The Ghastliness of Google

Image by airehaineo via Flickr

Some of us never learn.

After complaining about Blogger recently( here), nemesis overtook me in the form of the abolition of the automatic updating of this blog on other peoples' sites.
Needless to say, thanks to my numptiness, normal service has only partially been resumed and my apologies to those still affected.

Undaunted, or foolhardy, more like, I am now going to moan about Google, which will probably result in this being the last post ever seen on this blog as it is swallowed up in some black hole in the blogosphere in an act of  virtual vengeance.

I have my house up for sale and things are decidedly slow....apart from a stream of e mails from Nigerian government officials, bank directors and provincial governors who all wish to buy the house without first visiting it and give further proof of their trusting nature by offering to send me vast sums of money from which I am to subtract the price of the house and return the rest.

Now, given the strength of the Front National (1)  in this area, I would like nothing better than to sell the house to a Nigerian official, to whom I would offer a reduction in price on condition that when he goes to introduce himself to the maire he takes his wife or wives with him, all parties in national costume.
And that he has someone photograph the ensuing collapse of stout party.

Unfortunately, mention of a notaire, whose intervention is as undesired by myself as by the Nigerian gentlemen, brings an end to all these negotiations...and the house is still on the market.

For the notaire is not the only obstacle. There is something much worse to deter likely buyers.

Google Earth.

There is a farm across the road which raises the beef cattle who dot the surrounding fields when released from their hi-tech sheds at the back of the farm complex.
From my windows my view of the farm is the front part...the house and old barns grouped round the garden - and the tractor parked outside the front door at coffee time.
The new part...massive cattle sheds...is hidden behind, except for one roof which appears behind the tiled roof of the old barns.
As farms go, it is not so bad.
It doesn't smell, it is generally not noisy and since European Norms have forced him  - under threat of losing his grants - to store his grain securely and remove his dung heap, its resemblance to Hamelin in the time of the Pied Piper is a thing of the distant past.


But to anyone checking out the house on Google Earth, the farm looks like an airfield capable of despatching squadrons of B52s to napalm the Loire Valley!
It looks abominable!

I know that I lost a well known american actor that way because he upbraided the realtor who had shown him the house on the web....and refused even to look at the pictures taken from the house itself showing the actual view....so how many others have been put off likewise?

They must think that if a monstrosity like that is covered by the phrase 'the farm over the road', then what else will I have omitted to mention in the particulars?

Most of the property websites have a sort of 'tick the box' for features of the house and its area, typically including things like

'How long is the drive to the nearest beach?'
To which the  answer could be one hour and a half on a good day, three on a bad one and impossible if the lorry drivers/farmers/fishermen are blockading it.

Or are there tennis courts in the area?
Well, there are, both indoor and outdoor.....but where do items like this rank as against what there should be boxes for...as in

'Is there an unhealthy number of expats in the locality?'
or
'How often does the fish and chip van come round?´

Answer to the first...yes, but smart work with chair and whip will beat them off.

Answer to the second....it doesn't as the bar in the village is run by an adherent of the Front National who probably thinks that the deep fryer is just a high tech way of burning Joan of Arc all over again, so is not interested in hosting its' visits.
Let no one say that the Front National doesn't stick to its' principles.
The man is losing a potential fortune in sales of booze to the Brits who flock around the van like seagulls following the cross channel ferry.

What about
'Is the house situated in a wine producing area?', which would help the wine buffs
or
'Are there Michelin or Gault et Millau rated restaurants nearby?' to assist the foodies.

But the important factor is never mentioned...
'How far away are the gendarmerie stations?'

The house has a unique selling point only appreciated by those who live in rural France.
It is situated on the join in the map between two different gendarmerie areas, each reporting to a different boss.
Thus neither bunch venture out down here and you stand a fair chance of returning from wine tasting and dining out unscathed by the breathalyser.
Route map of small lanes and vineyard tracks avoiding the gendarmerie's known haunts goes with the house.

