Grand Designs

Anna, my wife, is obsessed with old French houses. We can't pass an estate agent's window without her veering off course to peruse the sweeties on offer. She will beckon me over, “look at this renovation job” she will say, pointing at a pile of stones. 

She watches all the property programmes. Any programme with 'home', 'sun' or 'DIY' in the title, and she's there, drinking it in. On a glorious sunny day in France there is nowhere Anna likes more than sitting in front of the TV watching 'A Place In the Sun' with Jasmine or Laura.

Now that we have just finished renovating our own house after five years, she is getting restless feet and has been looking for somewhere to gîte-ify. We have looked at a selection of agricultural buildings in various states of collapse. Must have: structural damage, a leaking roof, inhabited by creatures, copious amounts of lead paint and a pungent smell. Anna has the thickest lensed rose-tinted glasses as every one we see has oodles of potential and lots of character. I just see a hernia, dwindling finances and lengthy divorce proceedings. 

My wife adopt's a war of attrition and will slowly grind me round to her way of thinking, through repetition, rather like Bart Simpson. 

A property, with all the above qualities was found, but this one was in the picturesque town of Saint-Loup (six minutes drive from where we live – Anna timed it). It was going for a song and had been on the market for a while; we were amazed that nobody had snapped it up (mind you, we only knew it was on the market when we saw the hand written 'for sale' Post-it note stuck on the front door and before we had seen the diagnostic report, which was a weighty tome).

We were taken through the extensive document line by line by a very thorough notaire, highlighting everything from flooding, seismic activity, high radon levels (his advice was to open a window every now and then) and a mushroom that can destroy some properties (but thankfully our house didn't have it) and termites (didn't have) - all we needed was plague and pestilence to have the set (speaking of which face masks were worn throughout and after signing on his little electronic pad, he was very thorough wiping down his little electronic pen).

We do enjoy a night out, but are happy shutting ourselves away in our French idyll and pottering around the compound - which we do most of the time, 'antisocial' I think is the word. What with this seclusion and running an English language magazine for two years our use of French was not called upon much. The first time we visited our new property a stream of friendly French neighbours came out, introduced themselves, took us into their homes for a coffee, showed us their art collection, I have never relied quite so heavily on my good friend Michel Thomas. Even as we were unloading the van a gentleman sauntered over and asked us if we had any metal...Anna thought he was from the mairie and asked him where we could collect our wheelie bin...he left looking very confused. 

Anna, like so many others, has just taken the road to Niort and become a French resident. It therefore seems apposite that we should now engage more in the community we have chosen to live in. We are coming out, and it feels liberating.

Being an Irish passport holder myself I have not had to suffer the indignity of having my fingerprints stamped like a common criminal.