“A ruin is not just something that happened long ago to someone else; its history is that of us all…”
George Schaller
My husband and I first traveled to Gascony, in May 2006, with a couple of dear friends. We were looking for a house to purchase together in our retirement years and all of us loved rural France. We made our list of criteria: proximity to airport, train, village, doctors and hospital and then rented a two bedroom, stone cottage in a small hameau (hamlet) in the Gers (the Tuscany of southwest France) for its good weather and bucolic landscapes. For 5 weeks we spent mornings site seeing and visiting local farmers’ markets, afternoons having alfresco meals outside and long twilight evenings walking along country roads under a panoply of stars. We put 3,500 kilometers on our rental car looking at over 25 houses in various stages of disrepair. A week before the trip ended we looked at our last house.
It was a 300 year old ruin built of stone and colombage (half-timbering) that sat on a knoll in the middle of a 500 hectare farm. Its front door faced east, the rising sun cresting the village of Campagne d’Armagnac. To the south we could see the Pyrénées mountains. Just across the road to the west were vineyards, and to the north, through the branches of an old oak tree, the 11th century Basque church of Cutxan, rose majestically into the azure blue sky. The ruin had no electricity, no water, and no plumbing. The attic was full of old bottles and rusted tools and the barn was stuffed with ancient farm equipment An overgrown pond was a watering hole for deer, sanglier (wild boar), écrevisse (crayfish) and herons. For some inexplicable reason we were both smitten. Our friends were not interested at all.
We returned to our respective lives, but my husband and I could not stop daydreaming about the ruin. Often we reminded each other of meeting the elderly couple, Jeanette and Roger, who owned the ruin, as welcoming to foreigners as any two people could be. Each spoke a Gascon patois almost indecipherable, especially Roger, but each possessed a joie de vivre that was clearly communicable. In October of that same year we decided to go back to the Gers to see if the magic was still there. We stepped off the plane in Bordeaux, picked up a rental car and drove south. Once actually at the ruin, we both felt like we were coming home. What we didn’t know, was that after 7 years from purchasing the property we would be mired in the French court system, tied up in legal bureaucratic knots and intrigues.
We purchased our half hectare (1 acre) property for 70,000 euros, approximately 100,000 dollars. The whole process took 6 months. The following year we returned and interviewed local builders, choosing one who was highly recommended by the only other American couple we knew there. As a former architectural designer I drew a set of plans and researched local building codes which were far and few between. I kept the square meters of the house just under the necessity of a French architect. I submitted 6 different sets of plans, each summarily rejected by the head of the local building department, Monsieur Lafitte. Finally, it was suggested that I go back to see Monsieur Lafitte wearing my sexiest outfit. I coerced a much sexier friend to accompany me as backup, I brought a roll of drafting paper and pencil and asked him to draw what would be acceptable to him, which he was more than happy to do. After half an hour, the plans were approved.
Renovation began the next year. We arrived, hopeful the project would be completed by mid-summer. We had planned to sell our house in the States and move permanently to France. After our first walk-through of the house we discovered our builder was more charming than competent: everything from the foundation to the roof would have to be redone — our renovation needed to be renovated. We fired the builder and subsequently hired 2 building experts and two attorneys. The second building expert, hired by us, but appointed by the court, first found in our favor, then, remarkably, retracted his ruling 3 months later. Everyone believes money was exchanged sur la table (under the table).We waited to sell our house in the States so we would still have a home to live in. Our “ruin”, our beloved home sat untouched for 3 years. This past winter we were finally allowed to continue work on our house, but the lawsuit lingers on. Whether or not our retirement fund will be replenished remains a complete mystery.
Soon I will be making the big leap across the pond. My husband has decided to remain in the States till the fall. I received my 3 year visa on Valentine’s Day and hired an international moving company. By returning every year and immersing myself into the life of different villages, I’ve been able to harvest deep and lasting friendships and a collective appreciation for the quality of life in southwest France. The Gascons truly embrace the joy of living. The simple pleasures of life are the most important: family, friends, good cuisine and lively conversation. They have no concept of the word “urgent” unless it refers to food or sex. Well-being is not a luxury, but an ordinary, daily prerogative. Economically, the cost of medical care, car and home insurance, utilities, taxes and food are a fraction of what they cost in the States. I can purchase a freshly baked, mouth-watering, almond croissant or a crusty baguette at our local bakery for under a euro and a glass of good local wine is cheaper than a glass of sparking water. Even airline tickets are less expensive when purchased overseas. This will allow me to travel around the world visiting my blended family and stateside friends when they are not traveling to visit me. Instead of my world becoming smaller as I age, it has become larger. I have had many incredible adventures and learned a lot about myself through living in another culture which makes me eager to return in just a few weeks.
