King of the hill

Under a summer sun, you’ve traipsed around the French countryside looking for that special somewhere. Tout seul, you’ve seen loads of houses, occasionally picking your jaw up from the floor when greeted by spectacular decorative faux pas or the amount that their owners (having seen your rather smart set of wheels) are now asking.  Having got your head around carpeted ceilings, pink sanitary ware and clearly misplaced extra zeros in the prices, it’s back to the air conditioned embrace  of your car and off to the next appointment.

And finally, your patience is rewarded. There, on the south side of a small valley is the farm. Obviously, it’s even more knackered than it appeared in the carefully cropped (and probably instagrammed) photo in the details, but who cares. Yes, the roof is about 80 years past its best, perpendicular is not an adjective you’d apply to the walls and if you buy it, divorce will be just a heartbeat away. But given there’s beaucoup plus des poissions dans la mer, you gird your loins and sign on the dotted line anyway.

Three months later, you’ve moved in. Yes, the sanitation is a little rudimentary, the electrics borderline lethal and most of the local wildlife still consider the place as much their turf as yours. On the plus side though, your marriage is still intact and it already feels like home. And there’s an unexpected bonus too; with the new school term in full swing, all three houses in the nearby hameau turn out to be maisons secondaire and have now been shut up for the year. Which means that other than the old boy who lives beyond the church, you have the place to yourself.

And with the loudest sound coming from the circling buzzards (and, occasionally, your better half as she encounters another mouse in the cupboards), a little self congratulation is in order. Perhaps not quite master of all you survey, but close enough. A commune of your own – everybody should have one.