For whom the bell tolls

I have to say, I feel vindicated. This is a very small village and everyone who lives here describes it as très tranquille. In fact, without any shops and only about 125 houses, the loudest thing when I moved in was the sound of the fountain splashing on the small place one house away.

So imagine my surprise when the I arrived last summer to discover the village had fixed the bell in the tower just a few short yards from my front door. Although it appears quite delicate in its little wrought iron frame, this isn't some puny, feminine little tinkle, this is a proud, powerful gong meant to be heard by workers in the vinyards that surround town. This is an explosion-on-the-hour that rattles the windows 24 hours a day. And we're not talking a single ring, either. This bell gongs on the hour, then again three minutes later (in case you were in a coma and missed it the first time) and then gongs a single time on the half-hour to remind you to put in your earplugs and prepare for the next assault. At midnight, you get 24 full gongs -- and each time the bell rings it is preceded by a flurry of extremely loud clicks like a giant deck of cards being shuffled. This is the sound of the electronic controls that keep the clock tower in sync with a satellite circling above. In my opinion, whoever fixed the bell meant for it to be heard on that satellite.

Last summer, I gently brought up the matter of the extreme loudness of the town bell, or cloche, to Madame Leblanc, the mayor. "I was very surprised by the bell," I said nicely. "It certainly is loud." Ignoring my obvious attempt at a faint complaint, she replied, "Yes, everyone is very happy to have the bell back. Everyone missed it." Not everyone.

She then followed up, as everyone does at the mention of the bell, with a rather long history of the importance of the bell in the Middle Ages when no one had watches or clocks and the entire life of the village -- when to rise, when to return from the fields, when to attend mass or a wedding or funeral -- everything was guided by the sounding of the bell. Apparently, people felt tremendous affection for their town bells, great towers were erected to house them and several phrases still in use come from the days when town bells were of such great importance - phrases like "death knell." I'd be a lot more interested in this charming story if I could stay awake to hear it. Unhappily, I'm not getting that much sleep.

But last night, I was invited for drinks with four ladies from the village -- Dominique, Marie-Helene and les deux Eveylin -- and all of them complained about the amazingly loud bell. Marie-Helene, who for 20 years has been coming down from Paris each September to her home here and who lives right next door, said she had finally resorted to ear plugs after five sleepless nights. Evelyn added that she has become used to it, but if she spends a night somewhere else it takes her about a week to stop hearing the chime in the middle of the night. There was a lot of giggling around the subject of the bell, and the more wine Dominque poured the greater the giggling. There was some small attempt to address ways to fix the problem, but in the end everyone agreed that perhaps it was best to just close the windows and hope the winter is long.

September in Provence

Throughout the village, the pavement is littered with the remains of heavy brown figs and the leaves on the trees and vines look exhausted. The air is so soft that it is hard to recall the heat of only a month ago and the days call to you to go for a walk, ride a bike or, as I will do this Sunday, drive over with the windows down to see the work of this marvelous artist Julian Merrow-Smith, who's elegant figs are pictured here.

A walk in the vines

So let's just skip ahead and admit we finalized the purchase of my lovely little house a full year ago and I've blogged only one single time since -- although I'll likely go back and share some of the lessons learned in the first year. Frankly, there was so much to do when we first moved in that there wasn't really much time left for sitting in front of a laptop and clicking away. And then, of course, there was a year-long battle with France Telecom and its evil ISP sister Orange.fr. so that I couldn't even get online to blog if I'd wanted to. It is worth mentioning before moving on the extreme pleasure of having my sister, brother-in-law Saint Peter and long-suffering son with me the first time I inserted an ancient key in a rusty lock that was finally all mine. And on that first, fabulous trip they all earned the right to call the house their own by painting, helping me scrub a century of grime off the living room tile floor and moving furniture from one room to another, and back again.

Now though, a year later, I'm doing exactly as planned -- traveling back and forth between Austin and Provence and enjoying every delicious moment of village life when I'm there.

