Today, we leave the frauds and foolishness of politics and economics… in order to give you an update on what has been happening here, in our little corner of France.
When we first came to France, we had six children… a tutor… and one elderly mother and an aunt. This big, old house looked perfect. Plenty of space. And plenty of work to do too — fixing roofs, doors, windows, shutters, walls, electricity, plumbing — everything. It was going to be a learning experience… and an adventure.
And here we are, thirty years later. When we got here the house was broken down… but we were young and energetic. Now, it is we whose thatch has thinned and whose hinges creak. The house is in more-or-less good shape.
And now there are only the two of us… awaiting visitors.
Chateau life is different from ordinary life. The chateau and the church were, traditionally, the centers of community life in the villages of France. The church held command of the spiritual high ground… the chateau was where the secular power resided.
But as farms modernized in the ‘50s and ‘60s, the gentleman farmer became a thing of the past and the big house became an unnecessary burden. Families in France do not leap for joy when they inherit an old chateau; they call a realtor.
And today, a chateau is a drafty, vast, rambling place almost always in need of repair. But chateau life has some charms.
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“Putain de merde!” (better left untranslated) yelled Damien.
Damien, a part-time handyman, was trying to get our old car started. It is an ancient 2CV… we had to get it going because our other car — a Nissan Patrol — exploded as we were driving down the highway.
“I knew something was wrong when I saw smoke coming out of the glove compartment,” Elizabeth told us.
And when we tried to get it going again, a huge cloud of smoke arose… while the engine made a clanging noise. An old diesel, with 300,000 kilometers on it…the time had come to say goodbye.
“The motor is dead,” was the judgement of a mechanic called to the scene.
When we got back home, we pulled the 2CV out of the garage and dusted it off.
“You won’t get very far in this,” said Damien.
It was a Saturday morning. And the first time we had ever seen Damien in a pair of shorts. They were short shorts… made out of some shiny tissue that looked vaguely like leather. His legs were alabaster white… with thin reddish hair on them. Beneath them were a pair of rubber boots.
If you had put him on stage, Damien would have drawn a torrent of laughs. But Damien had been fishing.
“Did you catch many fish,” we asked.
“Yes… they’re very little… in that bucket over there. You can fry them up whole. You don’t have to clean them. A ‘friture’ it’s called.”
Peering into the bucket did not increase our appetite. Damien fished in the canal next to the house. The water was muddy… and some of the little fish were already floating belly-up.
Turning back to the car, we had put in a fresh battery, but it still wouldn’t start. Damien took over.
“Merde!” he let out a curse. Almost immediately, he scraped his knuckles on the carburetor… trying to figure out why no fuel was getting where it needed to go.
This was old technology. Not a silicon chip in the whole car. And when it didn’t work… you took it apart.
The carburetor was soon in pieces. Damien put it back together. But when it was all assembled, there was still a little piece on the table.
“Merde!” came the inevitable remark.
Once again, the carburetor was disassembled… and reassembled. Whether Damien figured out where to put the extra piece… or whether he threw it in the trash, we don’t know… but when he pulled out the choke… and turned the key… the engine started up promptly.
“Let’s go for a spin,” suggested one of our young visitors from America.
So, we rolled back the top (made of flexible plasticized cloth)… took our seats… and set out. Over hill and dale… on the little, one-lane farm roads of the countryside… past fields of sunflowers… cows grazing… neglected 12th century chateaux… and humble farm dwellings. The clear blue sky overhead…the winding road ahead.
“It runs well, doesn’t it?” we remarked, to no one in particular.
But then, on an uphill climb, we felt something slip. The motor raced… but it seemed to slip out of gear… it advanced more and more slowly… and then, not at all.
We turned off the engine… now spinning over as if in a void. The three young passengers got out and pushed… after a bit of effort, with your editor directing from behind the steering wheel, the car crested the hill.
What luck. We weren’t far from home… and it was mostly downhill.
The three teenagers gave a shove and jumped back inside for a long coasting ride down the hill to the white cross that marked the turn-off to our house. Then, on flat ground, our three companions almost effortlessly pushed the car back into the yard.
Damien was standing in the driveway with his fishing bucket in his hand.
‘Merde!’
More Chateau Life… to come…
Regards,
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Bill Bonner,
For Fat Tail Daily
