Love in a Warm Climate (4 page)

After the ritual humiliation of getting through airport security, we boarded our flight to Montpellier. This was always going to be our last trip over for a while; we couldn’t afford to keep coming back and forth. If it didn’t work out we had decided to leave it until after Christmas, although we had originally hoped to move during the Christmas holidays. I figured Christmas is so stressful anyway – would a small change of country, lifestyle and home make it any worse? And it would be satisfying to feel we had achieved the dream Nick first mentioned by the fire on Christmas Day a year before.

I looked out of the window. This was our fourth trip so I recognised where I was. When it lands, the plane does a kind of swoop over pink flamingos and water before it approaches the runway at Montpellier Airport. We disembarked into a different world to grey old Stansted. It was a bright, sunny and warm day, despite being late October.

Nick almost fell down the steps of the plane checking his BlackBerry. I thought he was checking work messages, but since the bra-in-bag incident, I now suspect he was responding to some sexy text from the French mistress. Maybe she was hoping I would find the text messages and got fed up with waiting for me to do so, which is why she planted the bra. One of the downsides to picking an unmarried lover is that they are likely to hope you’re going to get caught out.

The road from the airport was pale in the early morning sun and there was not much traffic.

“I can’t get over the fact that even the motorway is beautiful,” I said to Nick. “I’m sure it’s a good sign when they plant flowers and trees in the middle of the road.”

Nick laughed. “Yes, a sign that the people here pay too much tax.”

I ignored him; nothing could spoil my enjoyment. There were stunning
views either side of the motorway of vineyards and mountains, and olive trees planted down the middle, mixed with oleander, some of which were still in flower. It was amazing how obvious the seasons are there compared with London. It was so autumnal; the leaves were turning from green to copper and were much less abundant than they had been on our last trip. The sun was lower and the shadows longer, but there was still real warmth in the air.

We arrived in Pézenas about an hour after landing. We had based our search from Pézenas for three reasons: one, we loved the town with its beautiful old stone buildings, bustling Saturday market and cobbled streets. Two, there are no less than twenty estate agents there. And three it is between the beach and the mountains, which is exactly where we wanted to be.

“It seems to me that French estate agents are either extremely stupid or stubborn or very possibly both,” I said to Nick over lunch. “It doesn’t matter how many times we explain what it is we are after, we have been shown one hopeless property after another hopeless property. Why should today be any different?”

We were in a little bistro at the edge of the Place du 14 Juillet, where we had enjoyed a steak and
frites
in the October sunshine.

Nick shook his head. “Maybe it won’t be, but we have to keep trying.”

“In an ideal world, would you rather order another bottle of wine, or go looking at unsuitable properties?” I asked him.

“In an ideal world I would spend the afternoon looking at suitable properties,” replied my sensible husband, bless him.

I smiled. “Yes, but the chances are they will show us nothing we like. And it is so lovely here. And we probably won’t come back until next year, so I vote for whiling the afternoon away with another bottle of rosé. What do you think?”

“It’s a nice idea, Soph. But while I am not sure we will find anything this afternoon if we go, I know for sure we won’t if we stay here.”

“No you don’t. Remember me and the number 36 bus? That man over there might be a
vigneron
on the verge of a nervous breakdown desperate to sell his beautiful château for a knock-down price to the first person that asks him,” I said, pointing to a man in a beret sitting a few tables away drinking a white drink that I guessed was Pernod rather than milk.

“Go and ask him,” said Nick, laughing. “But ask the waiter for the bill as well, just in case he’s not. Remember, French women rarely drink more than one glass of wine – what was that Coco Chanel quote you read to me the other night from a magazine?”

“Elegance is refusal,” I replied in a silly French accent. “But I’m not a French woman. You can tell I’m not because I have just eaten lunch. And it’s a book, not a magazine. Sarah gave it to me. It’s going to help me to find my inner French woman.”

The more I read of that, the less sure I am that I have an inner French woman. They are all about seduction, slimness, perfectly manicured nails and matching underwear. None of which apply to me. In fact, Sarah is more suited to all that. She probably thought I needed the book more than she did.

“And you’ll never get the chance to be French either if we stay here all afternoon. Come on, let’s go,” said Nick, calling for the bill.

