Return of the Venturers

On our way back to La Chaise, we decided to go off the motorway near Figueras (just a few kilometres on the Spanish side of the border) to look for a very famous vinyard in that region. Mistake, big mistake. Not only was the vinyard not where the wine merchant, and the baker's wife, said it would be, but there was not a vine in sight. There were lots of stony fields and a delightful, tumbling stream, probably full of trout, but nary a vine.

As a result we were over an hour late getting back home, breaking a fundamental rule for a serene old age: OLD PEOPLE SHOULD NOT DRIVE IN THE DARK.

Fortunately the Rayburn was lit and the house was relatively warm which helped de-stress us. But the external walls are about 60 cm thick, made of field stone and mortar, so there was a little chill inside. To counteract this we switched on a couple of oil filled electric radiators which had been working nights in our absence. The electricity switch promptly tripped.

La Chaise is not a machine for living in (pace Le Corbusier) it is a living shell with which (whom?) those on the inside develop a relationship of give and take. Mostly take on the part of the building and give on the part of its so-called owners. The incident brought to mind the dogs' attitude to our times away. They would have their own personal attendant, living in, who had little else to do but feed them, talk to them, walk them, watch television with them. All was snug and secure. They greeted us joyously every return – and promptly ran away the following morning. Both 'so there!' reactions, sulks really. Does a house have a soul? Do dogs?

Yet the house was garnished with plants. The plumbago had come into the dining room, the hibiscus took up most of the bedroom window. Fortunately for those who stagger to the bathroom in the dark of night (me) the hibiscus does not have thorns but its twigs do scratch. The lemon tree and all the geranium plants had come into the conservatory, leaving very little room for golf bags and certainly no room for people to sit. Fortunately we don't wish to sit there as it cannot be heated to people temperatures owing to the way the electricity is distributed round the house – which is what causes the main switch to trip.

Fortunately, there was very little by way of admin correspondence to deal with but vast numbers of the New York and London Reviews of Books to peruse. So quite cheerfully I got in touch with our solicitor to arrange a rental agreement for the lovely Audrey and Alexandre who will be the La Chaise gardiens in our absence when Clea and Jerome finally move into have their own house. And ran slap bang into the rules and regulations of the wretched inspection du travail once again. It would seem that consenting adults cannot make agreements between themselves, they have to follow the rules invented by local employer/union negotiations and enarch theories of human relations. As it is said in English: I was fit to be tied.

Then I read an opinion article in Liberation, France's wittiest leading left wing daily, by one Pierre-Yves Geoffard, professor of economics at the Paris School of Economics and visiting professor at other distinguished establishments. The theme of his article: L'etat n'est ni omniscient, ni omnipotent. Revolutionary thought. Perhaps there is hope for France yet.