One of the joys of my village is the verdant, vine-filled countryside all around that presents constant opportunities for hiking and little adventures. The village overlooks a long broad valley filled with vines, that runs all the way to massive Mt. Ventoux. Not far away are the dramatic peaks of the Dentelles de Montmirail, where great hiking trails begin and end in the wine village of Gigondas.

Or you can just walk a few minutes to where the pavement ends and take a walk in the vines. Any excuse will do. Yesterday, the excuse was Ravi.

My friend Patricia -- a size 0 blonde who is as kind as she is lovely -- runs a luxurious B&B a minute from my house. Behind the main house she used to keep her pet donkey, Ravi ("delighted" in French). This worked pretty well for awhile, but a couple of summers back, Ravi decided he'd had quite enough of the pen, was lonely and thought the vines beyond the fence looked especially appetizing, indeed. Over several months, he kept inventing new ways to escape, and Patricia would spot him at the top of a distant hill munching grapevines and thoroughly enjoying the outing. Rounding Ravi up inevitably involved an hour or more of Patricia chasing him up one row and down the other. Great fun.... for Ravi.

So last year Ravi was sent to live a few miles away at a rudimentary stable owned by Pierre-David, a jovial, retired boulanger who has packed on a few pound in his later years but whose youth was spent as a horseback acrobat in the circus. Patricia walks a couple of miles through the vines to see Ravi several times a week and she sometimes invites me to go along.

The circus and horses were Pierre-David's two great loves, but when you are French and come from a long line of bakers, there's really not a lot to discuss. For 40 years, Pierre-David baked baguettes in the village of Tullette. His reward in retirement is a one-room shack at the end of a dirt road where he has built pens and can indulge his love of animals -- and escape his wife and daughter in town. Ravi has a spacious pen and seems to like the arrangement. He's well fed. He has friends -- beside Pierre-David, there's an ancient, molting mule, a Clydesdale pony with a missing ear and a passel of rescued hunting dogs. Pierre-David seems equally content. Inside his shack, displayed floor-to-ceiling on the dark wooden walls are technicolor pin-ups of naked women from Penthouse and Playboy, a cluttered card table and a refrigerator stocked with Cote du Rhone Rose, all the essentials.

Ravi was delighted to see us and even more delighted with the hard baguettes and carrots we brought for his snack. Pierre-David was delighted to have guests with whom to share a bottle of wine and a sunset. Patricia was content hugging the neck of Ravi and whispering endearments in his furry ears. And I was delighted there was a full moon for the walk back through the vines after all the wine and amusement.

(Painting of donkey -- a little darker than Ravi but in the same spirit -- by Debra Sisson.)

A l'etude

I signed everything I could for the house before I left in early August, and charged French Help Services with signing the final contract for sale in November. The signings took me to an anonymous little building in grim little village along the Autoroute to the office of the Notaire.

The Notaire is the public official in France responsible for receiving all “actes” and contracts to which parties wish to confer the seal of authenticity. Notaires oversee settlements between husbands and wives, wills, inheritances and have a monopoly in matters related to the purchase of property, which prevents almost any subsequent litigation concerning property contracts.

The roughly 8,000 Notaires spread across France are under the authority of the Minister of Justice and, like lawyers in France, are referred to as “Maître,” roughly equivalent to “Esquire.” Notaire’s practice where they live, in offices called “Etudes,” but can oversee property transactions regardless of the location.

Notaires hold a rather grand position, and are viewed as the knowledgeable, impartial guardians of ethics and business morality in the transactions over which they preside. Notaires are directly responsible for the deeds they receive and for the sums of money, like deposits on homes, with which they are entrusted.

The Notaire does not work for either buyer or seller and, traditionally, there was only one per transaction. Today, things are more complicated and often both the buyer and seller each hire their own Notaire. My purchase was pretty simple and I had other, experienced outside counsel so I opted to pass on the additional expense of hiring my own Notaire.

