Southern Times

FOIRE DE ROUJAN

Patricia — 2004-03-31T07:04:13Z

The 19th Grande Foire de Roujan takes place on Sunday 4th April. It opens at 9:30 a.m with a parade of motor cycles through the village. Attractions include demonstrations of regional crafts, sale and sampling of local produce, country dancing, exhibitions of art and sculpture and carriage rides.

- Village Fetes

ATELIER BONAL

Patricia — 2004-03-31T06:40:43Z

New Year's Day 2004. At 9 o'clock in the morning, a work party of friends strolled up our drive in their oldest clothes. "Where do you want us to start?" they said. We blinked at them, put on the kettle and produced a list.

By lunchtime, ancient lino had been ripped off a staircase, old cupboards had been demolished and 60 square metres of 17th century terracotta tiles were being levered off the floor and chuted down to the garden to be stacked and eventually cleaned.

Lizzie and I live in an old convent in Roujan. The newer half of the house has been converted into a chambre d'hote but the older part has always been daunting. It includes two big rooms separated by a ceiling that bounced like a trampoline, supported by five huge wooden beams, one of which looked like a massive Cadbury's Flake, having been the a la carte menu for termites for heaven knows how long.

With limited access through two high windows we were presented with an obvious problem. At least one beam needed to go and be replaced. But how could that be done, and who could possibly do it?

Endless discussions later, a French architect friend of ours stepped in with the answer. "Take all the beams down," he said. "Replace them with steels and build a concrete staircase. Here is the plan and these are my builders."

One week later they appeared with huge, bright yellow Tonka toys - JCBs, cranes, hoists, mini-diggers. The drive just didn't seem wide enough. But somehow they buttered the sides of the lorries and squeezed them up.


Clementine tree

"Shall we move the little fruit trees in the pots?" we asked the builders. "No need," they replied. And for two days we held our collective breath as huge steels weighing 345kg apiece were swung delicately to and fro and not a clementine was touched.

The old beams were chain-sawed out, lowered onto heavy lifting gear and inched through the windows. The new steels were encouraged into place, cemented into their new beds and a staircase started to take shape.

The ceiling now feels as sturdy as a car park and while there's still a ton of work to be done, a gallery-space is in the process of being born. We have our first exhibition on the 1st of May.

Faith O'Reilly is a painter whose abstract canvases sing with colour and light. She's spent much of the last 16 years living in the hills near Lamalou-les-Bains taking her inspiration from the colour, landscape and people of the region. Her work is rich and textured and cries out to be touched.

That New Year's Day morning jump-started this whole project and we can't even begin to mention the number of friends who have turned up clean and left filthy after chipping away plaster, hammering unyielding concrete and scrubbing tiles.


Madonna

One friend said it was like carving a church out of stone. He was right. A statue of the Madonna stands on our roof looking down on what has been a wonderfully co-operative project.

Our thanks go to everyone who has been involved.

NEW GALLERY OPENS IN ROUJAN

Patricia — 2004-03-31T06:35:41Z

Atelier Bonal opens its doors for the first time on May 1st with an exhibition of paintings by Faith O'Reilly.


Abstract

The gallery has been newly converted from 17th century convent in Roujan which for the past year has been the home of Lizzie Gosling and Ali Ballantyne (see Doing Their Thing for the full story).

Faith O'Reilly has lived in this region - near Lamalou les Bains - for the past 16 years. Her work is inspired by the colour, landscape and people of the Languedoc. Her abstract canvases sing with colour and light, the work is rich and textured and cries out to be touched.

The exhibition runs from May 1st to 14th and is open every afternoon from 3pm to 7pm. Atelier Bonal is at Le Couvent, 6 ave de l'Eglise, Roujan.

OPERA IN CASTRES

Patricia — 2004-03-13T11:43:34Z

Franz Lehar's LE PAYS DU SOURIRE will be performed by Compagnon Lyrique at the Castres Theatre on 17, 18 and 20 April and in Vauvert on the 25th.

Lehar's light opera tells the story of Lisa, a young countess, who falls madly in love with a Chinese prince. They marry and are set to live happily ever after when she discovers he has been deceiving her, and leaves him.