It is a lovely house in a beautiful setting and I shall be sorry to leave it, but it is far too big for us since we have  become decrepit and as we were refused planning permission for a smaller house in  the grounds...we're not farmers, you understand...common sense says we have to up sticks while we still have time to make a new life elsewhere.

But thanks to the ghastliness of Google, it could be a long time before it finds a new owner.


(1) Front National. Right wing party who believe that France is for the French. So do all the other political parties, but they tend to conceal this part of their programme.

The Traveller's Rest

This was the name of a pub which I used to pass when I was a child. Very pretty, shaded by venerable trees, set on a village green with benches outside where old codgers could criticise the cricket while sinking the contents of tankards.

I found myself thinking of that on my return to France from warmer climes....kind friends came to meet me after the long journey at no little inconvenience to themselves and took me in while I went through the last throes of the sale of the small house before I finally set off for home.

The last stage of the journey had been a renewed 'welcome to France' experience...the local train had been withdrawn due to strike (in)action and had been replaced by a bus whose delightful driver had never driven the route before. He had given his passengers a wonderful scenic run looking for obscure country stations, but all  I wanted was to be able to stop travelling and make major inroads on a pot of tea.

Fraught and bone weary, the sight of my friends emerging, smiling, from their car was balm to the soul. I could switch off and relax. I was in good hands.
It began with laughter. They had, while waiting, identified a Womble haunting the station and one sight of the lady concerned had me agreeing that we should all be on Wimbledon Common rather than in the heart of France.
There was no litter to be seen either, which I felt confirmed their theory.
It continued with tea, a warm comfortable room and, finally, sleep.

The ravelled sleeve of care knit up, I was able to face the battle over Capital Gains Tax with equanimity - that is to say, I managed to get my own way without blowing a gasket - and could wind up one more complication in life.

I was ready as I would ever be to face the onslaught of paper awaiting my attention in the post box...at least, the bits which had survived the determined attack of the army of snails awakened from hibernation and seeking the three star luxury of the meals on wheels provided by the postlady.

But, knuckling down to it all, my thoughts often stray to my friends and their welcoming house by the river.

They, like us, have decided to downsize.
They have run their hospitality business for many years, with people coming back time after time, but, as with us, health problems are raising their heads and it is time to make changes.
We will all find it difficult to leave the places we have loved so much, but we have all appreciated that it is best to make the move while we have liberty of action rather than wait until we are forced to move by circumstance.

The only thing of which I am sure is that, wherever they move, their home will  always be a haven for the weary traveller, a warm centre of laughter, kindness, good food and comfort.

It will be worth the journey.



photograph by ugardener 2 on Triporati

Gas attack at the bottom of the market

The small house has finally been sold. The bottom of the housing market in France has been called - unless the market detects that I will be putting the big house up for sale soon and decides to wait until the day after that sale for prices to start soaring.

The whole affair has been a nightmare, from agents pushing for low estimates, through endless internet clients who seem to be more interested in house tourism than in house buying, to the final straw, the refilling of the gas tank to test the heating system.

On the way there has been the neighbour who decided to put off potential clients as he liked the house being empty....
The sight of M. Crasseux hirpling over the sward in his cap and dressing gown to warn visitors that all was not as it seemed with the house was enough to deter all but the stout hearted until, hearing about this from one agent, I asked the local maire to intervene.

He reported back, exasperated.

I went to see him and I asked him what he thought he was doing.
He said he was just trying to prevent people from being ripped off by foreigners.
What's wrong with the house, then?
It's owned by a foreigner. Stands to reason there'll be something dodgy.
Why?
Because they're foreigners.

His visit must have achieved something, though, as in future M. Crasseux kept himself to himself on visiting days.
His home help told me why, some time later.
Well, the maire threatened to 'take notice' that his septic tank wasn't in order....

