Let me continue the story .... The house in France was chosen. The house in England had a buyer. It was all supposed to be in place for Christmas. The plan was for my brother and family to pack up and drive across to France leaving behind an empty house and taking with them 2 dogs, 2 cars and all their worldly possessions. The plan was to be in their new French home for Noel, drinking red wine and toasting in the New Year 'Bonhomie & Joie de Vivre' on the other side of the Channel.
The reality was very different. After a hectic few months packing up and saying goodbye, leaving work (for Vikki) friends and school behind. Christmas came and went. The New Year came and went. And the messy system that is the British way of selling houses kicked in which involves a chain of people trying to communicate through solicitors, estate agents and a varied mix of methods all working towards different completion points and different time scales. I was on the outside looking in and to be honest I don't really know all that selling and buying a house entails, but it appeared to be very stressful.
The new school term started in January and the boys were sent back to their old classrooms minus most items of their school uniforms which had been efficiently redistributed and given away at the end of the last term! (in anticipation of leaving behind school uniforms and embracing the French system.)
It was a depressing start to the year, sprinkled with daily phone calls, emails and pressure from the French side wondering what was going on in the murky depths of England. There were false hopes that maybe this would be the week when it all finally fell into place. There were tears and more phonecalls and more emails.
Finally, 4 months later than expected as Easter approached, the last signature was signed in the slow moving paper pushing giant of English house sales. The Channel tunnel crossing was booked for an early Thursday morning before the Easter Bank holiday of Good Friday.
3.30am on a frosty morning found us squeezing items into 2 cars and scraping icy windscreens. By 8.00am we were on the other side of the Channel and eating up the miles on good French tarmac. Chris Evans and Radio 2 faded into the distance. We enjoyed the relatively empty roads and miles and miles and miles of huge horizon. It was a long day of driving, I think we clocked up about 10 hours behind the wheel including a crazy half hour of driving round and round in circles in a monstrous convoluted tunnel system under Paris.
The approach to Paris had been good. We happily pointing out the Eiffel Tower in the distance and Sacre Cour on its lofty hill. But then the traffic increased, the graffiti increased, the shock of a huge city with a huge population after so much empty countryside made itself felt. We had planned to avoid the centre of Paris but before we knew what was happening we were entering the underground tunnel system. It was like driving in a Star Wars movie, the tunnel roof was low and wide and claustrophobic. The immensely dense layers of concrete and tarmac gave the tunnel a feeling of driving in a computer game, except if you crashed here, that would be the end. No quick switch back to begin the game and start all over again for the driver. In a moment of shocking revelation I realised for the first time just how easy it would be to crash and die just like Princess Diana did all those years ago in a similar road tunnel under the streets of Paris. It was hard enough to focus on the road and keep going following well behaved traffic, I can't imagine how crazy it must have been for her driver with camera flashes and motorbikes and under cutting and over taking paparazzi.
We emerged out of the tunnel shaking and drank in the bright sunshine, graffiti and polluted air, relieved to be back in the real world. But within seconds, confused by signs for VERSAILLE or REIMS, we veered back in a blind panic into the same tunnel system and found ourselves retracing our steps into the labyrinth from which we had just escaped. Round and round and round we went, until finally we were chucked out of the dark rabbit hole warren. We drove as fast as we could away from the confusion.
That day was long, in the last hour Vikki and I kept ourselves amused and awake by listening to cheesy pop songs. The car had a moment playing up when a scary warning light came on. We pulled over, turned the engine on and off and it disappeared. Not so lucky for Alexander who had an oil light come on in his car. With only 50 kilometres to go, he decided to risk it, we pushed on to Vikki's parents for a cup of tea and a good nights sleep.
Rolling into the drive at around 5pm no-one wanted to think about fixing cars or sorting out any more hurdles to this new life in France. That was the beginning of a long line of little incidents that all lined up to hijack us on our final leg of the journey to the new house. I will save that story for next week. But for now, just sit back and enjoy a few photos of the excellent Easter Monday that we spent skiing in the French Alps as organised by Alexander.
A Bientôt. x