Third time lucky?

In order to view the third possibility we had to drive back almost to our starting point. During the journey, Monsieur Cholon sat in silence, except to give directions, and appeared to have given up all hope of ever selling another house. When we saw the object of our drive, we were immensely grateful it was not situated even further away than the others. That would only have meant more time (and petrol) wasted. A narrow footpath separated the front of the house from an extremely busy road along which enormous trucks hurtled almost continuously at breakneck speeds. The walls were obviously in need of some attention before the passing traffic finally shook them to pieces. It might have been Joshua's trumpets that brought down the walls of Jericho, but it would be Renault's and Volvo's horns that would do the same for this house.

The gloomy exterior was matched by the looks on the faces of the elderly couple who greeted us at the door of their house, which was adjoining. We understood that they were selling the house because the old lady's mother was about to die, or maybe it was because she had already died. It was difficult to tell which. Either way, the grand old dame must have been knocking on a bit to judge by her daughter, who looked as though she was old enough to have been knitting by the guillotine.

As we squeezed our way between the heavy, ornate furniture with which the house was over-furnished, we wrinkled our noses. The smell seemed to get worse as we approached the bedroom. Surely they had not left the old lady's body in the bed? Luckily they hadn't, and we never did work out what was causing the smell. We went through a fair amount of the ‘After you', ‘No, after you' routine as we peered somewhat reluctantly into each room and at the plumbing arrangements which were, as usual, on the landing. I had the feeling all the while that the old couple were expecting us not only to part with a small fortune for the house but to pay extra for the contents, including about five years' back numbers of the local newspaper. It was with no small feeling of relief that we went to view the garden.

When we Brits talk of ‘going out into the garden' we tend to think of going out of the back door and stepping into an area of lawns and flower beds with perhaps a small vegetable plot at the far end where we grow a few runner beans and tomatoes. Not so the French – or at least, not the average French villager. His garden might be a hundred yards away from his house and is really more like what we would call an allotment; an area of ground in which he grows his vegetables and which is surrounded by the gardens of his neighbours. It is all very convivial, but certainly doesn't provide the privacy for which one might wish when acquiring an all-over tan.

This garden was no exception. Some fifteen or so feet wide, it stretched down the hill as far as the eye could see. Well, it seemed like that to me, but maybe it did end just beyond the raspberry canes and the gooseberry bushes. It brought back memories of the time I had an allotment and my back started to creak just at the thought of having to subdue this riot of nature every time we managed to visit the house. Anyway, we didn't like the house and the thought of having that old couple keeping an eye on what we were doing to her mother's house didn't bear thinking about.

Poor old Monsieur Cholon took it very well really and as we shook hands outside his office he seemed almost, well, not exactly happy, but perhaps relieved that he wouldn't have to go through all the paperwork involved in selling a house.