Keep Your Head If You Move To France

KEEP YOUR HEAD IF YOU MOVE TO FRANCE

About the author

John Bottrill Ph.D. is a former professor - author of learned papers in Psychology and several books - Romance, France, Palmistry, Children’s stories, Family History.

Apart from writing and genealogical research, he enjoys renovating houses, furniture and paintings. He currently lives in Spain with his partner and a naughty cat, called Porage.

Information about living in Spain can be found at http://smallholdinginparadise.blogspot.com.es.

And his books can be found at https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/contactenglish and www.contactenglish.eu

Historical information about the Boterel family (the original spelling!) can be found at www.bottrillfamilyhistory.com and http://bottrillfamilyhistory.blogspot.com.es/

Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed without permission, except for brief passages for review purposes.

© 2013 Copyright John Bottrill

Published by John Bottrill

Smashwords edition

ISBN 978-0-9929801-2-2

FOREWORD

We finally bought a place in France. It wasn't too difficult; in fact it was good fun. Houses are still relatively cheap, but they're going up slowly as more and more Brits move over the Channel. Property isn't suffering like it is in Britain, and it's a good bet. Our place is worth about €60,000: in Sussex it would be €260,000.

We started off as green as anyone else, liking the idea of living in France and wondering what to do next. Like everyone else, we learned as we went along that the three questions you must answer before you make a pig's ear of everything are:

what do you want the property for - retirement, a holiday home, an income producer?

what area do you want it in - near Britain for easy access, in the South for sun etc?

what's the most you can afford?

You can't really separate them completely: they're all reflections of the bigger question -

why France anyway?

This isn't a practical, how-to-do-it book. It's a glimpse of how we did it, the mistakes we made, and some no-holds-barred comments on life in la belle France.

There are things you should know ..........

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. A TRIP TO CALAIS. A coach trip - Arthur's stories - job advert. – DOT, the headmaster - Rouen traffic – a car with an interior exhaust - a place to rent – Madame and the donkey.

2. PROPERTY HUNTING. How to find property - various finds - notaries and estate agents - fees - purchase and pitfalls - do's and don't's - Code Napoléon – B+B in winter - French attitude to property.

3. THE IMPOSSIBLE DOT. Training course - Madame again - our farm - a party with dream interpretation - Arthur and DOT - trouble on the métro - more Arthur stories - teaching at home.

4. YOUNG MEN. Need for young men - adverts. - interviews - more Madame - moving stuff over - Customs - winter and its problems.

5. CATS. Abandoned kittens - a litter in the hayloft - Madame meets her match - finding homes.

6. DRIVING IN FRANCE. Car dealers - a trade-in and a crooked dealer - free ferry crossing - it must be a diesel - Citroën - dealers again - car insurance - 5-star for €15 - mechanics, dealers, and scrapyards.

7. REBUILDING. Water - electricity –skidding down the lane - building permits - the rates - estimates - mud - the quality of dung - heating systems - septic tanks - baths and taps - circuits – the terrace - a pond.

8. DOUDOU. Farm auction - le chien enchainé‚ – an auction – a pervert cat - R.S.P.C.A. and kennels - Doudou disgraces himself - dog training - a pregnancy.

9. LIVING IN FRANCE. Advantages and disadvantages - food - wine - beer - telephone - T.V. - satellite programmes - residence permits - medical card - banks - tax - employed/self-employed/unemployed - job centres - tourist offices - chemists, doctors and dentists – arsenic

10. M.O.T's. Disposing of the pickup - no need for car tax or M.O.T. - British plates - a fruitless M.O.T. - a rough crossing - another fruitless M.O.T. - car dealers again - free replacement parts from Citroën - more on car insurance - a write-off.

11. BRITONS ABROAD. The way to do it - local v. expatriate labour - health cover - social security - French bureaucracy - finding a job - your qualifications - you must speak French - getting paid for taking language courses - setting one up - jobs.

12. A TRIP DOWN SOUTH. How to learn French – the labour exchange – how to sell your house – a look round the South.

13. THE LAST DAYS. No income, so we sell - bureaucracy - entertaining purchasers - culinary disaster - exploring France - job applications. - learning French - job abroad for Mike - farewell party - the real Madame – goodbye to our pets - banking the proceeds - moving again.

Chapter1. A TRIP TO CALAIS

It all started with a trip to Calais - one of those day coach-trips over and back to go shopping for Mike, myself, and Arthur, one of our more outrageous friends. It promised to be a long day, and possibly a bit of a drag. As it was, the only drag was Arthur's - a sort of infinite red thing wound round the neck, knitted he thought from some left-over socks after the war. Outrageous as usual, he soon had the coach in stitches. We heard the pipe story.

