Brits, property in France, and cloud cuckoo land...

In search of a more 'luxuriant' quality of life, à la française

Over more than a couple of decades of living in France, I've regularly come across an assortment of visitors from overseas, seemingly secure in their professional and family lives back home, yet who continually daydream of an idyllic existence in their personal Shangri-Las.

Some throw caution to the winds and gleefully hurdle the fence in search of the long sought-after superior lifestyle - later to find that the grass on the other side, at closer sight, is not as green as they had once hoped. Of these wannabe expats, quite a number opt for the warmer climes of the sunny south of France where the grass, come early summer, is in need of copious quantities of water and much care and attention. How many lush "pelouses anglais" - little green corners of England pictured alongside those idyllic dream homes - eventually end up as dusty, parched, patches of brown?

Every now and again I would bump into a Brit, or an American, perhaps a Dutchman on vacation, whose brief taste of an alternative modus vivendi seems to provoke an immediate transformation from mature, cautious adult, into wet-behind-the-ears ingénue. In conversation, certain prompts – such as “opening a guest house”, “taking a crash course in French”, etc. - trigger my standard response, where I mainly try to highlight the obstacles that lie in wait for the unwary. A few listen; others nod, glassy-eyed, or stare into space dismissively; disasters waiting to happen.

Now that might sound a bit patronising, but I hope it doesn’t come across that way whenever I find myself chatting over a beer with would-be expats. I'm really concerned. My view is that genuine tales of woe and catastrophe, warts ‘n all, based on first-hand knowledge and experience, might occasionally make people sit back, do a double-take. If however they prefer to believe that purveyors of 'doom and gloom' such as yours truly haven’t a clue what they’re talking about, that’s fine too. Their prerogative! But at least I’ve tried. ‘Greenness’ isn’t just about the hue of the grass on the other side of that fence...

Flashback to Provence … 2003

Less than half a mile away from our southern French home (close neighbours in backwater Provencal terms), down in the valley next to the main road, a large delapidated property had been on the market for years; seemingly unsaleable, and for very good reason. Most potential buyers visit properties during holiday periods, and down in Provence this usually meant Easter at the earliest, through to September. Unbeknown to us however, prospective purchasers had turned up during a pleasantly warm and sunny first week of March; the deal was done, and they were away home.

A school inspector, and a head teacher. Erudite, well-travelled, self-assured. A decent, but hardly inexhaustible, retirement nest egg. Impulse buyers of "a property of historical importance with immense potential”, according to the estate agent-ese. Visions of early retirement. However, overconfidence and that reluctance to communicate – the latter sometimes born of an excessive British need to ‘respect’ personal space (ie keep out of mine) – had led them to commit one basic and extremely expensive error (with several more to follow)...

They didn’t know the area, yet all they had to do is ask around, and they would have learnt that our Franco-British family, long-term French residents, lived a short distance up the road. In no time at all, had they called by, they would have discovered precisely why a “propriété d'importance historique avec plein de potentiel” had been up for sale for so long. Provencal valleys, away from the coast, and before the tourists arrive late spring, are peaceful, ‘idyllic’. Sitting on the shady terrace of a beautiful old property during a pre-purchase visit, boiling up water on their camper stove for a cuppa, nothing but the distant gurgling of the Ouveze river to accompany their reverie, and rational thought can go straight out of the blue-shuttered windows. The French sellers were already counting their wads of recently-introduced euros.

Their first mistake? No, not especially the usual underestimation of costs, or over-stretching of limited resources, financial or physical. Nor homesickness for friends or family. Or foolish escapism. Lack of planning and research? Yes, in a way. In this case the problem was, quite simply… noise.

Noise? In a remote foothill of theMont Ventoux in Provence, miles from the nearest village? Surely not. It was so quiet on that morning in early March, you could hear a single flower fall from the surrounding cluster of lime-blossom trees. Contracts were promptly signed, out-of-town architects engaged, and two months later the sale was completed.

I first heard the rumours in the village of Malaucène, sipping my expresso outside the PMU café first thing one morning in early July. News was spreading fast on the local grapevine that some foreign ‘dupes’ had paid a fortune for the place, but perhaps out of deference to my origins, bar talk in my presence omitted to mention that they were Brits. On my way back home carrying warm baguettes, I noticed a car drawn up outside ‘the old ruin’. Curious, I wandered up the drive, to discover a forlorn-looking couple, staring into the valley.

Their dream home was less than 50 metres away from the main Malaucene to Vaison-la-Romaine road. Since Peter Mayle’s “A Year In Provence” had prompted a major shortage in ‘des res’ availability in the next valley on the way to the coast (the Luberon), the Ouveze Valley had become the latest target for foreign property investors, speculators and retirees. The summertime stream of traffic, that once burbled along this forgotten Provencal back road, had swollen into a raging torrent in the space of a decade. Steep valley sides bounced the sound back and forth, vibration from lorries shook the ancient house to its foundations, threatening the integrity of its crumbling walls.

They were desperate. Within twenty-four hours of arriving they were already considering cutting their losses, and selling up. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that the 200,000+ pounds investment they had made was way, way over the real value of the property, and they wouldn’t resell it for half the price.

How could these obviously intelligent people make such a fundamental error? Lack of research, yes, but ably assisted by that rather Anglo Saxon brash superciliousness that does tend to irritate Latin sensibilities! No need to seek out advice from the natives eh, particularly when you come from a successful career background, where the environment tends to fall into place around you. (Little Englander micro settlements are beginning to attract some resentment on the other side of the Channel, where a noisy minority of long-term Brit residents make hardly any effort to adapt to the French way of life. So they are fair game, as the indigenous population sees it!)