We left the restaurant and headed north of Pézenas towards the mountains. We were early for our meeting, of course. When the agent showed up he first showed us a tiny bungalow with several hectares of vineyards outside a town called Lamalou-les-Bains. He was the smallest man I have ever seen, about the same size as the twins, and came from Essex. The house was no good; it looked more like a caravan than a home, and we would have to knock it down and start again. The land was lovely, at the base of a mountain range with uninterrupted views over miles of unspoiled countryside, but the town itself was quite sinister, with more people in wheelchairs than on foot, and those that were on foot walking with crutches. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel young and healthy, even after a long lunch and a bottle of wine.

“Why is everyone ill here?” I asked. “Is there something wrong with the water?”

The agent laughed. “No, Lamalou is where the French send their war veterans. There is even an expression, ‘going to Lamalou’, which means you are getting ill.”

“Not the worst place to end up,” I said.

“Where are you going next?” asked the shortest man in the world, as we walked to our hire car.

“Oh, some place over near Boujan,” said Nick, sounding as if he’d lost the will to live.

“That’s the one you’ll buy,” replied the miniature estate agent.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I just do,” he said, tapping his nose, which I noticed not for the first time, was preposterously large for his face and body.

We met the next agent at a bar in a village called Hérépian with a busy high street and large fountain. He was Dutch and unusually tall. Is no one a normal size around here? He was also early. Nick ought to live in one of those Northern European countries; everyone is on the same time as him. We got into his car because he said the house was hard to find. I liked the sound of that.

As we drove towards the hills, our spirits lifted. I think we both felt more comfortable closer to the hills where the landscape is less arid and there are fewer tourists. It feels more like a real place, like the kind of place we can make a home and raise our family.

We were on a beautiful winding road through tree-covered hills. To our right in the distance was a mountain range that, our agent told us, is called the Espinouse. The mountains were a mixture of colours in the afternoon sun, ranging from deep green to purple to shades of blue.

“Assuming there’s not a housing estate around the corner, this could be very exciting,” said Nick, turning round from the front seat of the grey Berlingo van and squeezing my hand.

“What?” yelled Mr Vorst, the agent, nearly driving us all into the ditch. He was deaf in his right ear, so every time someone spoke he turned around to listen with his left ear, leaving his car to navigate the road by itself.

We came off the mountain road and turned into another road lined with plane trees. It curved gently ahead of us like a crescent moon. I was dying to see what was around the corner.

“Wouldn’t you just love to drive along here every day?” I said to Nick. Either side of the road were vineyards with rows of neatly planted vines. We were alone on the road; there seemed to be hardly any traffic at all in this part of France. When we got around the corner I could see a village in the
distance on top of a hill. It was one of those places one might see on the motorway as one drove to a Club Med hotel in Provence and think ‘What a dreamy place, I wonder who lives there?’

“That’s Boujan,” said the agent, pointing at it. “The nearest village to the house.”

We arrived a few minutes later. It was a small, sleepy village that consisted of the same things as just about every other small village in France; a bar, a
boulangerie
selling everything from
pain au chocolat
to chewing gum, a Hôtel de Ville, a chemist, a church, a war memorial and a primary school.

There was a compact square in front of the Hôtel de Ville where some men were playing
boules
– just about the only sport, along with darts, that Nick has never shown any interest in. But even he was carried away by the idyllic scene.

“I might take up
boules
,” he mouthed at me silently, so the agent wouldn’t drive into the ditch. I nodded and smiled. Moving to France is one thing, but
boules
really is pushing things. At the time, of course, I was unaware he had taken up the other French national sport of having affairs. I suppose as this was October he must have been two months into the liaison by then. But he hadn’t really changed much at home, in fact he seemed a bit more cheerful and I thought his focus was on the move to France, not moving in on some French bird.

The village was like a dream village. In the main square there was a plane tree in each corner.

“They provide shade in the hot summer months,” explained Mr Vorst.

In the middle there was a stone hexagonal fountain with a stone column in the centre. On two opposite sides of the column were two spouts shaped like snakes from which cool clear water poured. On top was a flower arrangement that had red, pink, yellow, white and blue flowers that must have been in baskets, but it was so abundant it looked as if they were growing from the fountain itself.

We walked over to the fountain and drank some of the clear, cool water.