Lisa will be performed by Caroline Trutz, an English singer, and the production will be directed by Jack Gervais. The production team and soloists are professional, the chorus are committed amateurs.

To reserve tickets please call 05 63 71 59 94.

Coming soon - Caroline will be telling her own story on southerntimes.net!

FUR AND FEATHERS

Patricia — 2004-03-01T10:55:23Z

I do have a kind of sympathy with the rebellious creatures of Animal Farm. Four legs good, yes. Two legs bad? Well, not always. Six legs - or more? Lemme outta here!

I was prepared for spiders, of course, when we moved into our Midi home. But nobody told me about scorpions. Scorpions are things you get in Africa, aren't they? Great black things a foot long with a sting that can stun an elephant. Surely not in the friendly south of France?

Until the day, or should I say the night, when I woke up and just knew I wasn't going to go back to sleep. It was a hot, hot summer night so I was wearing, er, not a lot. And when you switch on the light and there on the white wall is the biggest, blackest, evillest creepy crawly you ever imagined, and you haven't even the protection of a pair of socks, well you feel a tad vulnerable.

I wakened Himself by the time-honoured method: "Are you awake?" I hissed. And then, in the way of wives immemorial since time began, I sweetly suggested "Well, deal with THAT!"

I've got a lot more laid-back since then. Today I can take scorpions in my stride, and prefer to capture them in a glass and put them outside, rather than send them prematurely to meet their Maker. But one creature I cannot, will not come to terms with is that long, hairy, multi-legged, evil-sting-equipped thing, the local centipede. I'm even too afraid to squash them, let alone get near enough to trap them in a glass. Those, I'm afraid, take their chances in the next world - once I have summoned up enough courage to scream for help.

On the other hand, Sid is always welcome. Sid is the generic name we have given to the lizards - all of them - with whom we are privileged to share our terrace during the summer months.

Over the years we have come to know quite a bit about Sid. For example, his addiction to soft fruit. We have got into the habit of leaving a piece of peach, strawberry or grape on the wall where Sid is accustomed to sun himself. It's quite amazing: one minute no lizards in sight, a grape later and there are half a dozen circling the offering, snarling at each other (as we suppose from their body language) and making little darts at the fruit.

These are tiny lizards - the oldest and biggest no more than six or eight centimetres long - and we thought they were very cute indeed. Until the day I was experimenting with a video camera and took a close-up shot. Suddenly these enormous jaws came into view and clamped with vicious intent on a piece of peach. Tyrannosaurus Rex in miniature.

Since we came to live in the village we've had a fair few encounters with local fauna, most of them a lot more endearing than our six-plus legged friends.

For example, there was that summer night when we sat in the kitchen, the coolest place we could find, all doors and windows open. As we lingered over our meal Himself suddenly remarked "There's a cat in our living room" "Yes, dear," I replied soothingly, wondering if that last glass of rosÃ© had been an altogether good idea.

Himself knows that tone of voice. "But there is," he insisted, "there is a large grey cat in our living room." Now it's not often a girl has to admit this about her bloke, but I have to say he was right. There was a large grey cat in our living room.

We didn't know it then, but Pouchkine had come to stay. Cat-like, he had noted a soft billet and simply moved himself in. In those days we were only spending a couple of summer months in France, and cat passports were unheard-of, so adopting him full time was out of the question. In any case, he had perfectly good owners of his own but, being French, they didn't pay him quite the homage he felt was his due. A soppy English couple fitted the bill nicely.

So during the day Pouchkine had the run of our house - and, naturally, the fridge - but when we were out, and at night, he was firmly shown the door.

Suddenly the early mornings took on a whole new flavour. It went something like this:
6 a.m. Waaow?

(Silence)

6:30 a.m. Waaow? Waaow?

(Silence)

7:00 a.m. Waaow? Waaow? WAA-ow?

(Silence)

7:30 a.m. WAAOW! WAAOW! WAAOW! (I can keep this up forever) WAAA-OW! WAAA-OW! WAAAAA-OW! WAAA...

(wearily, the door opens).

ZZZZZZZ-TT! (A grey furry streak shoots into the kitchen) Where's my milk then?

Lap. Lap-lap. Lap-lap. Lap-lap-lap-lap-lap-lap-lap-lap.