All they had to do, on their first visit earlier that year, was ask around. Had they dropped by for a cup of tea at our place just up the hill, rather than brew up on their Camping Gaz, it could have saved them a fortune. Too late now… Still, give them their due – within a week of our first meeting they had decided to hang on in there. Architects re-commissioned, a massive earth-moving project undertaken to ‘sound-proof’ the property, high walls built, the beautiful view hidden. And despite a six foot high earth and rock barrier erected by several JCB's, with the renovation work well under way, at certain times of the day you still had to speak up to make yourself heard over the traffic on the main road!

The next example of misplaced British bulldog attitude wasn't long coming. Despite the deeds clearly indicating the presence of a right of way very close to the property, and our advice that there was nothing whatsoever they could do about it, lawyers were engaged, appeals sent to mayors, regional planners, in fact any French civil servant vaguely involved in such matters (and French civil servants considerably outdo the British both in numbers and pointless ineffectual officialdom). A thick chain and huge padlock put in place on several occasions, in an attempt to barricade the track, was immediately bulldozed out of the way by the local farmers. Lawyers letters were posted, and ignored. Thousands more euros were spent, and eventually wasted. Just as we'd explained to them at the outset. A 300 year-old right of way would never be removed on the say-so of bumptious, inconvenienced Brits.

2006: It had been a while since I was last down in Provence, not since the latter part of the previous year, in fact. Thought I would call in on our near neighbours to see how things were progressing…



Imagine my consternation when I walked up the winding gravel drive, turning the corner where the huge old farm should have loomed large, to see... nothing!

Incredibly the whole edifice had been demolished, razed to the ground. Apparently the restoration work was proving to be far more onerous, both in financial and technical terms, than anticipated. On the (verbal) advice, allegedly (according to locals 'in the know') of their 'maître d'oeuvre' (site foreman), they'd apparently decided to bulldoze the entire place to the ground, and start again from scratch. Overlooking one 'minor' detail…

In France, where buildings on agricultural land are concerned, planning permission is extremely difficult to obtain. Somewhat easier for the farmers of course, but that's the system, and you have to live with it. What you don't do is pre-empt the decision of the DDE (French authorities dealing with planning nationally, as opposed to the local mairie (town hall), and who have to rubber stamp all building projects), and ask for planning permission retrospectively...



Once razed to the ground, the DDE immediately slapped a building prohibition notice on the land. The reply to the request to build an entirely new property in place of the old one, was that by illegally demolishing the building, the owners had caused the land to revert to agricultural use only. Planning permission is illegal for residential properties on agricultural green belt land. For a dwelling of any kind. The application was therefore refused outright!!! The French had no qualms about their rigid stance - and I sympathise to an extent. The property could have been tastefully refurbished. It was of a similar age to our own place, and represented more than a semi-ruin to those families that had lived in the valley for generations. In their eyes, the arrogant English had got their just desserts...

Hate to say it, but... if only they'd asked!!



So for years to follow, there was nothing but a hole in the ground, despite regular new applications for planning permission. Multiple attempts were made by the Brits to persuade the authorities to recant, with each new proposal outdoing the former. The most ridiculous involved a 25 room hotel, with a spa fed by sulphurous water from a local spring (on our land!), a restaurant, swimming pool, gym. But the local mayor, even if only of a glorified village of some 3,000 people, is no country bumpkin. He suspected that the more probable goal was simply to rebuild the main house, and then... what odds such an ambitious and risky project ever being completed?

One of the most expensive fields per square metre you’ll find, then. Probably well over £300,000 spent in total. Empty, except for rusting wire mesh in abandoned foundation trenches, and a crumbling stone wall.
____________

The dénouement... 2011

Over my regular morning expresso in the Malaucène PMU Café du Cours, another snippet of gossip last month. The Brits had finally capitulated. The hole in the ground, plus 2 hectares of adjoining agricultural land, was on the market.

For 10,000 euros, ie roughly 9,000 pounds sterling.

Two local farmers are now fighting over the spoils. With two outbuildings still intact on the land, those with agriculteur status can quite easily get planning permission for conversion to gîtes, or a small villa. A really good deal for the winner, and it's not as if they will be outbidding each other, to the benefit of the Brits. The price remains fixed at 10,000 euros, with the final purchaser decided 'on merit' by the French equivalent of a green belt land commission.



Caveat emptor, would-be expats...

Wild boar v. Peugeot 306. Double knockout.

In a nutshell, if you value your life and are attached to your car not only via the safety belt, don't pick an argument with a wild boar - even a smallish one of some 75 kilos. Although the boar is unlikely to feel too fit after the encounter, the odds are that neither you nor your much-loved motor will be in the best of shape after the collision, with or without belting up.


I wasn't driving my eleven year old Peugeot 306 at the time. A friend had borrowed it, and was cruising along a nearby main road in the small hours, when a whole troop of 'sangliers' emerged from the gloom and dashed across right in front of him. No time so much as to even touch the brakes - bang, air bag deployed and literally exploded in his face, the car slid off the road, and to add insult to injury, its rear end came off worse in a collision with a concrete post.

The second time in less than a year that a friend has destroyed a motor of mine - before it was my cherished 205, ancient but low mileage, and in impeccable nick. A write-off, with only third party insurance, and no one else involved.

On the plus side there were no serious (human) injuries in either instance. Despite a couple of years in 'non-violent' Thailand, for an instant or two I did contemplate inflicting a few injuries of my own, but decided on a positive approach. If it's a write-off, that'll be one less insurance premium to cough up every year. C'est la vie, mai pen rai, that's life.