“The water comes from the mountains,” said Mr Vorst, pointing to them. It tasted cold and fresh and a little earthy.

Across the road from the square the stone church tower was bright in the afternoon sunlight. The bells rang four times signalling the hour. We walked over to the war memorial, an obelisk-shaped statue with a brass soldier perched on top of it.
A la mémoire des enfants de la commune de Boujan morts pour la France 1914–1918
read the inscription. There were about thirty names carved into the stone; I read some of them, imagining the young men who had their whole lives in front of them and the mothers and lovers who must
have mourned them: Hippolyte Pierron, Joseph Courtois, Ernest de Sade, Marcellin Bartin. Underneath there was a smaller section dedicated to the Second World War. Around the bottom of the memorial were small colourful flowers. Wooden boxes of colourful plants lined the square and the streets as well. Even the bar, La Petite Auberge with its rather dilapidated exterior and old-fashioned yellow faded sign headed
Consommations Choisies
and listing drinks in pre-war writing like
Bière Pression le demi and Café Noir la tasse
, had hanging baskets of bright flowers.

“Maybe they’re gearing up for the France in Bloom competition,” I said to Nick. “Did you know that a third of French villages enter it every year?”

He looked at me as if I had finally lost the plot.

I longed from that moment to be part of the life they lived here, even if it did mean that Nick took up
boules
. This was not just because of the way it looked, though, but because there was an atmosphere of community here. It reminded me of the England of my childhood that I would like my children to grow up in but that no longer exists, where the pace of life is slow and there is a real sense of community, somewhere people still care enough to keep an eye out for other people’s kids and there isn’t just CCTV watching. This was a place we would all be safe in, a place in which they could be children without fear. In London I daren’t let them out of my sight for a second, the papers are endlessly full of horror stories of abductions of children and people being stabbed for doing nothing more than walking down the road at the wrong time.

We went back to the car and drove through the village, past a bus stop where a group of women wearing slippers sat chatting under a giant painted Dubonnet poster slowly being erased by time and the elements. They stopped their talking and looked up as we drove past. They didn’t really look like they were actually waiting for a bus. Sure enough, I saw another elderly lady walking from her house with a fold-up chair to join them. She too stopped to stare at the unknown car.

“Imagine living in a place where a car you don’t recognise constitutes an event,” I said to Nick. “I think I would rather get to like it.”

Nick nodded. “It sure beats the drive-by shooting that makes for an event round our way.”

We drove down another tree-lined road towards what was to become our new home. Close to it was a château that looked more like a mini-Versailles than a Languedoc wine grower’s home. It was absolutely magnificent, with turrets and towers and a long avenue of cypress trees leading up to it. I imagined the inhabitants must be terribly glamorous, and might possibly even wear 17
^th
-century clothes.

“That is the Château de Boujan,” the agent told us. “Their land adjoins the land of Sainte Claire, but they have around thirty hectares, whereas you have only sixteen. They used to be one property. Back in the last century it was boom time for the wine makers of the Languedoc because they were able to produce six to eight times as much as their counterparts in northern France due to the climate here, so a lot of these flamboyant châteaux were built. Château de Boujan is still very much a working vineyard but the owners of Sainte Claire have not maintained the vineyard so there is a lot of catching up to do. But they tell me it is excellent
terroir
. This part of the region used to be covered by seawater. The vineyards here are built on a former coral reef. Fossilised coral is very good for vines because it drains well and vines hate to have wet feet. It is perhaps the only vineyard in the world with such a unique
terroir
.”

I looked at Nick questioningly. “That means the land you grow the vines on,” he explained. “Some experts say they can taste the soil or
terroir
in the wine.”

We drove on past the château. The tree-lined road turned into a dust track that ended about 150 metres on at a small roundabout with a fountain in the middle. When I say fountain, it was more of a trickle of water, forcing its way through years of foliage and bright green moss that had grown over a simple stone pillar with a pattern around the top that was barely visible, but it was charming. We got out of the car and looked up at the house. My heart skipped a beat. I had what the French call a
coup de coeur
. My nipples stood on end. It was similar to the feeling my Italian friend Carla described when she first met her new tennis coach.

“Is this normal?” I whispered to Nick. “Is it possible to fall in love at first sight with a house?”