PRP! OK, time for cuddles! Prr-rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-rrr-rrrrrrrrrrrr...

As will happen, the holiday drew to a close and it was time to head back to England. I have to admit I worried about Pouchkine. Who would cuddle him? Who would feed him milk? I needn't have fretted. A few weeks later there was an excited phone call from one of my French neighbours. "Guess who I saw, sitting in Madame Untel's window today?" It wasn't too hard to guess.

A year or so after Pouchkine, Gulliver came along. We have the good fortune to play host to a large variety of birds in our village. Some are here year-round, others only pay a summer visit. But every year there is the usual sad quota of small fledglings which have launched themselves from high places with more hope than experience, and come crashing to ground.

Gulliver was one such.

We weren't exactly sure what he was, although we knew that his parents probably belonged to the summer visitor group. We often debated their species: swifts? swallows? house martins? What use are bird books and details of markings when all we see of them are fast-moving silhouettes against a dazzling or darkening sky?

Then we found the answer. Swifts, according to the bird book, have "â€¦ vigorous, dashing flight, wheeling, winnowing and gliding; excited parties chase each other squealing around the houses in small towns and villagesâ€¦" Yesss!! That's just how our summer birds behaved.

Gulliver didn't look remotely like the picture - an all-black bird with a long, graceful forked tail. His tail was stubby and he had a fawn band on his back and fawn underbelly. But he was a baby, so perhaps he would grow into the bird-book image. And anyway, we had named him Gulliver, hadn't we? And Swift wrote Gulliver's Travels, didn't he? The case, in our minds, was proven.

We had Gulliver for a week. We kept him in a cardboard box on the window sill at night, and during the day encouraged him to explore and try out his wings. We taught him to drink water. We fed him, to the huge and mocking delight of our friends, on charcuterie. The one time I managed to catch an insect he turned up his beak at it.

Then one afternoon I was on the terrace sunbathing, Himself upstairs having a siesta. Suddenly Gulliver began to climb up the house wall. Sensing something was afoot, I called urgently up to Himself. "You'd better get down here fast, I think Baby is leaving home."

Himself arrived at a gallop. Gulliver climbed on steadily till he reached the guttering on the roof. Then he turned and looked at us. I could almost hear him say "Watch me, Mum, watch me, Dad." Then he launched himself into space. We held our breath. He tumbled through the air and we tensed for a rescue mission. Then he began to climb again, airborne this time. And as he rounded the church another bird swooped down and flew beside him. We felt proud and tearful - we had reared our first chick.

Now there is Purdey, and she's here to stay.

She entered our lives, much to our surprise, last summer. Himself and she adopted each other in the village. We duly reported her at the Mairie and took her to the vet, who said she wasn't tattooed or microchipped but she would surely be claimed as she was a fine specimen - spaniel cross, obviously used for hunting.

Sure enough, two days later her owner turned up. I took one look at Himself's stricken face and asked said owner if he wanted to sell her. He said (in French) "If my wife agrees I'll let you have her - I've got two others and she's a rubbish hunting dog."

Now Purdey is officially ours. We originally named her Perdi, short for Perdita, for obvious reasons. But then Himself pointed out that Purdey is a make of shotgun used in hunting, which seemed appropriate. (Actually I think it's because Himself is wildly in love with Joanna Lumley, who played Purdey in the Avengers).

She's absolutely adorable, house trained, intelligent, willing and affectionate. Even, occasionally, obedient. She loves people and other dogs. A friend came to visit, took one look at her and pronounced "She's a Brittany spaniel." And so it turned out to be, and pooh to the vet who called her a cross.

We, of course, are besotted. She has us wrapped round her small paw, and we find it hard to talk about anything else. In fact, we now have an imaginary bell which we ring at each other - ding-ding - to remind us not to bore our friends rigid with Purdey stories

Purdey embodies both the fur and the feathers aspect of life down here. Her expressive ears are fringed with brown fur which I call her feathers, and they provide my abiding image of her. When we walk together she will go off exploring, but once she gets to the end of what I think of as her invisible lead, she has to come back and check on us. And if we are out of sight, she comes at greyhound speed, all four feet off the ground, tongue lolling, feathers in the windâ€¦

Ding-ding.

