I have never felt so keenly the truth of the hoary old joke “nostalgia aint what it used to be.” We are on a nostalgia trip: revisiting the places in southern France which became such an important part of our lives 34 years ago.
Soon after we met all those years ago, Thelma and I encountered an old school friend of my brother at a party. He told us about a part of rural France where his parents had recently bought a nice old house for a fraction of what it would cost in Britain. On a whim we booked reclining seats on the night ferry from Portsmouth and after a 7 hour drive found ourselves in the Hotel de France in Riberac. Though we didn’t know it at the time this was the centre of a substantial British colony in the area. The Dordogne has a special place in the hearts of many British people – a theme I will return to.
The hotel is now closed, but this room, viewed through a very dirty window, was then a splendid restaurant furnished with antiques and art. We had a 3 course meal here which cost 5 francs: a fish paté moulded in the shape of a fish, some pork with baby pears and a choice from the sweet trolley. Everything presented to us was perfect. The next day we were speeding around the lovely gentle wooded countryside with a local estate agent. He showed us this place.
It was dark inside but he threw open the shutters announcing that “The sun will rise on the left and set on the right.” The price, including a large garden, was around £10000.
“I’ll take it” said Thelma.
I had already worked out that I could put in a simple staircase and create a bedroom in the “grenier” or loft. A few more changes to the living room and kitchen, and we would have a very decent second home.
A few weeks later, sensing a good investment, we bought another house for another £10k. This was further west in the Charente and would need a substantial input, so after just a few years, little Guillonet was sold for twice what we paid for it. Despite the cash it was a sad day, for here I spent one of the happiest periods of my life.
I was alone, with no means of telling the time, and would get up when it felt right, light the wood-stove and make some breakfast. I had a portable bench and some hand tools and was repairing windows from the larger house – Collardeau La Lande. It was winter and I don’t remember what I did in the evenings, but I was content to spend about a week there alone, working or out walking in the quiet woods and fields of the Dordogne.
We did return to the area briefly about 20 years ago but until this week had not seen either of these places.
Guillonet was hard to find – much further than we remembered, but at last we came to the track up the hill and pulled in beside it, nervous, excited, afraid. How could I introduce myself? Just play it by ear:
“Bonjour?”
The dogs barked madly, but no voice answered. The windows and the door were wide open and I called again. Still no answer, so we walked around taking pictures. It was a relief not to have to launch into my complicated explanation in French, but also disappointing not to make the contact. There was an old-looking house next door which had not been there before, the garden was scarcely recognisable, and it was much hotter than it was then, but compared to March in Britain in the late eighties it was gorgeous, as was the company!
There were two additions to the house, but nothing gentrified about it. There were still chickens next door and there was still a row of poplars beside the road – one generation had grown and been cut down and another had taken their place. It was an emotional experience and we both felt drained as we drove back to our luxurious apartment in Aubeterre; drained but happy.
That was not how we felt when we drove away from the other house the next day. We had spent a friendly hour or so with the owners, but wished we had not. Ah Nostalgia you traitor!
