Moving to France : Part 1

It’s an established cliché. Disgruntled Brits sick of the grey weather, dull food and high cost of living head to the lush, balmy south of France hoping to find peace, plenty and gallons of wine. The thing about clichés is that they can be very attractive. Last year, my boyfriend and I decided to run away from London. After years of holidaying here, how would we cope as real residents?

Twenty years ago, my parents were the second English family to buy a house in Castelnau, a hilltop village in Tarn, southwest France. (We’re still very proud of that fact: in our minds it’s the equivalent of having emigrated to America on the Mayflower.) Fortified against invaders and surrounded by fields of sunflowers, it seemed to exist outside of modern life. A place where old ladies sat under every archway, keeping tabs on the local children; where farmers led their cows through the old stone streets twice a day; where the population fell continually as the young people left for the towns as soon as they could.

It remained relatively untouristed for quite a long time. Then The Times published an article about the beautiful unspoilt area and the gentrifying hordes began to descend. Over the last ten years, the Anglo-Saxon presence has soared to over thirty percent of the population and the region is now affectionately known as “Kensing-Tarn”. At the same time, bohos from all over Europe have taken refuge in the surrounding forests. Ghost villages that had fewer than twenty inhabitants now have thriving local schools. The local youth have changed their minds and would quite like to settle in the area: these days what stops them is that house prices have increased tenfold.

Nonetheless, there is still a lot to appeal to a London-sick couple. The most important for me is the people. Being somewhere so small, one of the joys is observing the manoeuvrings between the different cliques. There’s the seemingly corrupt village mayor, whose mission, it would appear, is to fill every spare nook with car parks; the rival hippie groups who wrangle viciously over what constitutes a fully Green lifestyle; and the aforementioned G&T brigade. Dotted amongst them are a plethora of would-be writers and artists, too many artisans to count and a hearty rugby team. All have different ideas about how village life should work.

People here actually acknowledge each other. A quick Bonjour doesn’t seem like much at first, but compared to moving anywhere in the UK, where it can take months to meet anyone, it feels very warm. No one is afraid to ask questions – about what we’re doing to our garden, about the exact state of a friend’s pregnancy – and the weekly market is alive with gossip. Likewise, we all tend to get a lot more involved in each others’ lives. When my neighbour was on holiday his pipes exploded; everyone in the square got involved in cleaning up the mess. At one point the village barman had keys to over twenty houses. People even keep an eye out for the cats.

It does of course get a bit claustrophobic sometimes, especially when you’re rushing down to buy milk at the shop before it closes for a three hour lunch break and you have to stop and kiss five people on your way. Or when you’re trying to get some work done and a friend walks into the house after knocking once to respect privacy. On the other hand, the women of this village have developed the most polite keep out sign I’ve ever come across. If the downstairs shutters are open, feel free to come in. When they’re shut, go away, no questions asked. That’s true civilisation...