Â© Patricia Feinberg 2004

HEALING HANDS

Patricia — 2004-01-17T12:17:14Z

Today she's a qualified practitioner, but Ursula Mendelssohn began her career as a therapeutic masseuse with a small white lie and a large dose of cheek...

"I had done a week-end course in reflexology. I was looking for work, and a girl friend told me they were looking for body shampooists at the local Turkish baths. So I went along there and told them I had qualified as a masseuse in Montpellier and my certificates were in France!

"I think I got the job because nobody actually knew what body shampooists did. Up till then the scrubs had been done rather perfunctorily by one of the women who worked for the council, and she just fitted them in between her main job of handing out towels to the clients and showing them to the cubicles.

"I heard about the shampooing from a girl friend who had had it done to her. They scrub you down with a special kind of crepe to slough off the dead skin and dirt, then massage you with soap. I knew I could do it myself - and sure enough, I got the job. Later on I got hold of some of the crepe and made gloves out of it, which I sold to clients so they could scrub themselves at home.

" The Turkish bath, or Hammam, is a Moslem institution, and as a result many of my clients came from this background and often spoke Moroccan French. .As I spoke French I got on easily with them and became greatly in demand. The result of this was that in the next seven years of hard work I made enough in fees and generous tips to finance the rebuilding of the old house I had bought in the south of France.

Ursula's background is nothing if not colourful, ranging from running a stall in Camden Lock market - where she sold clothes she made from old chenille bedspreads - to managing a hotel on the hippie trail in India.

"The hotel was in Udaipur. It was called the Pratap Country Inn, and it was originally a hunting lodge which belonged to the Maharajahs. It was terribly run down and seedy when I was there but later on they must have done it up because I read that some of the cast of the television series The Jewel in the Crown stayed there in the mid-1980s."

Back in the UK she studied with Clare Maxwell-Hudson, the leading massage practitioner, teacher and writer. She gained ITEC (International Therapy Examination Council) qualifications in anatomy, physiology and therapeutic massage and has recently extended her studies into acupressure (also known as shiatsu).

"Acupressure is a kind of treatment which relieves pain and disorders by pressing on precisely-located points in the body," Ursula explains. "It works on the same principle as acupuncture, but you use your fingers instead of needles."

Ursula's one-hour full-body therapeutic massage combines acupressure and reflexology techniques, and she can also offer a neck and shoulder massage, or a foot massage.

Ursula Mendelssohn offers a therapeutic massage combining acupressure and reflexology techniques. Full-body, neck and shoulders, facial and foot massages available. Sessions take place in your own home or in her studio at Aspiran. The cost is from 35â‚¬ for a one-hour session. Tel. 04 67 96 50 21 or e-mail meadows@club-internet.fr

GABIAN

Patricia — 2003-10-04T11:20:57Z

Foire du Terroir. Sample and buy local produce and local wines. Enjoy a meal at the cafe l'Escale.

The Good Ol' Boys

Patricia — 2003-10-01T09:31:57Z

Every village has them. The good ol' boys who congregate in the village square or in the bar, gossiping and swapping tall tales and passing comment on the world as it goes by. Our village is no exception.


Good Ol' Boys

We are particularly blessed in good ol' boys. There must be 10 or more to be seen of a morning, whiling away the time till midday, when Madame calls them in for lunch. It's always midi on the dot, of course - an hour which, in honour of the local accent, we call 'l'heure du paing et du ving'.

They have their favourite spots, the good ol' boys, and woe betide anyone who trespasses without invitation. The main gathering place is on the circular bench under the big plane tree in the square. Others prefer the benches that line the road, or the shady square by the post office with its war memorial and fish pond.

Three in particular like to park themselves on drowsy afternoons on the bench next to our old-fashioned metal bottle bank. Goodness knows why they favour this noisy spot, but perhaps it's because they do like to trot out their jokes. They have two. One is "Hey! Don't wake us up!" and the other is "You can leave any full ones with us." Every time you toddle up with your clanking load, and the good ol' boys are on duty, you can be sure of being treated to these same two jokes. Laugh dutifully, if you value their good opinion.