Considering that he doesn't have one at all, that was quite mild in the cirumstances, but it seemed to have done the trick.
Personally, seeing that the foreign clients probably didn't understand M. Crasseux' patois, I thought that it was not his dire warnings of
'Blow wind! Come wrack!'
that had done the damage, but just the mere horror of having him as a neighbour.

Living the dream consists of contemplating life from over the rim of  a glass of wine while sitting in the garden listening to the birdsong.
It definitely does not include the irruption of a testy pensioner tastefully clad in ill assorted patterns of plaid, gesticulating wildly while incomprehensible sounds emerge from between the false teeth.
Visions like this only form part of living the dream once the dreamers have fallen into the hands of the local Britpack and have taken to imbibing the rough five litre cubis from the supermarket.

There has been the person minding the house and garden who was never available to show people over it, reasoning that thus his employment would last longer....
Slight error of judgement there, sir. Good luck with the rest of your clients.

There was the man who drove from Holland in a snowstorm, only to say he thought it was a bit far away for a weekend retreat....

There was the woman from Holland who didn't like the kitchen....
Hoping for helpful feedback, I asked what was wrong.
It's much too big. People will expect me to cook.

There was the English man who said he had encountered two English people in the town on the way through and he wasn't going to live in an English colony.
I thought about an introduction to M. Crasseux but rejected the idea as counterproductive.

And so it went on....

Eventually, an energetic French agent appeared with a young couple who wanted a house with a garden, big enough for them, their two small children and all the rest they proposed to produce as long as the process was tax efficient.
Small problem, they needed a bank loan.

Before my eyes, they embarked on a procedure which was about to add another third to the price of the house, in order to satisfy the bank that the house was fit to loan money upon.

Now, this is a house dating from the late eighteenth century.
The stone walls are at least one metre thick, and when it was renovated, the roofs were insulated and new double glazed windows installed. It faces south, is always warm and cheap to heat.
In order to meet new 'green' guidelines, the whole house has to be dry lined!
In order to get the loan, the new guidelines have to be followed.

The young couple thus find themselves saddled with a loan much larger than they had envisaged, for something that does not need to be done, in order to put a roof over their heads.

Undeterred they went ahead, so I was obliged to undertake - pay for - the plethora of obligatory inspections, looking for wet and dry rot, death watch beetle, woodworm, asbestos, lead and, of course, the state of the electricity gas and water installations.

I have had some rum inspections in my time....
The house I was buying where a full inspection was done, which surprised me as the place was barred by a chain without a lock and to gain access it was necessary to break down the door - something the inspectors had clearly not done in order to carry out their work.
The house I was selling where I had stripped all the old  paint down to bare wood and repainted it. The inspector duly found lead.
How?
These machines are really sensitive...they'll find a spot of paint imbedded in the wood under five coats of new stuff!
Pity I'd stopped at four, then, wasn't  it.

We overcame the question of why there wasn't a T.V. point in every room - it hadn't been in the norms when the electricity had been installed.
It had been a miracle in my view that there had ever been an electrical installation at all.
I had asked the electricity board to put power on to the house and had requested an underground connection from the pole on the other side of the road.
Refused. It had to be an overhead connection.
Overhead connection installed.
Request made for an initial working point, to do the renovations.
Refused.
Why?
There was only an overhead connection. A working point could not be installed with an overhead connection.
I managed to find a way round this - oddly enough by using M. Crasseux's electricity supply, at his suggestion.
Electricity installed.
Applied for the inspection.
Installation refused a certificate.
Checked the inspector's points with an independent electrician who said there wasn't a problem at all.
Forced to pay for second inspection.
Passed.
No certificate.
Many telephone calls and two registered letters later, it appeared that the certificate had been sent to an office of the electricity board miles away.
A month later, the certificate arrived.
So there was something to inspect when it came round to selling, even if there wasn't a T.V. point in the loo.