“Our” Notaire, a middle-age and balding businessman in khaki trousers and a pastel striped shirt, wore his mantle of authority with a certain, self-deprecating charm. He welcomed us all, chatted with the sellers about the weather and asked me if I was happy with the home I’d found. Sitting in a upholstered chair before his carved wooden desk, I watched him draw out the purchase agreement to be signed and listened as he explained his role -- slowly for my benefit, stopping all along the way to see if I had questions. He explained each section of the contract, and everyone waited patiently while I read through every word of every paragraph on every page. I told him my father had been a lawyer and had taught me to never sign anything I had not completely read. He told me my father was wise. I felt no pressure, but a lot of friendly, slightly amused, support. I was relieved to find there was nothing I could not understand, and the few points on which I had questions were patiently answered. The experience was friendly, painless and over in about 90 minutes. Done.

The Notaires de France website is available in both French and English and offers a search facility to help you find a Notaires Office by entering in department number, you can also search for an English speaking Notaire.
http://www.notaires.fr

Check and doublecheck

I have read and heard all kinds of stories about people who bought their homes without first taking a good, hard look at any potential problems and then had a terrible time. I've even heard of a few wackos who bought their houses sight unseen. Can you imagine?

As for me, I'm a big believer in legwork. I wanted to find out everything I could about the history, character, stability and future prospects of this piece of real estate I was marrying. I wanted a house, not a job renovating a house. I wanted to decorate, plug in the frigo and pour a Pastis.

In the States, it is standard practice for the buyer to hire their own inspector to provide an independent, expert assessment of the property. When I suggested it in France, the sellers and immobilier found the notion terribly odd -- exactly the kind of thing you'd expect from a pushy American lady -- but they had no objections. That alone was reassuring.

Under French law, after you have signed the Compromise de Vente you have seven days to back out with no questions asked. That meant that I had a week to locate an inspector and have them examine the house. The owners had provided their own, standard "Diagnostic Immobilier" that provided assurances on lead, termites, threats from natural disasters and energy use. I wanted someone to look at the roof, plumbing, electrical systems, structure and compare what they saw to the French report. I wanted a few questions answered. It seemed like common sense.

Once again, Wendy at French Help Services came through with a recommendation, finding Martin Glover at Inextensio Restoration and Building Services, an Anglo-French construction company in the Languedoc, who was willing to drive over to see the house. So one hot afternoon, two days after making the offer, I stood with Martin and his French partner Samuel in the cave of the house staring a piece of lead pipe. Martin explained that it was the responsibility of the water company not the homeowner to change and pay for that bit of pipe, and he told me who to call.

From cave to terrasse, on all three floors, we poked and prodded, questioned the owner and checked records at the Mairie. Happily, what Martin and Samuel found confirmed the owner's report. And the additional effort also provided me with a short list of jobs that I'd need to prepare to do and budget for within the next couple of years -- a new hot water tank, waterproofing the tile on the roof, a little remortaring. Nothing urgent.

The inspection cost 500 Euros -- a small price to pay for peace of mind and an objective report written in both French and English. Afterward, we adjourned to the shady creperie on the place of a neighboring village for a few glasses of wine and conversation on the difficulty of running a small business in France.

When I checked out Inextensio online later, I discovered how hard it can be to find a company like them in France. There are a few individual tradesmen with English language sites,, as well as a few directories, but a better, broader resource may be the various online communities of expats in France that often have classifieds or places for tradespeople to advertise. When it is time to make any of the inevitable repairs that will be needed on a nearly 200-year-old house, I'll call Martin back to do them. And I could move forward with little reservation toward closing.

