Les Lavandes at last

Continuing the story of buying and renovating our house in France. We left off here where I had just completed the purchase and had expected all involved to join me in a celebratory drink.

I sat alone, nursing a small black coffee and wondering if, in my ignorance, I had said something to offend everybody. If I had, I had no idea what it might have been.

I had plumped for coffee rather than beer or wine because (a) I don't feel quite right sitting in a bar and drinking alone, and (b) the last time I had done that somebody had sold me something I really didn't want. Mrs S had not been a happy bunny when I got it home. I can't recall now what it was, but it ended up at the municipal tip very quickly once I had sobered up. Sitting there on my own I cheered myself up with the thought that at least Mrs S and I were now the owners of a small part of a foreign country, albeit a part of a foreign country that had once been ruled by English kings. And it was to that small part of a foreign country, to be known as Les Lavandes, that I drove as soon as I had finished celebrating. We had already decided to name our house Les Lavandes despite the fact that there was not a lavender bush in the courtyard or even, as far as I knew, in the whole village. We just liked the idea of the French equivalent of Lavender Cottage.

As I sorted through the myriad keys to find the one which would unlock the gates I glanced surreptitiously left and right, half expecting to find myself surrounded by curious villagers. Or, worse, curious anti-British villagers. But, as usual, nothing stirred, not even a cat. Heaving aside the breeze-block shutter retainer, I made a mental note to do something about replacing that. After all, it only needed a hook and eye.