Chapter 1
I could ramble across our land with Sam, my beloved ageing Australian Shepherd, and Biff, our hand-me-down Norfolk Terrier whose quirks could send a psychiatrist scrambling for therapy. For Jack, my mechanical engineer husband, the dream looked different. Deciding to take early retirement from his ridiculously hectic quiver of directorships, he wanted to indulge in his two favourite passions: working on his complex engine-related projects and enjoying life in almost complete solitude. My husband is a curmudgeon. How he managed to become such a successful businessman baffles me. Then again, he is frighteningly intelligent and entirely capable of squeezing out a disarmingly engaging smile when required. Additionally, he is the most loyal, hardworking man I have ever met, and much admired for rolling up his sleeves and getting stuck in. Both our aspirations needed space. Any thoughts we had about the simplicity of buying a second home were quickly dashed. For many reasons, my carefully researched viewing plan, which involved touring properties in the southern band of France for more than two weeks with the dogs, was a disaster. But that’s another story. Our final, impromptu domaine (estate) viewing was another epic failure. In fact, it was so dreadful that after coming nose to beak with a perky cockerel strutting along the silt-slicked kitchen table of a particularly odious farmhouse, Jack refused to continue with the visit. ‘That’s it!’ he muttered, and stalked off. Being a polite type, I left him sulking outside and continued. It was every bit as dismal as he predicted. Having invested months of preparation, time, and emotion into our viewings with nothing to show for it, we were tired and deflated. Jack, of course, was grumpy. After our final visit, we had initially planned to spend a few days on the west coast of France in a little hideaway town called Capbreton. The seaside gem, with its thriving maritime ecology, had captured our hearts years before. Our idea was to stay for a couple of days, relaxing and making our house-buying decision. That part would not happen. I escaped from my solo viewing of the grim hovel, feeling psychologically scarred at the squalor I’d just waded through. Waving a weak ‘Au revoir!’ to the equally dubious owners, I joined Jack at the car, desperate to cleanse myself of the dire experience and fill my lungs with the fresh, salty air of the Atlantic Ocean. We could lick our emotional wounds. I could mess around on the beach with the dogs, and Jack could rant at the seagulls to his heart’s content. Jack was looking impatient. “Come on, where’ve you been?” “You’ve got a cheek, sitting there relaxing while I did the proper thing and battled that truly dreadful place. You have no ide—” “We got a call… Wait… Bloody hell! What have you done to Biff?” “He fell in a bog. It was the spa the local estate agent was bragging about. A swamp. I had to wade in and get him out.” “Oh my God, you both stink. Anyway, we haven’t got time to mess around, we may have another property to visit.” “Whaaat? I thought we’d given up on ItsWill’s brilliant ideas.” ItsWill was the nickname we had given our eccentric property agent. He had an aristocratic lisp and ran his words together, which I thought was rather fetching. Jack didn’t. At all. After he assured us he was a count with connections in ‘all the right places’, we had allowed him to manage our itinerary. “I know, I know. He called but was cut off mid-superlative. Surprising to lose the signal up here since we are on top of a sodding mountain. You’d think we’d be surrounded by uncluttered signals. Anyway, he’s about to call back. He has another suggestion, which is probably unacceptable, but I suppose we’d better listen. Get in, and please get rid of that smell while I drive. At the moment, though, we’re going to Capbreton as planned.” We were en route when the call came through from ItsWill. Jack, still fuming, took charge. “Rebonjour, Will, thank you for calling back, though having steered us to yet another disaster, I’m rather surprised. Forgive me for reminding you that we’re up to something like fourteen catastrophic property viewings now, all of which you assured us would be a marvel.” “Bonjour, dear boy—ah, shame. As you know, I hadn’t viewed that estate myself. One never quite knows whether the information supplied by local estate agents is accurate. They can be a bit, how does one put it? Vague, yes, vague about the details.” “This one wasn’t even slightly accurate. Anyhow, we won’t waste your time any longer. I know you’re suggesting another estate visit, but frankly, if it’s anything like the others, we’re not interested.” “Au contraire, I can’t begin to tell you how lucky we are. Thierry, my contact in Toulouse, tells me a domaine has just come on the market. And—” “The same Thierry who sent us to the Pyrénées estate, which is only accessible via helicopter during the winter?” “Yes, indeed. What a pity access to that one was so tricky.” “Please carry on, though I can’t say I’m bursting with confidence.” ItsWill somehow persuaded us to view the new property with Thierry. His assurances that it was a mere two-hour drive from our location backfired since he sent us in the opposite direction, towards Provence in the east. Who knew there were two towns with the same names, though with different