The object of my newfound love was Sainte Claire, a French farmhouse and one of the prettiest places I have ever seen. My first impression of it was that I didn’t really care what was inside; I just never wanted to leave. I stood and gazed at it in awe. The château next door was all very splendid, but this was a
home
.

The house itself was large, with three floors. The façade was whitewashed limestone. The windows were all closed with shutters painted blue. On many of them the paint was peeling off, yet somehow that didn’t make it look scruffy but in fact added to the charm. The roof was old tiles and there were three chimneys. On the middle floor there were some French doors leading onto a balcony that I longed to stand on and admire the view from. There were plants growing at various heights up the limestone façade; wisteria, roses and jasmine.

It was almost as if the house had been painted in the position it sat in, nestled in front of the hills, with views all around, each one prettier than the next.

“We are in the foothills of the Cévennes Mountains here,” said the agent.

I looked around me and breathed in the air. It was scented with thyme and lavender. As I inhaled I felt as though it was rejuvenating me, filling me with the goodness of the Languedoc and rinsing out all that London filth and stress.

An avenue of olive trees led to the garden and the hedgerows were full of flowers: poppies, wild gladioli, daisies. I even spotted a bunch of capers growing wild on the wall of the house.

“They’ll come in useful for spaghetti alla puttanesca,” I told Nick.

Not that I’ve ever made spaghetti alla puttanesca. I always forget to buy the capers.

We walked up the four steps leading to the front door. I immediately imagined the children racing up to be the first one in.

I smiled at the thought of the children. “I can’t wait to tell them about this place,” I said to Nick. “It is just what we’ve been imagining.”

In fact it was far better than anything I had been imagining – one of those rare moments in life when the reality is better than the fantasy.

“The house has not been lived in for almost a year,” explained Mr Vorst. “When Madame Gréco died the family argued about what to do with it. In France you cannot disinherit your children so all her five children inherited a portion each and couldn’t agree on selling it or keeping it, as is more than often the case with these old properties. Eventually the lawyers got involved and the decision to sell was taken. Meanwhile none of them were allowed to use it, so it is very dusty and obviously like all old houses there is some work to be done, but it is in fundamentally good shape, the fittings are excellent.”

I looked at Nick to see if I could gauge what he was thinking. In the unlikely event that he hated it I’m not sure what I would have done. He gave me a short nod, which I translated to ‘Yes, Soph, I know it is fabulous but if you don’t stop grinning like a Cheshire cat on heat the price will double before we even get inside the door.’

Mr Vorst opened the shutters and unlocked the front door with a key that looked like the one Mary Lennox used to unlock the secret garden in one of my all-time favourite books. He pushed the door open and immediately we felt cold air coming out from the house.

“These houses are designed to stay cool,” he told us. “The walls are thick and there are shutters on all the windows. In the summer, people shut them during the day to keep the sun out.”

We were in an entrance hall with large beige flagstones on the floor. On either side were walls with doors leading off into rooms. The agent walked into a room on the left and opened all the shutters. Light flooded in. It was the kitchen that was located in the extension we had seen from the outside.

I could already see that it was a lovely house, that it had been loved and just needed a bit of attention. The kitchen didn’t look at all bad for somewhere that hadn’t been used for several months. There was a large flue at one end where the cooker must have stood. Several spiders had set up home there; they scuttled away, shocked into flight by the light. The sink was below the window, with a view over the vines.

I started imagining shelves filled with over-sized jars where I would store everything from walnuts to cranberries. No matter that I never did in London – this house was going to be a new beginning. I might not find my inner French woman, but my inner domestic goddess was raring to get out.

“I love this kitchen,” I told Nick. “The children’s chicken nuggets and chips days are numbered.”

“They always show the kitchen first,” said Nick. “Kitchens apparently sell houses.”

“Oh, I thought estate agents did,” I replied under my breath. “You’d better not be trying to put me off; it’s too late for that.”

“They will leave the table and chairs,” said Mr Vorst, pointing at a large round oak table and matching chairs. “You are lucky; some people even take the light bulbs. There is a small fireplace in here too.” He pointed at a steel door in one of the beams that when opened revealed a little oven – perfect, he said, for wood-fired pizzas, whatever they are. “Madame Gréco’s children have divided up what they want, heaven knows how, and anything you see left here is included in the price. That also includes the barrels and machinery in the
cave
.”