This 'front' part of the village, which abuts the busy road to town, is strictly male territory. In general the good ol' girls have more important things to do than sitting in the square gossiping. Sitting gossiping on their front doorsteps, on hard wooden chairs, is favourite. If they should fancy a breath of foreign air, they can walk the 20 or 30 yards to the little walled garden beside the church.

The good ol' boys have their factions. Jean-Bertrand won't speak to Monsieur Chevallier - a long-standing difference over a game of boules, we believe - and their respective cronies usually follow suit. The three bottle-bankers like to keep themselves to themselves. Remy is popular in any group: our sprightly octogenarian ex-mayor with his tame pigeons and his pretty spaniel who is a tart for sugar lumps. He and I share a birthday, a fact which he never tires of telling anyone who will listen. He always concludes, triumphantly, with "But I had it first!!"

Of course as incomers, and English at that, and mere striplings of fiftysomething, we treat the good ol' boys with extreme deference. At the very least, a respectful bonjour, messieurs is expected as we cross the square, and certain gentlemen positively require us to go out of our way to shake hands and exchange comments about the weather.

It is true that, if Himself and I have agreed to meet in the square, one or other of us might perch a cautious buttock on the very edge of one of the benches, but only if is empty, and we are always quick to give way should a rightful incumbent come into view.

And then came the day when our status rose among the good ol' boys. Not a lot, and never to be presumed upon, but it was a start.

It was while I was absent in England on some errand or other. The village was celebrating one of its many traditional foires and Himself had the video camera out. He was doing his best to be inconspicuous, but the good ol' boys have antennae for that kind of thing. Soon, it seems, they were mugging and playing to camera as if to the manner born.

That evening I got an excited phone call to tell me all about it. I should explain that Himself's French, which is negligible when I am there to translate, amazingly blossoms into fluency when I am not. "And we had a really good chat," he burbled, "and guess what: they invited me to sit on the bench with them!"

I know my wifely duties. Here was clearly a case for unbridled enthusiasm. "Well done you!" I congratulated him. "You've cracked it: you're an honorary good ol' boy!"

(First published in French Property News)

FRUIT OF THE VINE

Patricia — 2003-10-01T09:23:01Z


Tony on the Vine: English man producing wine in Southern France.

HOW DOES an English accountant from south west London end up on the shelf at Marks and Spencer?

Tony Roberts came to this part of the world some 20 years ago, like so of us many did, on a simple three-week holiday. He picked courgettes for a local farmer. He enjoyed the sun, the wine, the people and the lifestyle.

Naturally he came back again - and again. By 1990 he decided, again like so many of us, that a holiday cottage wouldn't be such a bad idea. When he went in search of a little mazet, all he was after was peace and quiet. Not a thought of grapes had entered his head - at least, not from the cultivating point of view.

Today, while not exactly a wine baron, he has a respectable 3 hectares of grapes with names to conjure with: Merlot, Syrah, Grenache Noir, Cinsault and the dramatic Alicante with its scarlet autumn foliage.

Last year, when his domaine was rather less than two hectares, he produced 13 tonnes of grapes. This year, with virtually no rain for three months, the yield was smaller even though the domaine was bigger.

The Cave Co-operative takes in grapes from a number of surrounding domaines, turns them into wine and sells the resultant nectar both at home and abroad. If you happen to pick up a Merlot Vin de Pays d'Oc bottled by Les Vignerons du Vicomte d'Aumelas you could well be sampling some of Tony's produce. And, as he says happily, "I've even seen 'my' wine in Marks and Spencer!"

The life of a vigneron is not quite the doddle some people might think. From grape to glass is an arduous year-long journey, and the work hardly ever lets up.

Pruning starts in December and, according to the type of grape, goes on until March. And if you think that's a simple matter of strolling down the rows snipping a branch here and there, think again. For a start, there are three different ways in which you can prune a vine: Gobelet, Guyot and Cordon-Royat. It's a complicated process, and there is a seasonal factor as well depending on the variety of grape, but basically it's about letting the most promising buds mature and removing the others.

During this time you are also weeding, and then there is fertilising, which takes place in February. Round about April, when the frosts have gone, it's time to plough between the rows of vines. Unless, of course, your soil is sandy: then you have to weed and turn the earth painstakingly by hand. This gets rid of weeds and helps to work in the fertiliser. You can also 'nuke' the vines, as Tony explains, with chemical week killers.