Wild boar are a major hazard on French roads. Their numbers are increasing rapidly, despite the efforts of hordes of French hunters. Several reasons why this is so - some boar were crossbred with domesticated pigs a few years back in France, and cochonglier litters are bigger than those of pure bred wild boar. More examples of man messing with nature - corn is one of the boar's favourite delicacies, and production of this cereal is expanding. Mild winters, increasing acreage of wooded areas, the power and influence of the hunting lobby... all have contributed to an explosion in the boar demographic. Their numbers have grown tenfold in the last thirty years.

Even Obelix and his valiant tribe of Gaules would have trouble making major inroads into their numbers. There are an estimated million boar in the wild in France, despite hunters accounting for half that number in annual kills. And despite an estimated ten thousand plus being involved in road accidents each year, around the country.

Should you be unfortunate enough to bump into one of these beasts in your motorised travels, and be tempted to take it home for a few weeks' supply of boar stew - don't. This is banned under French law - roadkill of any form must be left on the side of the highway, and the police informed. Penalties are extremely severe. Why? Because hunting with illegal weapons is strictly prohibited. Clearly a car can be used as a weapon, and should you sneakily stuff your freezer with your ill-gotten gains, in the eyes of the gendarmes this is undeniable evidence of intent to deceive and therefore of your nefarious poaching habits, courtesy of your car.

Any resemblance to wild boar living or dead is purely coincidental

A boar killed in a collision on the public highway belongs to the state, in the same way as a ship wrecked along the French coastline. Attempting to argue that putting a 4,000 euro series of dents in your car and destroying the engine is a rather expensive way of knocking off a boar for your supper will be in vain. In French law, it's a case of guilty until proven innocent.

Our apologies to the boar.

French Potshots

A late December Sunday, 'bang' in the middle of hunting and Christmas/New Year holiday drinking season in France. Between dawn and dusk multitudes of camouflaged French males sporting rifles and shotguns stalk the French countryside. Close to 1.5 million are registered to hunt around the Hexagon, and the majority do so with a passion that adds up to an average 250 million shots being fired off annually. Despite the Sunday afternoon alcoholic haze, a fair few reach their target, which means that in order to supply the hunter with something to shoot at, some 8,000 commercial reserves breed game in huge quantities to be released into the wild, including 14 million pheasants, 5 million partridges, 1 million ducks, hundreds of thousands of hares, rabbits, deer...

I suppose that given those figures, 30 fatalities out of a total of some 200 accidents each year is hardly surprising. But just a single death from carelessness or stupidity is one too many. Only last month a thirteen year old goalie training with his soccer team on their village ground stopped the wrong kind of shot, and was lucky to escape with a knee smashed to smithereens.

Especially after lunch, given the number of inebriated sharpshooters with somewhat blunted faculties staggering around the hills, it's a good idea to keep your head down. There are laws limiting alcohol intake, but they're rarely if ever enforced. Anyone sufficiently courageous to take a Sunday afternoon stroll with the dog should do so sticking to marked paths, making plenty of noise, and whistling loudly (preferably the Marseillaise rather than the Star Spangled Banner). It may be the festive season, but the wearing of reindeer headgear is definitely not advisable. Unless the recession has been getting you down and you are looking for a quick way out...

Those with a mutt large enough to be mistaken for a small deer should definitely keep it on a lead. Only a few years since a French friend, bringing winter feed to his Shetland ponies on his own land, saw one shot dead right beside him. The hunter "mistook the animals for a family of wild boar". No criminal charges were brought, no compensation paid. The hunters are a powerful lobby in France.

For years the French refused to accept European legislation which restricted hunters from the right to hunt on private land. The existing law (Verdeille), covering many French departments, allowing les chasseurs to hunt anywhere more than 100 metres from a property, irrespective of the wishes of the owner. In 2000 the European Court finally forced the French to back down, and the new rural code means that theoretically you can stop hunting from taking place chez toi by withdrawing consent as a 'conscientious objector' (so by definition you can't hunt on your own land either). Do many go to the (compulsory) trouble of writing to the Prefet to inform them of their objections? Put up signs around their land indicating that hunting is banned? Far fewer than might wish to do so, especially in remote areas of the countryside. There is the national legislation... and there is the reality of living in a small, remote village. Signs, no matter how firmly fixed in place, have a habit of falling down, getting smashed. Spent shotgun pellets fired from a distance occasionally patter through the leaves of trees as you walk around your garden. Those expats wishing for more than a reclusive life, hoping to become an active part of a rural community, should think twice about alienating many of their neighbours.

There's an art to life as an expat in France, away from large concentrations of immigrants attempting to reconstruct a little corner of England in a more clement climate. It demands a more flexible, conciliatory approach than we might be accustomed to back home. Wherever we are in the world, we remain guests on a permanent basis, and have to adapt to our environment rather than expect the environment to mould itself to our needs. It's a way of life that has its advantages... but it doesn't suit everyone!

Lagorn Thailand, Salut la France

Courtesy of Air China a smooth passage from Bangkok to one of the southernmost points of Euroland; Rome. Smiling Thai faces, eager to please, replaced by disdainful, seen-it-all-before looks from the waiters at Frescobaldi's in Terminal B. Not that I particularly wanted to splash out on a European airport-priced meal, but with four hours to waste before the connecting flight to Marseille, after exploring the terminal from end to end, I was left with little choice.

