking for more and was shocked when I refused and withdrew the offer.
On this house I decided what I could afford to pay, which was significantly under asking price. The Immo was a personal friend so I levelled with her and told her how it had to work for me and how she then structured it was up to her. I didn’t want to muck about putting in stupidly low offers just to do the dance and get to the figure that was my best offer. It worked for me. Do whatever works for you, just remember that the French market is flooded with properties right now. It’s a buyers market. That said, there are some properties that will get snapped up regardless so gosh… I don’t know. Chance your arm. I did.

GETTING A MORTGAGE:

My mortgage is with Banque Populaire. Things I like about it are:

1. They’ve given me a fixed rate of 4% for the duration of the mortgage. No mucking about, no reverting to standard variable rate, EVER. A decent rate for the duration of the loan. Payments fixed at €250 per month, including insurance. Get in!
2. It’s a mortgage for a ‘maison primaire’ as opposed to a ‘maison secondaire’. If I ever decide to sell, the distinction will save me a shitload of tax. This is quite a coup. Britline, with whom I also applied for a mortgage, were only prepared to lend as a second home purchase. This is because despite intending to have my main home here, I’m self-employed and earn most of my money in the UK.
3. They are also lending me money to renovate. French banks will do this. It’s brilliant! You have to submit a quote for works (a devi) from a registered builder with your mortgage application. When the builder carries out the works, he applies to the bank to be paid so that there’s no danger of frittering away your renovation budget on champagne and naked dancers. The downside is that if you plan to do the work yourself, you have to be a registered, qualified builder as opposed to a talented amateur. Banque Populaire however, have gone the extra mile and have juggled the finance so that my personal contribution of €8000 makes up the bulk of the renovation monies whilst the mortgage pays for the house. This means I can get whomsoever I please to do the work. Bring on the dancing boys!
4. I’ve got a proper bank manager with a face, just like in the olden days in England. Remember the days when human beings in suits made sensible decisions about whether other human beings were responsible enough to be given money to play with that wasn’t theirs? When firm handshake, a winning smile and a daring hemline actually counted for something… instead of the ‘computer says no’ culture that now dominates our UK banking life.

Things to watch out for:

As with all banks, there is a danger that they will try and sell you insurance of all kinds, some of which you need and some you don’t. Fortunately my nice bank manager realised that there was little point in a self-employed person having unemployment insurance. I was pressured into taking out buildings and contents insurance with them but as it came to a grand total of €162 per annum, I rolled with it.

The bank that gives you a mortgage will want you to have a bank account with them. Banking is expensive in France. Your current account can cost you several euros a month and you pay for pretty much everything, including your carte bancaire. Oh, and the French don’t do irresponsible money-management. Not that I have a cavalier attitude to my finances, pas de tout, but it’s worth being extra vigilant as unauthorised over-drawing on your account can lead to you being taunted in French and pelted with rotten tomatoes in the village square. For more details, see this excellent article.

Other options: BRITLINE, mentioned above, are part of Credit Agricole. They are an excellent, efficient organisation with English speaking staff catering to Brits who want to live in France. They cover all aspects of finance in your mother tongue. That makes some people feel more secure. Not me. I never really understood the mysteries of banking so no change there. Britline weren’t offering as good a rate as BP, and they’re based in bloody Normandy! It’s not like in the UK, your bank is the branch you open the account with. Had I gone with Britline, I’d still have had to close my Credit Alcohole bank account in Chateauneuf la Foret up the road, and open one with them. In Normandy. That’s like banking with the Orkney branch of Barclays when you live in Berkshire. I like my local bank for local people. They have a translator for if the going gets too tough but this is France, people! Speak French!

NB I reserve the right to make a U-turn and eat my words at a later date if it all goes tits up.

SURVEYS:
Didn’t get one. I went a bit native on this one. The attitude seems to be over here that if it’s been standing for several hundred years it’s unlikely to fall down for a while yet. Croise les doigts!

COMPROMIS DE VENTE:
This is the first piece of paper you sign, and is the equivalent of exchanging contracts in the UK. If I change my mind, I lose my 10 % deposit, all €2,400 of it, and if the vendor pulls out, she has to pay me the same sum.
I agreed 2 clauses suspensives with the vendor: the first that the contract was subject to mortgage approval; and the second that the boiler, unused for 7 years, had to be working. This was one of my better ideas: It meant that not only was the boiler checked and tested by a French plumber, but my lovely Immo took responsibility for the admin involved with getting the water and electric switched on, and the first lot of oil delivered. All I had to do was pay for everything…

Lx

The Beginning

This is the story of the Little French House.