As the house had been empty, I had not refilled the gas tank, but, to test the system, gas was required.
The gallant agent stepped in here, as I was showing signs of imminent terminal temper failure.
She would see to it.

I am heartily glad that she did, in view of what was to follow.

I had given her a copy of my contract with the supplier, so she contacted their office at Tours, to order 200 kilograms of gas - enough for the test.
Two weeks later she received the invoice -  for 2000 kilograms of gas.
She rang.
No, that was what she had ordered.
No, she hadn't.
Yes she had or it would not have been delivered.
Who was their local rep?
She could not be told. That was confidential commercial information.

As the agent is French, this was not a case of being difficult with foreigners. This is merely an example of the lack of commercial culture in  France. How the place survives at all is a mystery to me.

By approaching the local rep of their commercial rival, she eventually unearthed the company's own rep, who seemed genuinely surprised to hear from anyone at all. As well he might.

She entered negotiations. She produced her written order. He hummed, harred and telephoned Tours.
The gas would come in handy.
Not to her client it wouldn't. She was selling the house.
Then the new owners would like it.
Very likely, but they didn't want to pay for it and her client certainly wasn't going to do so.
But someone would have to pay.
Very likely, but that was his problem.

Two weeks later again, a new invoice was issued for 1000 kilograms.
Good try, Tours, but not good enough.
It took her another week to get an invoice for the amount ordered and, finally, the system could be tested.
It worked.

The sale could proceed. It has proceeded.

I have the money. They have the house.

The agent has high blood pressure.

I know how she feels.


Photograph by Maurizio Blasetti.

Let's get back to the sheep....

Image via Wikipedia

It is evening on our little farm in Costa Rica.
The heavy scent from the papaya flowers pervades the house.
We planted these trees from seeds from a super tasting fruit eighteen months ago and now we have four trees which are higher than the roof, laden with green fruit which will ripen in our absence.

We have eaten mango from our own trees for breakfast, together with coffee from our own bushes.
We have had elevenses of coconut milk from the green coconuts on the palms behind the house.

The orchids which fell from the trees in the last storm are starting to flower on our balcony.
The vanilla vine is starting its' climb up the support provided for it and we hope for the first pods next year.

We have plantains to cook, guinea to cook or to eat and bananas by the hand.
I would love to be able to bring two or three hands of our bananas to Europe for friends...never being a banana lover I have been converted by eating them fresh from the stem and I would love to share the experience.

Friends will just have to come to see us.

Well, after the Lord Mayor's Procession of our trip into Nicaragua and Honduras, comes the dustcart...I am about to set out for deepest France again and I am not particularly looking forward to the trip.

I also wonder whether I shall be happy to be back. Distance lends perspective and although Costa Rica is by no means a paradise,  time away from France has been time for reflection.

I have finally managed to sell the last remaining small house and the whole process has been a nightmare from start to what I sincerely hope will be a finish on Friday - though I suspect it will be fifteen rounds with the notaire on Capital Gains Tax and a sharp tussle to get my hands on the cheque on the day of the sale.
All hassle I could live without.
When I bought the farm in Costa Rica, I checked the Land Registry for title in the morning and by afternoon the purchase was completed.
The contrast is startling.

We know that we have to downsize - the effects of winter on the garden being the final blow - so I have to start the dispiriting round of agents again for the sale of the big place.

I have already decided that the first one to start sucking teeth will be out of the door on the end of my foot and that any local one who tells me that he knows what I paid for the place will swiftly follow.
What is it about the French that they think that what you paid for a mouldering wreck has any relation to the fine upstanding house you are about to sell many years down the line?
Inevitably I will get one who will gloat about the British leaving France because they have run out of money - indicating that he thinks I am in the same position - so the foot will be employed again before he can offer his insulting estimate.

It occurs to me that I'd best buy a stout pair of boots before starting to contact agents or I'll soon have sore toes.

