In the Middle of Nowhere

When people ask “Where do you live?” I reply “Fifteen minutes drive north of Parthenay, in the middle of nowhere”. A hamlet, made up of four properties (only three of which are inhabited). If we run out of milk it's a ten minute drive to the nearest shop, which is usually shut. 

We used to live on a busy main road in the UK. Our windows would often rattle as a high performance vehicle cruised by with bass bins turned up to eleven; beer cans would litter the front garden; our wing mirrors were regularly kicked off and once, some charmer, took the coping stone from our gate post and dropped it on the bonnet of our car. Now, living in the middle of nowhere we occasionally see an old woman walking her old dog, a lost cyclist or an escaped cow. 

Annually, a farmer will sever our telephone cable with his hedge cutting machine. This year the telephone company told us they couldn't reconnect us for a week. This coincided with an electricity cut for twenty four hours. Now, I'm all for life in France being like a step back in time, but this was medieval. The novelty of living by candlelight waned after half an hour, even reading a book was a struggle and I nearly went up in flames several times. 

Light pollution is not something we suffer from. Walking from the car to the house after Franglais can be a perilous journey in the pitch black. Will I break my neck on a bag of chicken food or be savaged by a wild boar? On a clear night, the milky way is something to behold. 

The first property Anna, my wife, and I bought was in London. The hustle and bustle of city life became a bit much for us after a few years so we moved to the more sedate (some might say boring) town of Peterborough. After a while town life became a bit much, so we moved to a village in rural Lincolnshire. Now we live in rural France in the middle of nowhere. We have gone from city mice to country mice, from city slickers to country bumpkins, from....well you get the idea. We are sociable people, but at the same time enjoy not seeing another soul all day, being in our own little world...or 'compound' as we tend to call it (Anna purchased a natty orange boiler suit from Emmaus for doing jobs in, and the Guantanamo look was complete). 

Solitude can engender strange behaviour and irrational fears. It would be unfair to say that since living in the middle of nowhere Anna has started talking to herself. She has always talked to herself. Giving a running commentary on her daily activities or what she is thinking about (when not talking she will fill the gaps of silence with humming). But there has been a definite upturn in conversations with the cat over recent times. Now the children are all grown-up and flown the nest, the cat has to soak up a lot of chatter and attention. She has even suggested making some little outfits for him to wear. It is very endearing but occasionally it can become a little disturbing and yes, even frightening. I feel like Shelley Duvall in 'The Shining', stranded at the Overlook Hotel, watching my partner slowly turning to the dark side in the forced isolation.

During lockdown our solitude was heightened: not leaving the compound for days on end, not seeing another human being, even the criss cross of aeroplane vapour trails ceased. The world stood still. When we did venture out for our daily walk, having completed 'the form', if we did bump into other people, we became confused, frightened, we would veer around each other keeping as much distance between us as possible. 

And then there was Christmas. Me, Anna and a very big turkey. We, like so many, expected loved ones to come and visit, but alas 'twas not to be. 

So, if you find yourself fifteen minutes drive north of Parthenay in the middle of nowhere and stumble across a woman in an orange boiler suit and a man trying to reattach a telephone line, do pop in for a glass of something...we're really very sociable people.

Photo: Stephen and Anna losing the plot in the middle of nowhere.