I had a wallet full of Thai baht which left the Romans in the cheaper food and drink outlets singularly unimpressed. None took credit cards. The Travelex exchange bureau wanted close to 60 baht for a single euro, which was daylight robbery; and compounded their financial mugging of innocent tourists by charging 9.5% commission on all transactions. For some obscure reason the single cash machine in the terminal only spoke Italian and German. Once I'd decided which language I was marginally less bad at, it insisted on asking me for a two digit PIN code. I swore at it multilingually (back in Europe for barely an hour, and my Thailand-accumulated patience and tolerance was already dissipating). So if I wanted to eat or drink, I had the choice between raiding the duty free and consuming my purchases before getting on the plane, or Frescobaldi's (the only restaurant to take credit cards). After a long look at the champagnes on sale in the duty free, I settled on the latter.

Three wafer-thin transparent slices of admittedly tasty Parma ham, green salad, two glasses of delicious wine. But the total cost of the meal would have fed a Thai family of four for a fortnight. Welcome to Europe.

The trip back to Marseille was with an ancient-looking turbo-prop machine belonging to Air Corsica, chartered by Air France, themselves chartered by the virtually bankrupt Alitalia. Given the price of my economy ticket, makes you wonder how much is left over to actually maintain the aircraft. The hour-long trip was at an altitude where you could almost make out the expressions on the upturned faces on vessels we overflew. At least we were doing our bit to help slow down global warming.

The only climate change apparent to me in Marseille was the one involved in leaving Bangkok with temperatures in the mid-30 degrees C. at 3 am, followed by temperatures close to zero in the watery afternoon sun of Provence. I've hardly stopped shivering since. But acclimatisation is a gradual process, both to the weather and to European stress levels. Horns blasting, grumpy sneezing Christmas shoppers, rude kids, my first impressions over the few days since arrival. So much for the festive spirit. Time to escape to the snow-clad slopes of the Alps for a day or two...

(Click on any photo for the full resolution pics)

Superb conditions this early in the season, skiing down to Villaroger at just 1100 metres

In the Les Arcs domain, just above the Mont Blanc forest, close to the Deux Tetes

A skier and boarder making the most of the great snow off piste

Looking down the cloud-filled Tarentaise Valley from the Aiguille Rouge, Les Arcs

Les Arcs Ski Club children taking the Mont Blanc chairlift above the forest

Not lens flare... ice crystals suspended in the air, in the late afternoon sun, giving this unusual visual effect

But all of this comes at a price, one which is threatening the future of the Alpine resorts along with climate change. 47 euros for a lift pass for a single day, alpine restaurants charging a small fortune for some very average cuisine, a pastime for the middle class tourist that is fast becoming the domain of a shrinking, privileged elite. No wonder the stress levels are high, as the effects of the recession begin to bite. Some of those accustomed to certain luxuries in the West are having to reevaluate their lifestyles, and it's a bitter pill to swallow. The contrast with so many in Thailand who have little in the first place, and therefore have next to nothing to lose, couldn't be greater. I miss those genuine, generous smiles...

Greener Grass ... Cautionary Tales for Budding Expats

In search of a more 'luxuriant' quality of life, à la française

Over a couple of decades of living in France I regularly came across an assortment of visitors from overseas, seemingly secure in their professional and family lives back home, yet who continually daydreamed of an idyllic existence in their own, personal, Shangri-Las.

Some threw caution to the winds and gaily hurdled the fence in search of a perceived superior lifestyle - only to find that the grass on the other side, at closer sight, was not as green as they had once hoped. Of these quite a number opted for the warmer climes of the sunny south of France where the grass, come late spring, is in need of copious quantities of water and much care and attention. How many lush "pelouses anglais" - little green corners of England pictured alongside those idyllic dream homes - eventually ended up as dusty, parched, patches of brown?

Every now and again I would bump into a Brit, or an American, perhaps a Dutchman on vacation, whose brief taste of an alternative modus vivendi seemed to provoke an immediate transformation from mature, cautious adult, into wet-behind-the-ears ingénue. In conversation, certain prompts – such as “opening a guesthouse”, “crash courses in French”, etc - triggered what eventually become my standard response, where I mainly tried to highlight those obstacles that lie in wait for the unwary. A few listened; others nodded, glassy-eyed, or stared into space dismissively; disasters waiting to happen.

Now that might sound a bit patronising, but it didn’t really come out that way whenever I found myself chatting over a beer with would-be expats. My view was that genuine tales of woe and catastrophe, warts ‘n all, based on first-hand knowledge and experience, might occasionally make people sit back, do a double-take. If however they preferred to believe that such purveyors of doom and gloom haven’t a clue what they’re talking about, that’s fine too. Their prerogative! But at least I’d tried. ‘Greenness’ isn’t just about the hue of the grass on the other side of that fence...

Terrace of the Tonneau Bar, Bourg Saint Maurice in the French Alps

Bourg St Maurice, Savoie, France – summer 2006

I had been sitting, quietly melting, at an outside table in front of the Tonneau bar in Bourg Saint Maurice (high up the Tarentaise Valley in the Savoie Alps), my home through the winter months and a week or two during the summer. Ten lazy minutes sipping a ‘perroquet’– a liberal measure of Pastis, a splash of verdant mint cordial, lots of water and ice (whoever decided to baptise this drink must only have come across green parrots…). Desperately trying to close my ears to the loud conversation at the next table… “mortgage” … “bridging loan” … “rent out rooms” … “take French lessons” … “get a seasonal job to tide us over” …

