In May 2001, we went to the French Property Exhibition in Harrogate. It was comprehensive, with strong representation from agents involved in France. I felt that one of them – let’s call the company Les Maisons Formidable – looked impressive on their stand, but posters and embossed paper are easy enough to produce and, like an Armani suit, are primarily intended to impress. I knew we had to dig deeper – to find out what the operation looked like stripped to the raw.

Early the following year, 18 months before Doris planned to retire, we made an appointment to visit their London office near Canary Wharf; the premises were trim and tidy without the worst excesses of floribunda and Vivaldi. We had an interview with Justin – one of the directors – who helped us to make decisions in principle about areas of France which matched our aspirations and price range. This led to a potentially busy itinerary looking at property around Deux Sevres, the Limousin and the Charente.

But what impressed us most about Les Maisons Formidable was that this was a ‘one stop service’ that dealt with every aspect of the purchase process. Included in the package was advice on rights of way, land divisions, and similar legal minefields. We were also promised that someone from the company would ‘pop round for a cup of tea’ once we had settled in and give us the benefit of their experience of setting up a profitable gîte business or a bed and breakfast operation. On these – and other matters that could ultimately help us to make ends meet – more formal legal advice and aftercare was also to be made available. Les Maisons Formidable seemed just the thing for us.

At Easter 2002 we sailed for France towing our geriatric caravan to the municipal site in Deux Sevres. We had a couple of relaxing days in the sunshine, studying the specifics of our itinerary and mentally preparing for the whistle stop tour of ‘suitable’ property. We had just two weeks before Doris was due to return to work.

Day one started badly: we drove in ever decreasing circles on ever deteriorating roads until we ended up at a no-through hedgerow. Doris’s eyes are better than mine and she spotted a ramshackle farm building on the horizon. All we had to do now was to find the road.

We turned around. Some little way back down the lane we watched a large lady close a field gate behind a geriatric 2CV; she took particular pains to hitch down her skirt and climbed into the vehicle. We watched as the little car ascended a track which could well have been used for tank training. The driver evaded the worst of the potholes, whilst the vehicle trampolined gently but resolutely through the dips which could not be avoided. I could not help contrasting this with Surrey stockbrokers’ wives who drive their armoured personnel carriers daily, but test their off road pedigree just once a year whilst transporting sandwiches for the village gymkhana.

As the 2CV neared the farm building we knew that this must be our route. We parked our car tight against the hedgerow and followed on foot.

At the entrance to the farm buildings a ‘for sale’ sign indicated that this was the correct address. We knocked at the door. There was no response. Then, the same woman who had tested the 2CV’s suspension appeared from behind a barn and explained that she had come to feed her horses.

‘But is there anyone here?’ I asked.

‘Sometimes yes,’ she said, ‘and sometimes no. Today it is no, I think.’

It was now half an hour after our appointment time and there was no sign of the agent.

I used my mobile to telephone the office in London.

‘Tarquin speaking.’

‘Good morning Tarquin. What time is it?’

He hesitated. ‘Nine o’clock?’ he ventured.

‘No, here in France it is ten o’clock.’

‘And you have a viewing appointment?’

‘Well done, Tarquin. Yes, for half past nine.’

‘Ah.’

‘And here we are ruminating, like the cows, in a field in Deux Sevres. It’s attractive but aromatic. It would have been more instructive to view the property.’

‘Ah, quite so.’

He took our details and promised to call us back. He didn’t. Three further phone calls to the UK met with a similar wall of inertia.

Our next appointment was three days later. This was in the Limousin and we were also to view property nearby in the Charente. A campsite was booked by Anne and Ian – who had recently taken over Les Maisons Formidable regional office – that could serve both purposes. Anne even made an appearance ‘just to see how things are going.’

There must have been something in our demeanour – perhaps it was the way we were sticking pins into a doll dressed in estate agent pinstripes – that told her that we were a touch disgruntled.

‘You look a touch disgruntled,’ she said.

‘Beaucoup pissed off in fact,’ I said.

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I’d better ring London.’

She passed on apologies from a director called Jeremy and an assurance that we would receive ‘top treatment’ from now on.

‘And we have more than 600 properties on our books in the Limousin,’ said Anne.

