Burgundy 3

·      Weds.17.10.07. By 9.00am we were sat in the office of Strategie immobilier in Buxy waiting for Olivier to arrive in the hope that he could unravel the mess.

At 9.30 am. Olivier was able to contact M. Verrier but he still insisted that he must have physical evidence of the money being ‘clean’ before he can allow the funds to be released. “There is no point in your clients travelling to Tarascon without a valid statement or the relevant documentation that will verify the origin of these funds.” I, in the meantime attempted to urge the Nat West to assist, by any possible means, perhaps by sending the ‘fax’ requesting a simple factual statement. Typically, their office only opened at 10.30am French time, we began to sweat. Whilst killing time I suddenly thought that Dave Green, our friend and accountant, could construct a similar endorsement to satisfy the Caisse d’Epargne. Dave was more than willing to assist by drafting a suitably financially supportive letter.

10.30am. Olivier re-contacted M.Verrier who had since received the statement from Dave. He instantly agreed to release the funds but we still had to appear in person to prove our ID.

3.30pm. Jo and I had arrived in the bank where the reception was very warm, the transaction far too simple for the trouble it had caused, we walked out with 87,480 euros in the form of a banker’s cheque to purchase the barn in St. Martin. It had been too easy. The complications of the passed three days evaporated. The only problem that remained was the possibility of having the car repaired at the local garage, ‘Tivoli’, to disguise the damage caused earlier.

4.00pm. Jean Paul guaranteed that the repair would be completed by 6.30 for a nominal fee of 150 euros, on Thursday evening. Our luck was definitely changing.

5.00pm. Jo and I sat on the terrace at 9, Marie de Lolly soaking in the late afternoon sun sipping the first of many vodka tonics. The five minutes spent in the bank had changed our mood totally: having swore, on the drive down, not to confuse the issues with alcohol we had rapidly succumbed to the comfort of the glass.

·      Thurs.18.10.07. The date for the ‘Signe de vente’ had been changed from this afternoon to 4.00pm on Friday, not so much because of our problem but because of the exchange of land that had to be processed by M. Gerbeau before the transaction could be completed. This delay of one day obviously suited our present predicament as we spent a fruitful day in the courtyard of our house trimming the garden, cutting down and re-potting the vine but reluctantly spent equally as many hours stripping and cleaning our much abused 8 burner cooker. The tenants indulge in a regular habit of ritualistic cremation of any animal matter. The result is a charred worn out oven that is always someone else’s job to clean. This beautiful appliance has suffered a number of catastrophic culinary ‘blitzkriegs’ over five years, especially from ‘Hun Kirsty’ and ‘Toad of the road’ Jeremy who had, over the summer of 2004, successfully kidnapped every visitor stuffing each of their victims with English sausages, chips, bacon and smiley faces all of had been ceremonially reduced to ashes in the oven, filling the kitchen with black carcinogenic smoke generated from baked on burnt animal fats much of which had evolved from their previous cooking exploits.

4.00pm. After a very satisfactory clean up we happily walked around to ‘Tivoli’ to check the progress of the car. The repair had been completed, ahead of schedule encouraging the prospect of perhaps travelling up that evening instead of tomorrow? But, whilst inspecting the paint job I clumsily smeared the semi dry paint the section had to be re-painted. Smiling Jean Paul asked if I could collect the car in the morning at 8.00am instead of this evening. I agreed.

7.00pm. Ian and Pete came up to the apartment for drinks. This was originally planned as a meal but throughout the day we had regretted our drunken Wednesday eagerness changing the invitation to just merely drinks, ‘aperitivos’. Typically, an early evening light ‘swallie’ turned into a ‘session’ consuming little food but knocking back gallons of wine.

10.30pm. The guests had not long left when Jo and I began bringing in the outside furniture, putting away the kitchen utensils all in preparation for sealing the apartment until the next visit. Stupidly, in the dark, I managed to stumble over ‘something’ and found myself prostrate on the floor with Jo looking down inquiring as to what I had done. Clutching a cracked head, covered in blood badly bruised I slowly lumbered into the kitchen. A clump of paper towel kept most of the mess at bay, fifteen minutes later the flow had stopped. I went to bed.

·      Fri.19.10.07. We duly collected the car at 8.00am to make our way back to Burgundy, with my face swollen like a bashed crab.  

1.30pm. The first stop when we arrived in Buxy was a shopping fest in ‘Atac’

principally to buy ‘Mumm’ champagne for Olivier, Brigitte Magnin, the previous owner of our empty shell and lastly for Jo and I. Two bottles for the impending signature plus an extra one for the evening celebration. Pushing the culinary boat out scallops, lamb cutlets, chou fleur and crushed potatoes would accompany  ‘the fizz’, ‘Aligote de Burgundy premier cru plus the local ‘Mountagny de Buxy’.

4.00pm. The meeting with M. Gerbeau in his office in Blanzy was only rudely interrupted by ‘Maggie’, the interpreter who insisted upon pointless, humourless comments only sprinkled by opportunist moments when she crassly offered everyone her ‘card’ claiming she was a builder, translator, general fixer, lawyer, teacher, bank manager, mid-wife and exotic dancer. Dave and Julie have first hand experience of her together with her now ‘ex’ husband John; but that in itself is another story. I, meanwhile, had invented a cover story for the state of my face, which by now had scabbed over but was turning blue. “I had been cutting back my vine when foolishly overstretching I tumbled from the ladder.” I had by this time practised this fable on every person in the room until I began to believe it myself.

5.00pm. We left the office with an ancient set of keys for an empty barn, thanked and wished everyone well, returned directly to Rimond empty, utterly deflated. Neither felt any form of elation, passion or even interest in what we had just purchased. I have, in fact, felt more excitement buying a crusty loaf. The beautiful scenery was passing by unnoticed, the prospect of designing a stunning family home in a perfectly tranquille village, in possibly one of the most serene parts of the world meant nothing, rien, de nada, zip.

The sumptuous dinner was put on hold, the champagne remained in the fridge. Maybe tomorrow we shall feel differently?