It was far too hot to move, so retreat was out of the question. Escape however was on the minds of this youngish (mid-thirties?) couple, whose plans seemed to have reached an advanced state in the time it took to get though a couple of kir aperitifs. They were on the point of abandoning their comfortable middle-class, middle income, middle England lifestyles, to make an offer on a tumbledown property at some obscure location in the Tarentaise hills behind Bourg Saint Maurice, having been given the estate agent tour that morning. A number of small children milled around, bored and fractious, while oblivious parents hatched their plans. One tousle-haired, freckled, three-foot-nothing bruiser knocked my camera bag over, looked at me defiantly, and then turned away without a word to kick his sister in the shin. “Watch what you’re doing!” from mum, who barely looked in my direction. The lack of an apology was hardly encouraging, but I used the diversion to introduce myself. Once past the usual barrier of British suspicion (why is he talking to us? – he must want something), it turned into a version of the same old story, with its undercurrent of naive optimism. Stress, rat race, climate, get away from it all, we’ve always loved France, love the lifestyle, skiing, mountain air... Etc. It was close to forty degrees celsius in the shade, and I fought back a sudden urge to utter a cranky comment along the lines of the advisability of getting heads examined. They seemed pleasant enough, so I felt duty bound to at least try. Teachers both, they reminded me of an English couple I’d met a few years ago while living further south, in a secluded corner of the Vaucluse. More gullible, more ‘hoodwinkable’, perhaps – if that’s possible…

Flashback to Provence … 2003

Less than half a mile away from our southern French home (close neighbours in backwater Provencal terms), down in the valley next to the main road, an immense ruin had been on the market for years; seemingly unsaleable, and for very good reason. Most potential buyers visit properties during holiday periods, and down in Provence this usually meant Easter at the earliest, through to September. Unbeknown to us however, prospective purchasers had turned up during a pleasantly warm and sunny first week of March; the deal was done, and they were away home.

A general practitioner, and a deputy head teacher. Erudite, well-travelled, self-assured. Well-funded. Impulse buyers of an old farm with “immense potential”. Visions of early retirement. Yet over-confidence and that reluctance to communicate – the latter born perhaps of the excessive British need to ‘respect’ personal space (ie keep out of mine) – had led them to commit one basic and extremely expensive error (there were others to come... so read on!).

They didn’t know the area, yet all they had to do is ask and they would have learnt that our Franco-British family, long-term French residents, lived just up the road. In no time at all, had they called by, they would have discovered precisely why a “propriété avec plein de potentiel” had been up for sale for so long. Provencal valleys, away from the coast, and before the tourists arrive late spring, are peaceful, ‘idyllic’. Sitting on the terrace during a pre-purchase visit, boiling up water on their camper stove for a cuppa, nothing but the distant gurgling of the Ouveze river to accompany their reverie, and logical thought processes can take a distant back seat. The French sellers were already counting their wads of recently-introduced euros.

The oversight? No, not the usual underestimation of costs, or over-stretching of limited resources, financial or physical. Not homesickness for friends or family. No foolish escapism, nor wearing of rose-tinted glasses involved. Lack of planning and research? Yes, in a way. In this case the problem was, quite simply… noise.

Noise? In a remote foothill of the pre-Alpes in Provence, miles from the nearest village? Surely not. It was so quiet on that morning in early March, you could hear a single feuille fall from the forest of fig trees. Contracts were signed, architects engaged, and two months later the sale was completed.

Our home just up the hill... away from the noise of traffic

The first I heard of all this was in the village of Malaucene, sat sipping my expresso outside the PMU café first thing one morning in early July. News was spreading fast on the local grapevine that some foreign ‘dupes’ had paid a fortune for the place, but no doubt out of deference to my origins, bar talk in my presence omitted to mention that they were Brits. On my way back home carrying warm baguettes, I noticed a car drawn up outside ‘the old ruin’. Curious, I wandered up the drive, to discover a forlorn-looking couple, staring into the valley.

Their dream home was less than 50 metres away from the main Malaucene to Vaison-la-Romaine road. Since Peter Mayle’s “A Year In Provence” had prompted a major shortage in ‘des res’ availability in the next valley on the way to the coast (the Luberon), the Ouveze Valley had become the latest target for foreign property investors, speculators and retirees. The summertime traffic, that once burbled along this forgotten Provencal back road, had swollen into a raging torrent in the space of a decade. Steep valley sides bounced the sound back and forth, vibration from lorries shook the ancient house to its foundations, threatening the integrity of the few walls that remained standing.

They were desperate. Within twenty-four hours of arriving they were considering cutting their losses, and selling up. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that the 200,000 pound investment they had made was way, way over the real value of the property, and they wouldn’t resell it for a third of that price.

How could these obviously intelligent people make such a fundamental error? Lack of research, yes, but ably assisted by that rather Anglo Saxon brash superciliousness that does tend to irritate Latin sensibilities! No need to seek out advice from the natives eh, particularly when you come from a successful career background, where the environment tends to fall into place around you. (Little Englander micro cultures are beginning to attract some resentment on the other side of the Channel, where a noisy minority of long-term Brit residents make hardly any effort to adapt to the French way of life. So they are fair game, as the indigenous population sees it!)

All they had to do, on their first visit earlier that year, was ask around. Had they dropped by for a cup of tea at our place just up the hill, rather than brew up on their Camping Gaz, it could have saved them a fortune. Too late now… Still, give them their due – within a week of our first meeting they had decided to hang on in there. Architects were commissioned, a massive earth-moving project undertaken to ‘sound-proof’ the property, high walls built, the beautiful view hidden. And despite all that, with the renovation work well under way, at certain times of the day you still had to speak up to make yourself heard! (All’s well that ends well … or is it? Don’t forget to read the post scriptum for the punch line!)

Meanwhile, back in Bourg Saint Maurice...

A photo taken from the skiable side of the Tarentaise, facing north from the resort of Les Arcs. The ski chalet that was to be the young couple's pride and joy was halfway up the mountains on the far side, with not a ski lift within at least an hour's drive...

