Blog

Moving to France

Leaving England

September 2006

It’s a dull day and the M25 and the M20 are bumper-to-bumper with a fair share of nutcases at the wheel. “This is something I will not miss” I think as we wind our way to the channel ports. On one hand I feel I should have a tremendous sense of excitement. On the other maybe I should feel sadness at missing family and friends. I feel neither. I’m just pre-occupied at coping with the journey and the next few months of interminable house hunting and dealing with the immobiliers and their ludicrously-priced properties. I recognise I am not in a good mood.

We arrive at Dover, blanketed in mist. I could mistakenly assume we’d gone back north to a sea fret. We pass the intelligence test, cunningly disguised as the instructions to get to the Norfolk Lines terminal. Check-in is efficient – no problem with our telephone reservation – collect our documentation and on to the waiting area with the massed ranks of caravans beside which our 4 x 1.5 metres trailer looks decidedly puny. We take it in turns to go inside the terminal building for the loo – sadly no last English papers in the terminal – and we get Jack out of the car to have a sniff round the assembled human and animal life at the terminal. He appears quite disinterested in performing for the pooper scooper and a few desultory urinary sprays here and there seem to comfort him. With Jack back in the car we make our way onto the ship which seems big but most importantly – clean compared to previous ferry experiences. The crew also seem to know what they are doing which is re-assuring.

Leaving port does give me a funny feeling. Lynne gives me the camera to take departure photos and they are somewhat ruined by the carpet of mist shrouding the port and land features. I struggle to analyse my feelings at that point. I feel a sense of “moment” but it is very difficult to describe the absence of lump in throat. I don’t have a sense either of “Oh God” or of “Thank God.” I don’t believe France will turn out to be “better” than England but having sworn that we are not motivated by negative feelings about England I have to confess that I greet the shrinking sight of mist-covered Dover with something approaching relief. Maybe it’s the broohahah surrounding Blair’s proposed “final tour” (is he really that conceited? Probably yes I guess) or maybe it’s the effect the traffic has had on me or the depressing attitudes of some of the southern work-obsessives we met during our temporary stay in Harpenden but I am so glad to be setting out on this adventure. Perhaps I am just naïve and ignoring the extent of the difficulties we might face. Anyway, onwards we go.

Overnight we stay in Dreux at a less-than-prepossessing Campanile. The room has a broken wind-up blind but we manage to get it functioning so we can have some air in the unseasonal heat. Jack seems to like the room but when we go for dinner we decide to play it safe and leave him in the car so that there is no chance of accidents.

We are seated in the non-smoking part of the restaurant which is divided by a glass partition from the smoking part. On the other side of the partition I make eye contact with a French traveller who is obviously keen to communicate. We embark on a bizarre mime fest. He is trying (I think) to convey the fact that we are being extravagant in having ordered a good bottle of wine to accompany our steaks. He has ordered the house carafe and is putting on an exaggerated “visage triste.” I start to regret ever responding to his first contact as our mimes through the glass partition get ever more unreal. The waitress attends to him and he obviously attempts a pass or some other comment with the waitress because she gives him short shrift and he gives me a conspiratorial wink which I think is meant to convey that the waitress likes him really. He gets up to go for his dessert – Lynne is getting scared because she thinks he is leading up to a 3-in-a-bed proposition. Fortunately before the mime can be transformed into real conversation our steaks arrive and we have the opportunity to look steadfastly at our table.

A steady start to the following day and onwards we travel towards Chartres and Orleans and from here to the autoroute south. The day passes with a series of rest stops and opportunities to stretch Jack’s and our legs and we eventually start the final leg from the outskirts of Cahors about 4.30. It is still incredibly hot. We arrive at our temporary home at Paul and Esther’s at 5.30 and after exchanging greetings embark on the unpacking. Our mutual friend Bruce arrives to collect the parcel I’ve brought him from UK. It’s a set of “Ferrari lights” for his Nissan ZX sports car. The temperature is about 30˚C – in other words bloody hot – and I’m sweating like the proverbial pig as Paul, Esther and Bruce watch me unload the trailer whilst sipping chilled white wine. I conclude this is part of an initiation ritual for new English in France. “Everyone must have a sweating and dehydration phase on their arrival.” I decide that I must complete the task now I’ve got lathered up and proceed to empty the trailer, including the bike. Inside the rental house Lynne is sorting the various packages into “to be unpacked immediately” and “to be stored” piles. I’m impressed that she knows instantly which package belongs in which pile without the benefit of labels.

We finish about 7.30, totally shattered. I’ve been sustaining myself with the promise of a shower and the possibility of a celebratory meal at “Le Jardin” but Paul and Esther invite us round for welcome pasta and it’s actually a much better idea as they have twigged that we are totally past it. Showered and changed we join them on their terrace. Jack and their two Dachsunds, Dennis and Toffee, are eyeing each other suspiciously. The difference in size is very significant and we worry in case they might not get on. We relax and pitch into the meal when all hell breaks out with the dogs under the table. I drag Jack out into the open and remonstrate with him but I can tell there is going to be trouble as he gives me a look which suggests he has unfinished business. I feel sorry for Dennis. Poor bugger has suddenly had his territory invaded by a young upstart and can do little to assert his authority as every snarl is met with Jack’s bared teeth and large paws placed on his head. The omens are not good.

posted by Larroque Gites at Wednesday, May 02, 2007

3 Comments:

Jackie M said...: This post has been removed by the author.; 21 July 2007 01:42
Jackie M said...: Fantastic reading - you should write a book. Got your web details from Chris Hughes. We are also toying with the idea of moving to France but so much to consider!! We are also both keen bikers and if in the area will certainly pay you a visit!
...sorry I boobed before...; 21 July 2007 01:44
Larroque Gites said...: Hello Jackie

Thanks for the comments and if/when you get to France give us a call or drop us a line if you need any help. Or........ drop in for a cup or glass of something.; 14 August 2007 04:16