‘Just as long as we don’t have to look at all of them,’ said Doris. ‘I’d lose the will to live.’

A new, even busier, schedule was lined up. One for the following day; two the day after and three the day after that. Their plan was to use fatigue to force us into a decision.

Anne had arranged for us to liaise with a local agent to take us round the first batch of properties. We followed the directions to the agent’s office and unerringly navigated our way to another hedgerow. I performed a nifty nine point turn and we drove slowly back up the lane until Doris spotted the mill building. The agency sign suggested that we had found the correct address. Again we parked the car tight against the hedgerow. It was 9.30. We were bang on time.

Here there was no rutted track to navigate – just a gate rusted shut on its hinges and a low slung cur (possibly a Doberman Dachshund) beyond. The dog’s yellow toothy smile said ‘come in and make my day’.

An attractive young lady appeared alongside the beast.

‘The dog, is it safe?’ I asked.

She spoke the kind of Franglais that I had previously thought was invented for Inspector Clouseau.

‘You Engleash?’

‘Yes.’

‘He iz good dog. He like the chealdren.’

‘Children?’

‘Yes, chealdren.’

‘Has he ever eaten a whole one?’ I asked.

‘An ole wern?’

‘Mais oui, un enfant entier...’

‘Monsieur?’

‘Est-Ce que il a mangé un enfant complet?’

She hesitated for a moment. The light dawned. She had seen the flaw in my argument. Or French.

‘Non, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘si le chien mange tout I’enfant, c’est le chien qui est compkt...’

We started to laugh at the same time. It was Doris who explained that we had an appointment with the agent. The young lady lifted the gate so it swung open just enough...

‘Come with me,’ she said, ‘et oubliez le chien. II est, how do you say... un lache...’

‘A coward,’ volunteered Doris.

‘Yes, a cowhard. He iz biting only the purstman.’

She took us into the ramshackle mill building that served as an office and found old green polypropylene chairs for us in an alcove near the toilet. Through an adjacent hatchway we could see the agent, an older woman in a white linen suit, making notes in response to a stream of messages on her answering machine. When she had finished she began waving her arms which was our signal to enter the room.

‘So many people now,’ she said, looking significantly at the machine, ‘wanting to buy the houses in France. It is crazy. Now tell me what it is you want?’

We had discussed our requirements in England and again at the regional French office of Les Maisons Formidable in France. Anyway, hadn’t our initial schedule already been arranged? I was surprised that she did not have the paperwork.

‘We are looking for a substantial detached rural property that requires renovation. The plan is to work alongside a local builder to bring things up to standard. We have more time than money and lots of children and grandchildren.’

Madame L’Agent looked bemused.

‘There are not many detached properties in France,’ she said. ‘We are friendly people. We like to have close neighbours. You understand?’

We understood, although her contention went against everything we had observed in more than 30 years of visiting the country. In rural France, in particular, we had formed the impression that people liked space. Lots of space. After all, wasn’t there four times as much space to go round per capita, and didn’t a large proportion of those same capitas live in large towns and cities? Conversely wasn’t it just the British who had become the semi-detached nation of Europe? And wasn’t that the very essence of our reason for escaping the UK?

Perhaps we looked confused. But Madame L’ Agent was determined to make sure that we were on message.

‘We like to be very close,’ she said, ‘with each other.’

I had once seen a similar form of words advertising a French film.

‘But we don’t like to be close,’ I said. ‘We’re British.’

‘Very well,’ she said, ‘I will have a look in my drawers.’

Doris squeezed my hand tight enough to wipe the smile from my face and Madame L’Agent dug into a filing cabinet and produced a sheaf of paper.

‘Here are nine possibles,’ she said.

We perused the paperwork. Four of the properties did not remotely meet our requirements and one was very ‘iffy’. This left us with four. She picked up a telephone, spoke brusquely, and within moments the girl we had encountered with the Doberman Dachshund came into the room.

‘My daughter Amelie will show you,’ said Madame L’Agent who immediately turned her attention back to the answer phone.

Amelie did not possess her own car; this, she explained, was because she was a student and could not afford the insurance. I wondered how this matched the claim that ‘all viewings of property must be accompanied by a fully trained professional agent’. But no matter, Amelie was, at least, a cheery companion. And even if she wasn’t quite Liz Hurley (as in stop the traffic and watch cars run into the back of each other) gorgeous, she was sufficiently attractive to make me all but useless as a navigator. Keeping my eyes on the road was the best I could manage, Doris and Amelie shared the navigation duties: one with local knowledge, the other with a map.