spellings? At least we were now heading towards the west coast and the Atlantic Ocean, our Capbreton destination. As Jack drove and I got to work with wet wipes on my ankles and Biff’s stinky fur, we discussed the new location: Tarn-et-Garonne, in the region of Occitanie. It’s shameful to admit, but we had never heard of it before. Flicking through my trusty French tourist guide, I briefed Jack on the essentials. He hates being briefed. “Okay, it’s a rural department in the north-west of the region.” “Much of the southern portion of France is rural. You’ll have to find something more useful than that.” “Fair enough. Ooh, interesting – apparently, the geography is a mix of gorges, limestone plateaus, and farmland. Also, orchards and vines.” “We did tell him we didn’t want to buy a vineyard, didn’t we? Oh, bloody hell, I’ve got a nasty feeling he might have forgotten in the euphoria of a potential sale. I want to retire disgracefully with a glass in my hand, not slog around picking sodding grapes for the rest of my life.” “Course we did. Mind you, he does keep trying to sell us estates with enormous swimming pools. I did make it very clear that we didn’t want one of those, either.” Our autoroute drive took us from Perpignan past Toulouse, La Ville Rose, so named because of the stones with a pink hue used to construct the city’s buildings. Aside from being a typically magnificent French city with grand architecture, it has a mélange of curved streets lined with medieval buildings and endlessly interesting, quirky old shops, all of which give it a unique, intimate ambience. We continued, bypassing Montauban, another city of importance, and one of the oldest and best preserved of the bastide medieval towns in the south-west. And just like Toulouse, pink bricks had been used for construction. Whether he liked it or not, Jack needed to appreciate this aesthetic detail. “Well, here’s a thing. Montauban is another ville rose, due to the pinkish stones used to construct many of the grand old buildings. Just imagine the romantic colour tones those ancient buildings reflect with the sun shining on them.” “Can’t understand this obsession with pink. I’m sure they have other natural stone sources nearby. You mentioned gorges earlier. I’m glad we’re not being asked to view a property at the base of a crevasse, but the terrain we’re driving over couldn’t be more different. I hope ItsWill has given us the correct coordinates.” Jack was right. The surrounding countryside had evened out, with farmland as far as the eye could see. I gazed at the mixture of level ground gently rising to soft undulations. Dazzling fields of yellow oilseed rape flowers were framed by the soft verdant winter wheat in others. I returned to my tourist information guide. “I’m sure he has, Jack. We’re currently driving over the alluvial plains between the Rivers Garonne and Tarn. The confluence is not far from here. With that rich soil, I’m not surprised there’s so much farmland. It’s certainly very pretty, and with so few properties visible from here, I imagine it’s fairly sparsely populated.” “Excellent. Rural, no people; very promising. Ah, good, there’s Thierry. We haven’t gone wrong after all.” We met the gloriously debonair Thierry at the autoroute toll parking bay. Despite his suave manner, he seemed strangely animated about our visit. He explained that ‘madame’ was waiting, so it would be easier to give us a full overview once we had arrived. Following in convoy, we drove through a small town and back into open country. Sturdy old stone farmhouses were scattered across the landscape, square with open barns attached. Most were surrounded by crops. And then I saw the beasts. “Goodness, look at those magnificent white cattle.” Fascinated by their size and muscular builds, I checked my booklet and found that they are a famous breed developed from a mixture of three strains. And they’re old. There is trace evidence that the cattle were used during the Middle Ages. Like it or not, Jack had to be told. “Right, just in case you’re interested, those cows are called Blonde d’Aquitaine. They’re an old breed, originally valued as draft oxen, hardly surprising given their massive, muscular bodies, and for their meat and milk. Interesting – they’re the third-largest breed in France, after the Limousin and Charolais. So, if we buy here, you’ll be able to enjoy endless supplies of steaks.” Ignoring Jack’s grunt, I looked at the satnav system, which seemed to be having one of its moments. We had run out of named roads, and a diminishing number of spaghetti-like white ribbons was now displayed on the screen. We continued, and as we navigated narrow lanes untroubled by white lines, the land mix altered again. Pockets of woodland obscured our view. I scented their delicious perfume before I saw them: a soft, sweet, fruity fragrance. I opened the window as Jack, oblivious to this delicious aroma, rounded a corner. “Glad you’ve opened the window,” he grunted. “That dog is beginning to stink again.” “Can’t you smell that perfume? Oh, oh, look. That’s where it’s coming from!” “What? I can’t see anything.” “Jack, you’re hopeless. Look at those plum trees in blossom. Lines and lines of them stretching as far as I can see. What an amazing sight.” “They’re just trees. No more hysterical screeches, please, I’m trying to keep up with Thierry.”
