Burgundy 2

·      Tues.16.10.07. I woke up to the worst possible hangover in the world, relentlessly re-occurring, perpetual dark reminders from the previous night. Even with the gloriously groomed undulating landscape interspersed with relaxing picturesque comfort stops I still revisited the unremitting desolate flashbacks throughout the remainder of what turned out to be a dreadful day.

10.00 am. A visit to the Caisse d’Epargne in Buxy revealed it was impossible to draw a ‘Cheque du Banque’ from Tarascon for the purchase of the house. Although the same company each regional bank operates ‘independently’. Located in a different ‘department’ of France, the bank was therefore unable to offer reciprocal services.

12.00pm.The next step was to travel to the office of M. Jeantin in Blanzy to contact M. Gerbeau, the ‘notaire’who will actually conduct the ‘signe de vente’. It was through his office that the money should have been primarily transferred, so it seemed appropriate he could request a direct transfer from Tarascon. We were to return at 2.00pm so that these requests could be initiated.

2.00pm. After a pleasant lunch in Mont St.Vincent, poached egg, bacon salad, fried cod and coffee we returned to his office in an attempt to contact ‘Caisse-epargne’ immediately. Frustratingly, this proved difficult, a combination of irrelevant telephone numbers and incorrect fax’ numbers delayed the process for 60 minutes. Finally a ‘fax’ was accepted but not immediately processed.

4.00pm. Monsieur Gerbeau informed us of the bad news that the ‘bureaucracy’ in Tarascon had refused the request on the grounds of requiring proof positive regarding the provenance of the funds. They also demand that Jo and I must attend the bank in person producing suitable ID to permit the transaction. We are to contact a M. Verrier the manager responsible for our account. This is potentially disastrous, my hangover kicks in again at the appalling thought of ‘my own bank’ holding our funds until we are able to produce evidence from England. Considering that these funds had been hauled in from six different accounts over a two-month period the prospect of retrieving ‘evidence’ was daunting.

4.30pm. Luckily, I had retained Sandra Dermott’s number at the Wigan branch of the Nat West, after pleading with her to access the relevant details she promised to inform the headquarters in Bolton who have stored the electronic records of the cheques I placed with the bank in August. She would, as soon as possible, wire these details to M. Verrier in Tarascon. I didn’t hold out much hope of that happening, which filled us with even more doubts: the situation was going from bad to worse.

4.45pm. But, if circumstances couldn’t get any worse, whilst driving back through Buxy, a coach forced me into a raised pavement seriously creasing the sill of the, under insured, hire car. I would not get off lightly with the accident; the Swiss justifiably have a fearsome reputation of inscrutable correctness. Visions of a huge excess payment flooded my thoughts.

5.30pm. Back at Rimond contemplating the dreadful chain of events the trip was turning into the biggest shit butty ever.

6.45pm. In an attempt to put some sort of rescue package together we composed a ‘fax’ to Sandra imploring her to write a statement claiming that we were responsible, honest people who have saved most of their lives carefully gathering this sort of money; we are not drug dealing skankies laundering ill gotten piles of brass all over Europe. The reality regrettably, was that, the mentality of the people in the Bouches de Rhone was one of stubbornness; they could be innately pedantic. M. Verrier was just that sort of petty marionette. The prospect of ‘our’ funds being frozen loomed ever closer.