At the Tonneau Bar, having finished an abbreviated version of the Provencal anecdote, I watched the faces of the would-be ski chalet owners. I had yet to tell them that the Alpine property with which they had fallen in love was located at least an hour from the nearest ski area - a long, winding drive down one side (the wrong side) of the valley, back up the other - and which would have been completely inaccessible should it ever have the temerity to actually snow, given the remoteness. But then one of the mini bruisers succeeded in getting the attention he craved by dropping his glace italienne on the ground, and the moment was gone. The resultant wail matched the decibel level of a whole valley-full of HGVs, so I made my excuses and left.

Super U, Bourg Saint Maurice 7 pm - arrived just time to get in some essential shopping at the Super U supermarket. A quick dash around the aisles, followed by an athletic exit (the French are not slow to shut up shop – the door shutters were already two-thirds to the ground at 7.29 pm, shoppers having to hurriedly limbo dance their way underneath to avoid decapitation). A small crowd was gathering outside, and I quickly recognised the bruiser, complete with replacement glace italienne. I was spotted. A harassed mum - resemblance to bruiser now unmistakable - demanded to know why the supermarket was shutting so early. My mildly sarcastic explanation, that Tescos had yet to invest in an 24 hour a day, 365 days a year outlet at the top end of the Tarentaise valley, was completely wasted. Where on earth was she expected to buy something for tea, she protested loudly to the entire car park. Reinforcements arrived in the shape of a portly gent, port-hued from the exertion of climbing out from within his air-conditioned Discovery. Loud indignation, British-style, was targeted my way. Apparently I had been appointed honorary Frog and Super U representative. Sarcasm got the better of me once again. I suggested he take it up with the town’s Mayor, and left; followed by incredulous stares...

(Mayors in France have considerable, elastic, and occasionally indefinable powers, but when trying to enlist their assistance, it pays to keep on their good side. Something an American citizen might have done well to remember last summer, I recalled, as I zigzagged from tree shadow to tree shadow on the way back to the car. Back in Provence amusement was tinged with more than a little disdain around the bars of a small village, when a newly installed citizen of the USA phoned the town hall to demand immediate action against the ‘menace’ that was threatening the area. The Axis of Evil, it turned out, took the form of a coalition force of cricket and cicada, which in concert were conspiring to turn the lives of the American couple into a nightmare. “Not so much as a wink of sleep in a week”, was the complaint, with the cicadae quietening down during the evening only for the crickets to take over for the night shift. When – unsurprisingly – the token summer holiday Town Hall staff failed to take any action, a recorded delivery letter, written in deadly earnest, promptly followed. The Town Hall, insisted the American, had no option but to have the entire area surrounding his new residence treated with insecticide. They had a pest control officer, did they not? But sorry - I digress...)

Stories of this nature are by no means one-offs, and when they emerged I made an extra effort to eradicate any hint of accent from my French, to perfect the Gallic shrug, and practice a few beginner-level Latin gesticulations in front of a mirror. It never really worked. Even after twenty years of immersion I remain a dyed-in-the-wool rosbif, identifiable as an Ingleesh at a hundred paces – and therefore in the eyes of the French, a member of this arrogant race of Anglo-Saxons that thinks it can do as it pleases, anywhere in the world. Still, as an adopted Frog, with children more French than British, they did try to make a few allowances for me. Regrettably though, due to the behaviour of so many Brits abroad, those respectful expats that adapt to their new country, rather than expect it to conform to their own ideals, are merely seen as the exceptions that prove the rule.

So when meeting budding expats in France, I continue to attempt to sow a few ‘weeds’ of doubt in the impeccable, bowling green lawns of certain Englishmen’s dream castles abroad, and hide in shame when I hear the latest story of misbehaviour and stupidity on the part of more new arrivals from across the Channel…

A brief post scriptum... Back in Provence

It had been a while since I was last down in Provence. Not since the latter part of the previous year, in fact. Thought I would call in on our near neighbours to see how things were progressing…

Imagine my consternation when I walked up the winding gravel drive, turning the corner where the huge old farm should have loomed large, to see... nothing!

A year later... no doubt the most expensive field of lavender in France, per square metre...

Incredibly the whole edifice had been demolished, razed to the ground. On the advice, allegedly (according to locals 'in the know') of their 'maître d'oeuvre' (site foreman), they apparently decided to knock it down and start from scratch. Overlooking one 'minor' detail…

In France, where buildings on agricultural land are concerned, planning permission is extremely difficult to obtain. Somewhat easier for the farmers of course, but that's the system, and you have to live with it. What you don't do is preempt the decision of the DDE (French authorities dealing with planning nationally, as opposed to the local mairie (town hall), and who have to rubber stamp all building projects)...

Once razed to the ground, the DDE apparently found, in reply to the request to build an entirely new property in place of the old one, that the owners had caused the land to revert to agricultural use only. Planning permission is illegal for residential properties on agricultural green belt land. For a dwelling of any kind. The application was therefore refused outright!!! The French have no qualms about their rigid stance - and I do sympathise. The demolished property could have been tastefully refurbished. It was of a similar age to our own place, and represented more than a semi-ruin to those families that had lived in the valley for generations. In their eyes, the arrogant English had got their just desserts...

Generations of history, from the era of Napoleon and the French Revolution

Hate to say it, but... if only they'd asked!!

To this day, there is nothing but a hole in the ground, despite renewed applications for planning permission. One of the most expensive fields per square metre you’ll find.

Photos below - click on thumbnails

The picture above left (1) shows the one remaining piece of wall. Above centre (2), the site where the farm originally stood. Above right (3), original planning permission for "rehabilitation".

Below, the trenches cut and ready for the reinforced concrete foundations to be poured....

thailand police thai police thai immigration crime surge burmese immigrants

What do expats crave from home?