Now the work begins

While the owners considered the offer and before siging the "compromis," or first contract, I had work to do. I spoke with the agent, Monsieur Dumond, to doublecheck all costs. I made sure the quoted price included all fees and taxes,since the VAT can add 19.6% to the cost of the house. I checked on agent's fees since real estate agents are allowed to charge whatever they like in France and fees can range from 4% to 10% of the 'net' property price. In addition, there is the fee for the notaire, the government official who oversees the sale, and this person can charge from 2.5% to 8% of the sale price. I asked to see the plans for the property and made sure I had all the necessary documents to present at signing -- my passport, proof of divorce, birth certificate, bank statements. FrenchEntree.com once again provided useful pointers in reviewing all costs. I began searching for someone who spoke English and French to do a separate, independent inspection of the house. And then I moved into the only B&B in the village for a brief taste of village life.

My arrival coincided with the naming of the village streets. Until then, the address for all houses had simply been "au village" or "Dit, Le Village." Since it had been roughly 700 years from founding to naming the streets, I figured numbering the houses was probably some years, or centuries, off. Still, since no one seemed to know the address of the house I planned to buy -- not the agent, not the owners, not the neighbor next door -- I stopped by City Hall to check on the address and bumped into Madame Le Maire. Just the woman I wanted to see.

Finding out about the town was as important as finding out about the house. The village assets were obvious, but what were the problems? Who better to ask than the mayor?

Madame Le Maire, with steel-gray hair wearing a strawberry red sweater, gray slacks and sensible shoes, welcomed me to town. She noted the flood of Americans now in the area -- none in the village but as many as four in the outlying countryside in summers. When I asked her to tell me what problems the village faced, she conferred quietly with her secretary at some length and then the secretary replied: "les gosse."

"The kids? What's wrong with the kids?" I asked, imagining vandalism, social diseases, drinking and drugs. Like back home.

"Noise," she replied, quite irate. "They just make so much noise in the streets all afternoon. It is terrible."

Looking quite solemn, the mayor agreed, and then added another one: "le parking." She thought cars should stop parking in town and remain on the village periphery. And, no, there were no plans to number the houses. My street was to be called Le Croissiere.

Over the next two days, I visted with a Belgian-British family who owned a small house not far from mine that they used each summer. I spoke with the Portuguese proprietress of my B&B, who noted a slight tendency among villagers to be argumentative and passionate about city politics. The mayor, it turned out, was rather controversial, considered too independent and too bold. I met Dominque, the village weaver, and one or two elderly ladies resting under the Plane trees beside the fountain on the Place. And from my informal survey, I gathered the two great challenges facing the town were "too much sun" and "too much wind." Now these were problems I could live with.

A home in Provence

I never buy the first pair of shoes I try on. But after trying on a dozen pair,I sometimes find the first pair fit best.

After touring 35 houses over three weeks across Languedoc and Provence, I returned to the second one I'd seen. I'd known it was the house for me even before the trip. From the first time I spotted it online, there was something different about it, something that resonated in a way that others didn't. So, after a second visit to be sure, and a third visit with my savvy French friends who confirmed the choice, I made an offer on a maison de village in a tiny hamlet of 120 homes.

From the village, 50 minutes north of Avignon and 9 kilometers outside Vaison-la-Romaine, you can see for miles down a vine-filled valley reminiscent of Tuscany. It was this view that drew the Knights of the Templar to establish a commanderie there in the 12th century, but it was the wine-making in the valley below that has kept a village there ever since.

The house, a three-story stone cottage with rose-colored shutters, was built in 1830 a few steps from remnants of the original medieval wall. It wasn't a grand house, I'd seen better. It had no garden, although the roof terrace was private and nice. And I'd have to be creative in defining a space to eat since there was no formal dining room and the kitchen was small. But the three bedrooms were large and bright, the fireplaces all working, and rooms painted the lovliest shades of lavender, pink and green. There was space to create two more bedrooms and a second bath, if needed, and it was easy to picture my family there, and visiting friends and small parties.

In the end,of course,the decision was less about the particulars of the house than the particulars of my heart. Walking from the village down the hill and through an orchard of ancient olive trees, the wind blowing across miles of thyme, fennel and vines, I knew the search was over. I was home. The offer went in the next day.