This is an exciting time of year. Now the vines, which for so long have been no more than wizened black stumps, have really got into their stride. The first haze of green appeared in March, and by April, as Tony explains, "You can actually see them grow: 1 - 2 inches a day."

May sees the start of spraying - against disease of vine and fruit - and de-budding. ("Women's work," says Tony dismissively, explaining this remark with a telling, if rather obscene, gesture).

This goes on every two weeks until July 14th. July 14th is of course a magical date in the French calendar: it's Bastille Day, the biggest fete of the year. No work gets done on that day, and usually for several days or even weeks afterwards. Life in the vines, too, is comparatively easy at this time. A little desultory tidying while the vigneron waits for the word to start the harvest. As with so many things French, a committee decides when the grapes should be cut.

September, of course, is les vendanges: a month of frenzied activity to get the grapes cut at just the right point of ripeness and readiness. (If you've ever wondered what it's like to do the vendange, see Confessions of a Vendange Virgin).

Then there is the nail-biting wait while the gurus at the Cave weigh, test, sample (and for all we know sacrifice a black cockerel and bow three times to the moon) before sayingâ€¦ OUI!

And so the harvest is on its way to the bottle, and the whole process begins again.

HAVING THE BUILDERS IN

Patricia — 2003-07-21T00:00:00Z


Getting Plastered: Reliable builders are hard to find, but.......

There is a sickness that afflicts those of us who dwell in the Midi. It is rarely fatal, although sufferers tend to become suicidal. We have almost all contracted it at some time or other. It is known as Having the Builders In.

As sufferers go, we are perhaps the luckiest: we have Reliable Builders. That means that if they promise faithfully to get the job done they will probably do so. In their own time, true. After much nagging, certainly. But our builders do actually build, and their work is good. Of course this is in itself a mixed blessing. Being reliable - Midi fashion - and delivering good work means that they are swamped with commissions.

And, being charming people, they just hate to disappointâ€¦ For this reason it's as well to learn the language of the builder. "Oui" means "perhaps, but I'm not promising anything." "Certainement," or - worse - "Sans faute" means "forget it."

Other useful expressions are
A deux heures before five (probably)
Demaing by the end of the week (probably)
Jeudi by the end of the month (probably)
La semaine prochaine never: by the time next week
comes they will have forgotten all about you

There are tips and wrinkles when it comes to dealing with builders in the midi. First of all, it's no good whatever being English about it. We English are so polite. We plead, cajole and thank effusively for service. If a builder turns up when he is expected we positively roll out the red carpet. Coffee? Croissants? Of course you can light up a Gauloise in my newly decorated, smoke-free-zone kitchen.

If, fired with indignation, we manage to pin down a builder and demand to know why he hasn't delivered what he promised, the slightest hint of tetchiness on his part will send us grovelling back into apology mode.

Now this won't do at all. My neighbour Josianne used to despair of me. We call her Mighty Mouse because she is very small and very, very fierce. She went to school with P'tit Guy, our local builder. She calls him 'tu'. She exchanges bisous with him. And still she nags and threatens, scolds and shrieks like a fishwife. If he is more than 30 seconds late for an appointment she is on the phone, breathing brimstone.

And does she get results? Well, after a fashion. Probably rather more than we did, in the early, timorous days. But you have to remember, this is the Midi. The disarming fact is that, at least in our village, you don't have to be English to suffer from The Builders.

The timorous days are behind us, now. Now we can get on the phone and bellow threats and insults at our builder with the best of 'em. Firing him works well, too, as Himself discovered one day when pushed well beyond the end of his (admittedly short) tether. He had lunched not wisely but too well, and retired for a siesta still brooding on the wrongs we had endured. Suddenly it all became too much. He sat up, grabbed the phone and, miracle of miracles, actually managed to run P'tit Guy to earth. So incensed was he that he quite forgot he doesn't speak French.

"Guyâ€¦ NON!" he thundered. "Fini!" and slammed the phone down again. I was speechless with admiration. And the next morning, there was P'tit Guy on the doorstep, all innocence, ready to start work. Not a word was said about the explosive phone call, but the message had been taken to heart.