The tax forms will be arriving soon, the insurance company - from whom I parted company years ago - will be threatening me with bailiffs for not paying them to insure a house I sold seven years' ago , the water technician will be wanting to discuss demolishing one of my weirs - for which read 'we are going to do it anyway' - so that will involve yet more useless lawyers to challenge the decision, and I must remember not to try to change one hundred dollar bills as these have to be passed via the French Central Bank and will take five weeks to return to my bank account in euros.

Still, as Roz's photographs on Dirty feet and rubble in my hair remind me, there will be compensations.

The fruit trees should be flowering and there might even be some asparagus if it hasn't been nicked.
The spring bulbs should be performing which will give me heart as I check the poor tender plants to see if there is any sign of new life after the winter's killing spree.
I'll catch up with friends.

It might be all right after all.

All I now have to do is get up at 4.00 am, get the plane to Mexico City, wait seven hours for the connection to Madrid, then see if Iberia are actually laying on coaches for the Madrid to Paris leg as their website says they are, and if not, leg it over to Estacion Sur to try to book a seat on Eurolines the same day. If I cannot, then get a hotel until I can get a flight or a seat - and don't talk to me about catching a train as the alternatives are either taking local trains which take twenty two hours to reach the destination, or a con trip train which offers showers and inedible meals for a price to take my breath away.

So as the local sheep shagging fraternity say
'Revenons-en a nos moutons'.
Back to France it is.

No Choice Menu

Image via Wikipedia

Over at St. Supplice they are having a get together....continuing - or reinventing - the old Ash Wednesday tradition of eating salt cod. Not, of course, on Ash Wednesday as the black cassocked one kicked up stink about anything that might resemble jollity taking place on such a day. In his view jollity is for Easter and only to be consumed in moderation. And then confessed to. Privately. In the confessionals which he has had refurbished in the churches under his sway.

It's a good job he wasn't around a few years ago when life at St. Supplice was a bit more colourful....Jules used to reckon that it was nothing to do with Vatican II that the congregation did a sort of joint confession rather than frequenting the musty interior of the confessional, it was more that the black cassocked one's predeccessor was having too many lurid dreams after his stint in the box and feared for his soul.

Since those were the days when Denise was strutting her stuff in the vines, the bar boasted three generations of prostitute - a bit like running into Hecate when you nipped in for the racing paper - and the only lending library in the commune was Papy's collection of pornography, Jules might have had a point.

Still, as the black cassocked one is showing his Lenten disapproval by not attending, it promises to be a good evening.
It's going to be organised in the traditional way. The commune is providing the wine, you pay a few euros for the main course and you bring your own starter, pud, cheese, bread and implements. Plus cards or board games for after the meal. You'll be sitting on benches at long tables, so you don't know who you'll get as a neighbour and the only sure thing is that someone will try to teach me belote again and will fail.

The salt cod will be traditional too. Lumps of the stuff that have been sitting under a running tap for twenty four hours before being cooked, accompanied by boiled potatoes, Mme. Machin's legendary sauce and served direct from the cooking trays borrowed from the school canteen.

Nothing fancy, not expensive and a good night out.

Closer at hand, at Ste. Conasse, the British immigrant comunity are running their version in aid of charity. I haven't seen any flyers, it all goes by word of mouth, so I only know about it because the postlady's colleague who does the Ste. Conasse  round asked her if I was going.

I telephoned the woman who runs everything that way to ask about it - by now I really fancy salt cod and it's a damn sight closer than St. Supplice, after all - and was told that it was booked out.

What would I have been having if I had have been having?

A fully catered affair at fifteen euros with the salt cod manifesting itself  as brandade de morue, and wine available at seven euros a bottle. There would be a quiz night to follow, with an entry fee.

What was the charity?

We'll get everyone to suggest something and the committee will decide.

Well, St. Supplice it is then.

I'll be checking the map to make sure I keep to the backroads and the occasional track through the vines for the return as if I know it's on, so will the gendarmerie.