Dunromin

Modern life is complicated. Your existence seems driven by remembering an ever increasing list of passwords and four digit bank codes (or, if you’re sufficiently decrepit, writing them all down -the list of which your kids then find and use to supplement their pocket money). An innocent trip au supermarche is monitored by a corporate main frame, your driving habits (& occasional infractions) overseen by untold numbers of cctv cameras and your credit history fastidiously checked by faceless agencies. And, just about everywhere in Europe, your address is super specific too – all the better for the legions of google street mapping cars to zoom in and share with the world your overflowing wheelie bin, peeling paintwork or unkempt front lawn.

Except, that is, in rural France.

Once beyond the environs of a small town, it’s pot luck whether you’ll be blessed with a proper lieu dit or not. And if you’ve found your new home in a hamlet or village, chances are that the painstakingly restored pile will be nameless, leaving the postman with just your surname to figure out where you live. And neatly providing him a really good excuse to forget if there’s a constant stream of heavy parcels, or you’ve neglected to buy one of his Christmas calendars.

Even if blessed with a recognised house name (and specifically not one you’ve chosen – which will be studiously ignored for at least the next couple of generations), EDF, France Telecom, Orange and home delivery companies are wholly unable to cope. Geographically challenged, they treat map reading, the ability to use a gps or an understanding of their role as optional extras – and even assuming that they’ve the nouse to use a mobile and / or turn up on the right day (no guarantee of either), you’ll quickly have to learn how to guide them to your gaff. Or, to keep your blood pressure at a more manageable level, agree to meet them at the nearest convenient spot (viz. the bar).

On the plus side, debt collectors and unwelcome relatives will be similarly hampered, it confuses the hell out of the tax office and you get to read mis delivered postcards. And to enjoy a welcome bit of anonymity in an ever more nosy world – long live ‘le bourg’.