Farang expats occasionally suffer sudden cravings for a taste of home, not always easy to find on the other side of the world. That might be Mom's apple pie for our American friends, steak and kidney pie or some such delicacy for the Brits, ratatouille for the French, who knows... each to his own.

In my case coming across some photos earlier tonight led to a sudden yearning for some simple fare - decent cheese... a soft freshly-made chèvre from a local farm, followed by a 'crottin' - goat's cheese too, pungent with age. And a hunk of warm baguette, all washed down by a few glasses of Gigondas red. Mmmm!



Chiang Mai isn't exactly the back of beyond, but cheese is exorbitantly expensive, and pretty average quality too. The bread's ok, but I've yet to come across any that compares to a nice baguette bought fresh from the boulangerie first thing ...

What do you crave - if anything??

Oh... and one last thing! The crystal clear, clean, humidity-free air of the Provençal hinterland.

Mind you, it's getting a bit chilly there right now... on second thoughts, maybe I'll hang on in here, just for a while!

Tignes Grande Motte Glacier France; Adaptive Ski Racers In Training

A great day on the glacier with the British Adaptive Ski Team, three of whose number were training hard for next year's Paralympics...

[click on the thumbnail images to see the large scale photos]

From Tignes Grande Motte, B.A.S.T. in training

An eye-opener of a day up on the Tignes glacier on November 8th, spent with the British Adaptive Ski Team. I'd seen some impressive skiing by these guys before, but the skills really do have to be witnessed to be believed. Those of you who think they could keep up with some of the sit-skiers or stand-ups on an icy giant slalom course... well I would guess a surprising number of you would have your work cut out, and most would fail miserably!

From Tignes Grande Motte, B.A.S.T. in training

It's not just skill, it's attitude. Attitude they've got in no small measure, because what they've faced up to would make most of us want to crawl into a small hole, and give up the ghost. Just the trials and tribulations of ski racing are enough to put a large number of good 'able-bodied' skiers off - there's the pain and the cold to cope with, the lugging of huge amounts of equipment around, the incredible patience needed, the wearing of what seems like lumps of iron on your feet all day, the disappointments, huge demands on fitness and strength... in fact everything's geared to making you wonder why you didn't take up table tennis instead...

From Tignes Grande Motte, B.A.S.T. in training

So just imagine having to do all of that and be partially sighted, or paraplegic, or an amputee. As soon as you arrive at Tignes you're faced with 15 steps just to get into the ticket office at Val Claret. Then 15 to get back down again. Then 15 to get up to the entrance to the funicular. More to get to the train itself. Then 15 to climb down from the Panoramic Restaurant, 15 back up to the cable car.... you get my drift...

From Tignes Grande Motte, B.A.S.T. in training

That day on the glacier two team members had some massive crashes, ironically free skiing at the time. One broken collar bone, one severe concussion. The girl with the concussion was almost in tears. Not because she was hurt, oh no. But because she knew she would miss out on at least that day's training...

From Tignes Grande Motte, B.A.S.T. in training

So yes, it was a real eye-opener. As were the interviews (see below) a couple of days later, after another session training on the glacier. Hats off to the BAST team and all those others training right now around the world for the Paralympics. Contact Disability Snowsports for more information if you would like to donate to a very deserving cause...

From Tignes Grande Motte, B.A.S.T. in training

The Paralympics - Russell Docker interview:

38 year old Russell Docker was a keen recreational skier until his accident in 1995. Skiing in France, he broke his back in two places in a fall, damaging his spinal chord. 10 months in Salisbury Spinal Unit followed, where he was told he would never walk again or be able to practice the sports he had enjoyed previously. He left hospital an incomplete paraplegic. Russell refused to accept this. Determined to get back onto the snow, he taught himself the skills of monoskiing, then found out about the British adaptive skiers' race team while at a ski show. Invited out to France to ski with the team, he hasn't looked back since. In his own words "I knew that I had found a sport that I could be competitive in and push myself to see how far I could go. That was 6 years ago and I’m still improving and am just as competitive but with a bigger desire to win races...."

From Tignes Grande Motte, B.A.S.T. in training

Russell Docker's success, leading to his first Europa Cup victory last year in Super G, is partly down to single-minded determination, that much is clear. Following the team meeting to round off last week's training in Tignes he warned his fellow athletes that they were there as a team to race and train, that it was a serious business and taking part in any apres ski 'relaxation' on the last night should be tempered by the awareness that they were there in *BAST (British Adaptive Ski Team) colours, and had to behave accordingly. This approach matched his attitude on the snow over the course of the week. Watching him gate training, day in day out, his concentration was total.

To come back from such a life-changing injury reveals bravery, toughness and resolve. To start from scratch and fight back to world class level in a sport, achieving skills on snow that would leave the great majority of able-bodied skiers in his wake, is nothing short of amazing. To do so while living hand to mouth in a sport suffering from a severe lack of funding, with no prospect of personal financial gain, reveals true mettle.

MySnowSports' Peter Garwood was up in Tignes during the training week, and chatted to Russell after the final team briefing...

PG: How do you fund your training?

RD: Up until now I’ve pretty much fundraised 99.9% myself, but this year I’m on a performance plan which will cover most costs this season. This is based on results – whether that will go on will be down to results, but obviously over the last six years results have crept up and up and hopefully I’ve got to the stage when they’ll start supporting me more.

PG: Has the support come because it’s the year of the Paralympics?

RD: No, it’s mainly down to skiing performance full stop, last year I had a handful of top tens in World Cup races and and then had my first win last year in the Europa Cup finals super G. So with that and all my statistics showing consistent improvement over the years I’ve shown I’m a medal contender which is what they want for the Paralympics.

