It was in July 2005, whilst collecting some items from the bricolage, when I found a familiar hand on my shoulder. It belonged to Maurice of the hunt.

‘I trust you are well,’ I said.

‘Very well,’ he replied.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘I learned recently that your family had lived in Entrechoux for many years.’

Maurice threw back his shoulders and smiled.

‘From the time of François 1st,’ he said, ‘or maybe earlier.’

‘Yes, I was doing some research on my property when I think I found one of your ancestors.’

‘Research?’

‘Yes, les archives’

‘Ah, the archive, at Paroisse sur Charente?’

‘That is correct. It seems that Monsieur Jacques Bertrand, of Entrechoux, was a great inventor. Your ancestor, I think?’

‘As I said, there have been many Bertrands in Entrechoux, Monsieur. I think at one time half the village were Bertrands. Or married to them. Or sleeping with them. I do not know of Monsieur Jacques, but it must be that he was one of us. What was it that he made?’

‘He invented the Mouse Trap Charentaise. Very ingenious.’

‘Ingenious?’

‘Yes, Monsieur. It required an understanding of the way the mouse thinks.’

‘And how is that?’

‘The trap was a simple block of wood. At the centre was a sharp blade. And, at one side of the blade was the bait – a piece of cheese, I think. The mouse scented the bait, climbed on the block, and as he looked over the blade he cut his own head off.’

Maurice shook his head, I could see that his thinking was in overdrive.

‘But Monsieur,’ he said, ‘what if he climbed up the other side of the block and simply ran away with the cheese?’

‘Ah, but Monsieur Jacques Bertrand really did understand mouse psychology. He would allow the creature to be lucky maybe one or two times. Then he had him.’

I knew also that I nearly had Maurice. He rocked his head gently from one shoulder to the other.

‘You must explain, Monsieur.’

‘Ah well, it is like this. At first the mouse has taken the cheese and run away. But this time your ancestor has baited the trap with no cheese.’

Yes my trap was well baited now.

‘No cheese?’

‘Yes, you see the mouse comes to the block from either direction. He climbs up and cautiously looks over the blade. Then, shaking his head vigorously, he says, ‘Merde, where has the lump of cheese gone?’ And that, of course, is fatal, Monsieur.’

Maurice paused for a moment, laughed heartily, and shook me by the hand.

‘I did not know I had such a genius for an ancestor. I thank you, Monsieur.’

We still have plans for further renovation. The downstairs bathroom still needs work and we feel that the barn – valuable store that it was – should have a greater purpose in life. It was large enough, according to one friend, to become a nightclub with a dance floor and bar below and with sound equipment and perhaps exotic dancers’ poles in the hayloft or, perhaps I should say, the mezzanine. I have spoken to Monsieur Cabacou about this, and once he was sure that I was not entirely serious, he agreed that thumping bass speakers, late night revellers and lunatic drunken driving was exactly what the village needed.

‘Very much in keeping with the traditions of Entrechoux,’ he said, ‘we miss out far too much on the experience of the outside world Monsieur. You put your plans in writing, Monsieur. I would like to see the expressions on the face of the planning committee.’

More seriously we have considered the idea of developing the barn as a gîte, or as bed and breakfast accommodation, or even as a cyclists’ hostel – with clean, though fairly primitive, accommodation. I am not sure we will ever do any of these things. There comes a time in life when you don’t really want to be taking on long-term commitments.

I have also thought about a terrace. When I get really old I may enjoy a padded lounger in the shade with a suitable light rigged above my head so I can finish my book when the sun goes down.

Planning permission is not required for a terrace unless you go for something larger than 20 square metres or you intend to raise it more than 60 centimetres above ground level. I asked Monsieur Cabacou about this and he said that a déclaration a travaux (to the Mairie) was still required because the terrace adds to the surface hors d’oeuvre brut (SHOB) – the official gross floor area of the property also known as the ‘surface habitable’. This could, theoretically, impact on future building plans and increase local taxes, although both scenarios are unlikely.

I have worked out what is required – excavation, levelling, then hardcore covered with coarse sand. This is then topped off with my old friend – reinforced concrete. There should be expansion joints every two metres and a slight slope on the slab – around 2% is enough – for rainwater to drain. It would be cheaper to use géotextile material under the sand or wooden frame on concrete, but these, to my mind, may be a short term gain. The weeds come back to get you – eventually.

Decking is now quite popular in France. You can get interlocking panels, pre-drilled boards, and a system they call caillebotis- a kind of all weather parquet suspended on height-adjustable pillars. Surprisingly all these systems are considered to be cheaper than putting down a stone surface but, of course, that depends on what you pay for your stone. I am again on the look-out for a suitable load.

Our next big project could well be to replace the Colditz-style chain-link husky fence with a timber structure that provides more privacy. The idea then would be to have a gateway to the stream where we could have a summer house, but these plans have so far been thwarted. They won’t let me have a summer house close to the water’s edge. The argument is that if we have enough serious rain causing a flood, Doris and I could sail away, Noah-like, for forty days or thereabouts. I am going to have to give this further thought.

But the greatest challenge will always be to make the most of our lives. We came to France for a better life, but we will never be French. We will always be the Brits who live in the mini-chateau by the bridge. That is not an insult. It’s a matter of fact.

We left behind our British culture because, apart from real ale and fish and chips, it had pretty much ceased to exist. There are problems in France certainly, but the continuing sense of community and respect for people and property makes it much more like the Britain we grew up in. We do not have to lock our doors in Entrechoux. How many English villages are there where you can still say that?

The commonest phrase of criticism you hear from our neighbours is: ‘Ce n‘est pas normal’. I have always taken this to mean ‘It’s not quite right’. It can describe just about anything from riots on the streets of Paris to an overcooked piece of pork. It explains all you need to know about the French philosophy of life. There is not much that is bad enough to let it ruin your day. And in that sense at least I think, three years down the line, Doris and I are becoming a little more like the French. And that, we sincerely believe, is something to aspire to.