Letter from blighty

or perhaps....from Sud Ouest to South West.

I know I should be telling you about all the excellent reasons for coming to live in France. But, you know these already.
Over the years a number of our clients have decided to return to the UK for one reason or another, and some of them have returned to France sharpish, not finding the UK to their liking any more. Here is the story of one who returned to stay, for family reasons.

The Rovers bought a lovely property in Lot et Garonne through us some 14 years ago, spent a couple of years renovating it and then retired to it from the UK. After many happy years in their Quercy stone country home, the call of grandchildren became too strong and they decided to return to the UK to be closer to them. Here is their letter to us, one year after their return.


Hi Violette and Carl,
It has now been a year since our re-entry and rehabilitation into the UK began. It has taken all of that time to complete the process and absorb its full impact. At the moment we are still enthralled with the continuing adventure and though we are never overwhelmed with nostalgia, we often think of our multi-national chums in Quercy.

I remember agreeing to put some of the thoughts arising from relocation to paper. I believe you have a newsletter which might use them. Use, chuck or chop the following as you wish. ......

The key to all this two way migration is simple. We have never seen ourselves as fugitives - rather as adventurers on the lookout for the next exciting chapter. Just as we never FLED the UK in the first place, we didn't RUN AWAY from France. We like to think of ourselves as modest explorers. So we continue to chase the next experience, always consumed with the curiosity of serial life- style changers.

Nevertheless we look back on our move as an event that took years off our short remaining lives and handfuls of hair from our already balding heads. Why is it that one always imagines that the guy who buys yer house is going to rob you, welch on the deal or vanish into thin air? Selling a house brings on gibbering paranoia. But, thanks to you Carl, we almost retained our sanity and sense of proportion. You coaxed us through a tricky patch with amazing care and patience.

Here are some of our more seismic moments.

* Because we didn't insist that the vet did his homework properly the poor old cat had to wait in kennels for six months before joining us by private and posh courier (Imagine the expense).

* In spite of reassurances which were eventually borne out, the use of money exchange services for transferring cash was hair-raising. This operation saved us money but lost us time because every one through whose hands our money passed found cause for the odd day or so's delay.

* Why do removal men hate me so? They never actually said so but I could tell by their sidelong glances and barely disguised sneers.

* It seemed at the time that every English Utility was staffed with people who had to be told everything twice - and then they got it wrong. And how politely they apologise in England - seeming to hate themselves and loathing their tardy performance. But it doesn't do any bloody good.

So it was that we washed up on the Jurassic Coast of East Devon with not a dinosaur to be seen. However what we did find was more significant to our needs and perhaps even of interest to fellow Quercy expats ready for the next chapter in their mortal coils. So much was stunningly different; so much was reassuringly the same. How collaborative and chummy are the bureaucrats in a West Country local authority compared with their aloof French counterparts who seems to feel that working for the state confers both Godlike status and the right of baton charge. Our local Bobby introduced himself by christian name in the middle of the village high street unlike his Gallic cousin who always avoided eye contact in spite of getting reassurance from the loaded six shooter on his hip. I can't be certain that this would be the same in Harringay but then.....we didn't choose to settle there. Also.... what about the craftsmen who have done work in our new home? It can't just be good luck that they have all been as cheerful, creative, hard-working and honest as those who starred as our artisans in France and eventually became our friends. Just last week Bob, the builder (yes, improbable but true) arrived with a newly caught sea bass for which he refused payment. He's the guy with an eye for finish that would credit the best obsessive and yet he is cheerful, witty and....well the other day I called him "Jaques" through sheer absentmindedness.

Then there's our local bakery. Not so much a bakery, more a shelf of floppy sliced, pre-wrapped bread in the local Spa.shop. "We used to have a bakery, but there was no call for it what with the Spa an' all." they chorused when we asked the way to the bread shop - dying to say "boulangerie" but not wanting to look too smart. We had already been reminded that locals hate "clever clogs" from "off". They weren't fooled by our attempts to claim previous residence when we used the words, "We'm bin yur back along, bain't wus!". These days they are only too ready to swoop in with a tirade against townsfolk and their interfering ways..... "Stoppin' us hunting an' all.......where is bloody France anyway? Up near Lunnen init?")

But we mustn't forget the other ninety five percent of locals. Folk who, in the eighties and nineties took their redundancy from their Midlands or Northern factories, and migrated in place and time to rural "YesterDevon". Once here they assumed a persona from an old edition of The Archers. But this shouldn't have come as a surprise. Back in SW France we were constantly reminded of the English tendency to present themselves to bystanders, fellow restaurant guests and any passing dog as special, interesting, or just better.

Not being smart at arithmetic nowadays lets me tell of the other seventy five per cent of interesting and interested people we have come into contact with and who have helped us in our attempts to resist the overtures of the Women's Institute and the local Evangelical movements. Our neighbour who couldn't go to too great an effort to inform us of community resources; the man at the museum-like hardware shop who sold us unusually sized metal washers individually and let us have ".....the inside bit for nothing"; the local butcher who has won national prizes for sausages normally only sold in the Garden of Eden; the tram drivers on our tram ride down to the seaside who stop half way and give us a potted and witty history of the Monmouth Rebellion (some neighbours have wounds which still haven't healed from that ancient conflict)

Finally, however we want to share one great quality of the French which we so admire. And that is how discreet, self assured and self contained are our much missed French friends. Okay. the poseur on the trottoir exuding extrovert self assurance and life-style is only an interesting, even entertaining, artistic installation, never an affront to the environment (though often a source of naughty envy.) But the discreet, even refined murmur of the French at table, beach or general relaxation is sorely missed.

Some details have been changed.