Before the war, I had a woman admirer. We looked disbelieving. Don't be nasty - it's happened to all of us, I expect. He ogled a young man, who retired in confusion. Anyway, she bought me a pipe - to make a man of me, I imagine, ho - ho, nudge, dig. When I was going off to war, she insisted on a photo being taken. So I played my part - pipe to the side, arms crossed, legs splayed butch as you like, ha - ha - ha. But the photographer had other ideas - he insisted on the pipe being to the front. It was ridiculous. I mean when she got the print, all you could see was this enormous pipe bowl, and two little eyes peering over it. Ha - ha - ha, how absurd.

The coach was late at Dover and we missed the boat. So there wasn't as much time in France as we'd expected. The hypermarket was the essential for most people of course, but that left little time over for the meal we'd been hoping for. We wandered down the main street of Calais, Arthur looking with interest at all the menus, and finally settled for a toasted sandwich and chips. A disconsolate Arthur sat on the return boat waving a baguette at other startled people, drinking his wine, and holding forth.

Not what I'd expected. Not at all. I remember Calais before the war. We often used to go. I thought I might have revisited a few of my old haunts. I remember once (the coach group gathered round to listen) we were on a bus passing through Calais. The bus stopped and mother noticed a stall selling hot crabs. 'Get off and buy some crabs, Arthur,' she said. 'We can have them later.' So I got off, and ended up with a paper bag dripping crab juice. The crabs were quite hot, I remember, and I had to keep juggling them. Ho - ho - ho.

Mother was making frantic gestures at me through the window. So were other passengers - I thought they were amused, so I put it on a bit. What she was trying to tell me was that the bus was going, and it did. So I chased it, clutching my bag. Ha - ha - ha. But the bag must have got soaked through. It burst and the crabs dropped to the ground. I didn't know whether to chase the bus or pick up the crabs. Mother saved the day by shouting in her best French, ‘Stop the bus - my son's dropped his crabs.' The bus stopped and everyone got out to see what this strange boy was doing. There I was clutching these crabs and the remains of the bag to my pullover. It was most embarrassing. Mother was cross, and my clothes smelled of crab for the rest of the day, he chuckled.

Back at Dover we all struggled through the customs hall with our customs haul. Will they want to search the bags? Arthur wondered.

Possibly. They may even go for a strip search.

A strip search? his eyes grew round. Well they won't find much, ha - ha - ha, nudge, dig. The customs men stared at us disbelievingly. Arthur tossed his infinite red thing at them, and scurried through the green exit.

The coach got back to Leicester at 11.30 and the driver unloaded the beer etc. everyone had bought. But he'd stopped outside a night club. Various youths came out and couldn't believe their eyes. It was their lucky day - mound of beer being pawed over chaotically. They joined in. You can imagine the rest. We took Arthur home by car. He was tired but full of memories. I used to like France. I was there for a while after the war, you know - in Rouen. You'd like it - it's a lovely city, or was. Have you ever been? Oh you should. I'll come.

* * *

So, when I saw an ad. in The Guardian wanting teachers of English for Rouen, I actually read it. And I thought, why not France? Because I hate teaching English is why not. Still, we could live in France for a while and look round, and get paid for it. And we'd just finished rebuilding our riverside cottage in the Midlands, and were wondering what to do next. Britain was going down the tubes at the time so I rang, got an interview, and found myself turning up in Rouen for a three day training course at their expense.

Rouen's a very picturesque town on the Seine. It's like Chester or Ludlow, only more so, and so centralised it's a paradise for tourists on foot, as I was. The hotel they put us up in was old - perhaps fifteenth century - and typically French. All the walls, ceilings, beams and interesting features were covered in a lively fabric wallpaper. The spiral stairs were of highly polished wood, but they'd sunk and all pitched outward. Even during the day you had to be careful. The nightlights were on a pushbutton system, and invariably went off before you reached the next level. I had a room next to the stairs and could usually tell if it was a new guest on the stairs. And I couldn't study in the evening because the room lighting was too dim.

The school was on the heights overlooking the city, and the climb was unbelievable. Even the young teachers had to stop halfway. And since the school stopped for the usual French lunch period (12 – 2pm) and there was no eatery nearby, it meant you had to go down into Rouen and then allow half an hour to climb back again. That first morning we were all late - we underestimated the hill. A beaming D.O.T. (Dennis O'Toole), the director, greeted us as only he could. Glad you could make it. Did you walk? Do you good. Get you into condition. Look at me, he slapped his middle. Fit as a fiddle. You'll soon get used to it. We never did, and he never did it himself.

What a man he was! He took the first hour of the orientation course, speaking tautly through clenched teeth. We sat through it, hoping to learn something about the job. Good morning. My name's Dennis O'Toole. I'm the school director - one of the directors of the company too. You'll hear about me from the other teachers - they call me 'DOT.' I expect you'd like me to tell you something about myself - my background - how I came to be where I am. I was a headmaster for twelve years, and a rather successful one I might add. His gimlet glasses bored into each of us in turn. The young ones wilted visibly. I sat up interestedly - it might be fun after all.

He resumed. "I heard about this company - it needed to expand - needed an administrator. So I