Last September, after my stint with the circus, I came to the Limousin to get some perspective on a turbulent personal life. Today I am the proud owner of the most amazing little house in the whole of France. Or at least it will be when I have finished renovating. Renovating whilst trying to maintain a flourishing acting career back in England.

I am not French. For this I blame my parents. Had they moved to France when my mother became pregnant, I would be French, and this whole thing would be a lot easier. Some might call it selfishness on their part but I’m not one to bear a grudge. Eh? Maman? Papa??

Furthermore, I have never renovated anything in my life. For this I cannot blame my parents. They did their best. Most of the places we lived in started out as draughty ruins and once they’d attained a basic level of comfort and warmth were sold on, before our expectations got too high. If I’d known what lay ahead, I’d have paid more attention.

So I’m sitting in the Notaire’s office, with a slight sense of being outside my own body, wondering if I have in fact bitten off more than I can chew. The Notaire takes his job very seriously but is also, I suspect, a frustrated actor. He hammers home the salient points with a stern demeanour but is also prone to cracking jokes. My French isn’t good enough to keep up. He doesn’t signal the joke until it’s over by which time he’s laughing his socks off and I’m left to chuckle along nervously, hoping there isn’t a sub-clause in French property law that forbids the sale of pretty village houses to stony-faced bints with a sense-of-humour by-pass. I’d like to tell you that he’s wearing a toupee but that would be a lie. His hair is, however, an alarming shade of brown and his teeth are very scary.

A big thank you to my lovely Immobilier (estate agent) who has made this purchase sail through with minimum stress to me. I don’t feel that I have done anything, but I suppose somewhere along the line I must have, as find myself the proud owner of a gorgeous little house in need of a great deal of TLC. For anyone else contemplating doing what I’ve done, I’ll try to itemise the stages involved but I suspect that it’s a bit like child birth… having come through it I’m in denial about how painful it actually was.

If this doesn’t interest you, please feel free to scroll down to the bit with power tools and pictures of people doing things.

Lx

Awol's Inn Conveniences

The other day I received the following text:

Just to let you all know the condom machine should be fixed today. Sorry for any inconveneance (sic)

Speechless.

Lx

Hampshire/Dorset part ii

The last post was a mini-rant amid the Hampshire gorgeousness that is Selbourne. I am heartily relieved when Basso and I make up as I drive off into the dark with only my iPhone for guidance. He is sorry for being in a pissy mood with me for me being in a pissy mood over the enforced filming day that hijacked our day off. I'm sorry for being in a pissy mood in the first place. I try not to be too smug over my absolute lack of pissiness when it transpires that there has been a minor balls-up over the sleeping arrangements and The Dog is not welcome in my accommodation. Fortunately Polish Gran lives somewhere nearby, and The Dog is always welcome there. Hence me, van and Dog disappearing into the dark with iPhone.

Droxford is hosted by some judicial bigwig in his garden, which, were it mine, would accommodate several donkeys and a few goats for good measure. As it is, we pitch up amongst the rose bushes on the softest turf you've ever set foot on. My sun-salutations have never felt better. I wish The Dog wouldn't bite me quite so hard on the bum when I'm doing downward er... dog. I'm not quite sure why he objects to that position, but he does. Big excitement when we arrive, as there is a big blackboard by the roadside advertising the arrival of 'The Rudes'. Now the Rude Mechanical Theatre Company has been using this diminutive for years, but it's great seeing it used by our fans. We instantly feel like a band. Basso designs some T-shirts with this in the slogan. 'Rude Since 1999' is my favourite. If anyone wants one, they're for sale, just get in touch.

From Droxford on to Swanage where we have Fantastical Fish and Chips. I filmed here earlier in the year and felt compelled to find out whether the fare lived up to its billing. Nothing immediately Tolkein-esque occurred but they were so good then that I drag the Rudes down to the sea front to try them. Damn fine. We all fall asleep in the sun. Our show that night is a stonker. We're up on the cliffs at Durlston Country Park. A fine place, and well managed by nice rangers who bring us tea, let me charge up my MacBook and even watch the show. A standing ovation once again. "Thank you Swanage, Goodnight!"

We're so rock and roll.

Lx