THE HUNTING OF THE BUILDER

Now we are more experienced in the ways of the builder, we consider ourselves a match for him. There is a game which is popular among all of us bonnes mÃ©nagÃ¨res - English and French alike. It's called Cherchez le Constructeur. It goes something like this. Marie Elizabeth lives opposite the cafÃ©, her nets permanently atwitch. She spots P'tit Guy taking a morning coffee and instantly she is on the phone to Josianne. Josianne pops next door to tell me. I phone Helga, who lives a little way outside the village. The cry goes up: P'tit Guy is in the village! Suddenly Guy's peaceful crÃ¨me is interrupted as a dozen harpies descend on the cafÃ©.

More subtle, and even more satisfying, is the game of 'Gotcha!' Say a good friend has actually managed to tie P'tit Guy to an appointment at 2 p.m. Because she is a mate, she tells a chosen few. We all descend at 1:50 and lurk in her kitchen. Of course we know that P'tit Guy probably won't actually turn up until 3 at the earliest, but he has been known to wrong-foot us. Besides, she makes excellent coffee.

Eventually Guy turns up, an unsuspecting fly buzzing into the communal web. And -WHAM! - three or four determined spiders pounce. The look on his face makes the game worth the candle: outrage, mixed with a you-got-me-bang-to-rights sheepishness. And a roguish twinkle which is the reason we all put up with him.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

When it comes to builders in our village, P'tit Guy is the main man. He's getting on, now, and doesn't do much actual work, but it's his company and he sends the workmen in. P'tit Guy loves us to bits. He often drops in just for a chat, and looks hurt when we tactfully suggest that we discuss the work in hand.

Henri is the plasterer and bricklayer. He's in his sixties, a wiry and astonishingly handsome little man with a big laugh and a personality to match. Getting to Henri is best done through P'tit Guy although, as Henri never tires of telling us, he doesn't work for P'tit Guy. Oh no, he's just helping out as a favour. His plasterwork is glass-smooth and his walls, which go up in no time flat, are straight and rock solid, but he's the messiest workman I have ever come across. You never, but never, decorate before calling Henri in.

If you want a parquet floor, kitchen cabinet or window frame, Monsieur de St. Phalle is your man. Jean-Jacques, as we are now allowed to call him, is our local carpenter. His work is exquisite and he is consequently much in demand but, by Midi standards, he is as reliable as they come.

One day, though, he failed to turn up as promised, so the next day Himself and I went to beard him in his sawdust-scented lair above the village. He looked at us mournfully with eyes the colour of ginger wine. "I am so sorry I didn't come," he apologised, "I had to go to a funeral." Thinking "Oh yeah? Pull the other one," we nonetheless made the proper noises. Jean-Jacques looked bemused by our condolences: "No, you don't understand," he said. "I am also the undertaker."

Like P'tit Guy, Jean-Jacques seems to have taken a liking to us. It is rather a pitying liking, as of one who would say 'They're only English: they can't help it," and he does tend to look as if he is suppressing laughter every time he looks at us.

This may be a result of the day we asked him to build us a linen cupboard. Contrary to popular belief, our part of the world is not always hot and sunny. Every day is not a drying day, and when the weather decides to do damp and dismal, getting the sheets and towels aired can be difficult. We English understand the problem. Midi dwellers, brainwashed by their region's publicity, do not.

We explained to Jean-Jacques that what we wanted was a cupboard with a heater inside it, for storing household linens. He looked at us in incredulity. He asked us to repeat what we had said. He began to giggle. Then he howled. It was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. To this day he pops by occasionally to find out if the linen cupboard is satisfactory. He hasn't yet brought friends round to inspect the oddity, but we think the day may come. Why is it that the English seem to exist only to provide an endless source of hilarity for the French?

But, as I've said, we are lucky. At the end of the day - and it was admittedly a long day - Having the Builders In has not proved fatal. Now the dust is settling and we can congratulate ourselves on having not only survived the experience but benefited from it. We can sympathise with those of our friends who are in the throes of the illness. We can assure them, with that delicious hint of condescension, that it will all prove worth while in the end.

And what a source of stories: we'll be dining out on our experiences for years!