At some point I got it into my head that I wanted to be a farmer.
This, among many other stupid plans, amuses people that I know. Except whilst I am happy to amuse people this 'plan' wont go away.
I have been told how I don't know anything about farming. I am often reminded of the time I tried to hang a picture in our flat in Hackney and made a fist like hole in the plasterboard. I was eventually successful when I took a large wod of blue-tac, stuck the bluetac to the top of the hole, drove the nail into the bluetac and voila. The wife wasn't totally pleased. I get - "you don't have a driving license", "you can't speak French properly", "you are too busy" and even "it's the most stupid idea- you are bound to fail!" I don't believe in star signs... but I am a Taurus.
Then there is the money thing. As in I don't have any. Or rather I can't hold onto it. We have two kids and I work in France. In Paris. Teaching. Not exactly a recipe for financial security.
But none of this has stopped me. Not since I read John Seymour- The Complete book of self-sufficiency. Not since I persuaded the missus that we couldn't afford Somerset and it had to be France. Not anywhere in France, but Haut Normandie. The area close enough for us to escape to during the weekends, (its under an hour and a half by train), close enough to the sea and close enough to England. And then there are the Historical ties. I taught Norman History- well its relevance to British History badly for years. But now it takes on a whole new meaning. Hence the name of this blog.
And that's not all. I started a course in Horticulture in order to take the RHS exam. I am in love with herbs ever since drinking Vervaine tea. And whilst I absolutely recognise this is is currently a pipe dream. I am perfectly happy dreaming, and am enjoying every minute of it. So my particular version of the good life is going to look like this:
Working in Paris five days a week, we- the family- will jump on the train at Gare St. Lazaire and head west towards the Risle valley, for either Brionne or Bernay. Where within walking distance from a train station- or bus ride- we will have a small home: that we own- with a garden that the kids can steam about in- they are not able to do that in our flat in 75020. And I can't stand suburbia- it's either fully urban or completely rural. And if you can- then its both.
The Budget- Well BNP Paribas say they are up- in theory- for lending us between 50 and 120,000. But when they get all the paperwork in- and being France I am bracing myself for lots of paperwork- I think it will be nearer the 50 than the 120. That said I have been scowering Seloger.com for over a month and today I went.
I took the train to Bernay.
I had it all prepared. All mapped out. I wasn't expecting the snow, mind. The kids and the missus went swimming and I went to Bernay. All that looking at maps, online searching was suddenly turning into reality. I had joined the American library to borrow James Bentley's Normandy - which I love and Derek Pitt's portrait of Normandy, which I don't- and there I was- off the train at Bernay, in under ninety minutes, my Saint Lazaire coffee was still faintly warm. I was so anxious not to be disappointed. And I wasn't. There was, like any town, a good smattering of loonies about, but its interesting, leftfield and chic enough to have enough going on, to be stimulating enough without being pretentious- I loved it. Bernay on a market day. I walked down the main drag in a sort of daze. I got the feeling that my previous DIY disasters, my lack of knowledge for just about anything rural were secretly following me down the high street. The fifth time I had walked up and down- a trader described me as a walker- so I sneaked into a bar for a coffee.
I took the train to Brionne which wasn't such a hit. The massive motorway bridge and its lack of centre didn't help- The fact I only had thirty minutes to run around it, in the biting cold- didn't help either. I am certain there is more to see. The lake looked interesting... Anyway I was back in Bernay within the hour and within the next I was looking round my first Norman home: on the market at 76,000 it's an old cider press- in someone elses grounds- walking distance from Bernay. without electricity or water, and in need of some serious attention. It is interesting. But perhaps not interesting enough to us. The building- you can't call it a home- is on the wrong side of the plot of land. It has some nice features- a socking great press in the middle of the room- which would have to come out in order to do anything in the space.
Anyhow was nice to be driven about, a good chance to see some more of Bernay. Suffice to say it has got me thinking. Too much! The stem has snapped, the journey has begun...