PG: How do you get around Europe?

RD: I’ve got a camper van which is the way I’ve done it for the last four or five years, I guess it does save me a lot of money but it’s all about feeling relaxed and I just like being in the van, some of the hotels can be an hour or more from the races.

PG: What are your training plans from now on?

RD: From here I go straight to Stubai, training with the British Army, the Engineers, they have a five week training camp which I’ll take part in for three and a half weeks, which will take us into our first European race in Pitztal. Then Jane comes out, we’ve got a week’s training with her before the races, then after another week’s training before the second Europa Cup which is in Abtenau near Salzburg, and that takes us up to Christmas. A couple of weeks off, just to catch up with the family, have a bit of R and R. Then it’s quite intense – I think we’ve got a media day to get the team on show for Turin, on the 12^th and 13^th, then I drive straight back down to Villars to participate in the 24 hour endurance race with the team, there’s good media for us there and it’s part of the “Road to Turin”…

PG: What is the **Villars event?

RD: It’s organized by Jacques Villeneuve and another Formula 1 guy, they fundraise for charities each year, it’s for teams of six, racing from midday to midday, Saturday to Sunday. I shall only do part of the race, it does get quite intense and obviously at that time of year you’ve got to be very careful with injuries… you’re racing side by side, something you don’t normally do in Alpine skiing. It’s good though, to test the skis, dial in equipment… Then I go straight down following the Army race circuit, I’m going to the Army Divs, the Army Championships, and then the Inter Services races. One thing we lack is speed training, and that’s where my strength is and the Army races should give me three Downhills with two to three training runs for each one, maybe nine Downhill runs, and that’s worth its weight in gold…

PG: “Literally, you hope?!… The Paralympics?

RD: Definitely! March 10^th to 19^th…

PG: Which disciplines?

RD: All four – all three in the team are doing all four… starting with maybe my weakest one, then GS, Super G and Downhill, with the speed events being my strongest…

PG: How was your form this week in Tignes?

RD: Felt really good, consistent, I’m where I want to be at this time of year, fitness is good, I’ve got some new equipment that I’ve dialed straight into, so I’m happy, I think for the beginning of the season no mishaps, no training accidents, a great start…

PG: Were you out in the summer?

RD: No I did two weeks previous to here at Hintertux, the first two weeks of October, my first two weeks on the snow, training with a few other able-bodied teams out there, so now I’ve done four good weeks to prepare for the season…

PG: Any hot prospects coming through in the team?

RD: Sure! Tim who’s just been pulled onto the team, he’s on his third week’s skiing, fantastic effort, he’s obviously got an eye for it, if he can keep the learning curve going next season we’ll have to watch our backs! He’s keen, and hopefully if he can get the time on the snow he’ll be one to look for in the future. Great to have someone that strong so early.

PG: How do you like Tignes?

RD: I love coming here at this time of year. It’s something I’ve done for six, seven years now, and I always try to get here during the season if I can, maybe just two or three days free skiing around the mountain, I just love the area, I can walk with the aid of crutches so accessibility is quite good for Europe… Ready to move on though, I walked up and down that funicular too many times now! I ready to go somewhere and get straight on the chairlift! No it’s been good, conditions have been perfect, the weather’s been good to us, the forecast’s not so great for next week though…

PG: How much does it cost you each year?

RD: Up until now, up to £7,000, which with the camper van is quite cheap… doing everything on a budget, cheap ferries, but even that can easily change by a couple of thousand, if you break your skis. I’ve invested in new skis for two and a half thousand, to take me up to Turin, but you never know, touch wood there won’t be a problem. And then there’s getting hold of equipment, you have to think six or seven months ahead to get factory skis, you can’t just walk into the shop for a new pair. Anyway, hope I’ve got the right equipment and it’ll last until March!

From Tignes Grande Motte, B.A.S.T. in training

MySnowSports wishes Russell, and all the BAST team, every success during the coming season, and the best of luck for the Paralympics...

* BAST - (website) DONATIONS - to aid athletes can be sent to: British Adaptive Ski Team, c/o The Uphill Ski Club, Ski Rossendale, Haslingden Old Rd, Rawtenstall, Rossendale, BB4 8RR or email gary@uphillskiclub.co.uk for more info. Anything at all is much appreciated...........

Disability Snowsport, ‘THE SKIER’S CHARITY’, (website) is a key charitable beneficiary of the Villars race. A charity based in the U K providing opportunities for people with disabilities to participate in skiing and snowboarding, with activities taking place in the UK, mainland Europe and in North America.

It describes itself as "unique in that we work with all ages and all disabilities using specially trained instructors, volunteers, and using adapted equipment to give everyone the chance to experience the thrill and excitement of these wonderful sports. We believe that anyone with some degree of mobility can ski using specially trained instructors and equipment.

Fun, laughter, achievement, greater mobility, increased self confidence, improved co-ordination and being able to enjoy the mountains alongside the able bodied are just some of the benefits of our work. We believe that the sport of skiing enables those with a disability to take part as equals.

The pleasure of seeing the smile on the face of a young person as they whizz down the ski slopes in a sit ski laughing and experiencing the rush of the wind and the sense of speed makes our work worthwhile. You can’t get an adrenaline buzz from pushing a wheelchair.

For nearly 30 years we have applied exceptional know-how and adaptability to enable those with a disability to experience the joy of skiing. We have worked with ski schools throughout Europe to provide training and support so that more resorts can cater for people with disabilities and gain from our expertise.

We rely totally on donations and fundraising activities to continue our work. The funds from the GP24heures event will be used to develop adaptive skiing facilities and programs in Villars."