At the first property Amelie could not find the key holder; property two required more resurrection than renovation and property three was a clerical error.

I should have known something was wrong – we found property three without a single three point turn. Tall silvered wrought iron gates led to a landscaped drive and garden. The house was porticoed with a patio and pool at the front and a tennis court set to one side.

Amelie, who knew our financial clout was limited to £50,000, was embarrassed.

‘Tell them we’ll take it without looking,’ I said.

‘I think we have come to the wrong place,’ she said.

The right place was a kilometre further on. The main building was constructed of weathered concrete – part grey and part green. This was, Amelie explained, because the imbedded mosses had been less successful in taking hold in areas that enjoyed direct sunlight. Her assessment was probably correct. Sunlight had also kept the damp patches on the sunny side to a minimum. Round the back the walls oozed gently to about half way up, and running from beneath the rotting window frames, were soggy stalactites of something that resembled unpasteurised Brie.

We were aware that dilapidation can lend a kind of charm. The trick, we had read, was to look past it for possible serious defects. But we were thinking more about a ramshackle roof, mosses overhanging gutters and the odd patch of flaky paint. This place had all the allure of the lifers’ block on Devil’s Island. However, as we had come so far, we were determined to take the tour.

The property was as appalling inside as out. The kitchen smelt of rotting rubber which we put down to the antediluvian linoleum. The entire upstairs held the aroma of camphor – probably the legacy of a thousand mothballs.

‘And where’s the toilet?’ asked Doris.

Amelie dutifully went in search of the phantom convenience, but we already knew what the outcome would be.

‘Je regrette Madame...’

‘But this information,’ I said, waving the printed sheet at her, ‘said that the place was habitable. Without a toilet?’

‘I think,’ she said, ‘that there has been un erreur...’

Property four was a run down 1970s pavillon. It was utterly soulless and in the middle of nowhere and, judging by the sparks that were generated every time we threw a switch, it needed rewiring. It would also need some plumbing once the chocolate-toned bathroom suite had found its way to the tip. Otherwise we could have moved in the next day. But it would have been difficult to live with the present owner’s taste in garden ornaments: Snow White was more than a touch provocative and the seven dwarfs were all endowed in a way that compensated for their lack of stature. Happily they were almost camouflaged by weeds.

It took an hour to drive Amelie back to the mill, and it took us a further two hours (in pretty much the direction from which we had just come) to get back to our camp site.

Our background reading had led us to believe that the principle sales ploy of French estate agents was charm. It began with a big smile and the sort of French accent you can cuddle, then there would be petit fours and coffee and the odd glass of bubbly. There would be references to the Greatness of Britain and the good taste and perspicacity of its mature citizens. Transport would be laid on in a vehicle in which even the climate control could not entirely mask the tang of soft new leather, and there would be Fauré and Dérufle on the CD changer, a cold drinks cabinet without Virgin cola, and a satellite internet system for clients to check their share portfolios.

I have heard it really can be like that, but not in the Limousin. This is the doss house end of the French property market: cheap and cheerful. Well, cheap anyway.

Estate agents have never featured in my top ten ‘useful occupations’ list. In the first place they could never claim to be either productive or necessary. The instinct therefore is to treat them like car salesmen: never look too keen, ask difficult questions, kick the tyres. But this wasn’t going to work here: you don’t kick tyres when the exhaust pipe is certain to crush your toes. And questions like ‘does it have a toilet?’ are not seriously probing. Let’s face it: ‘toilet’ is just about as basic as ‘steering wheel’. You assume it exists and hope it works. And as for not ‘looking too keen’, well that’s easy, there’s not much to enthuse about in a scrap yard.

But what made it difficult was that Ian and Anne were not like estate agents. It may have been because they were young and inexperienced but, whatever it was, they retained some uncharacteristically human qualities. Indeed, that same evening they came round to see how we had got on.

‘You look a touch disgruntled,’ said Anne.

‘My gruntles are sore,’ I admitted. ‘I’ve spent around five hours in the car today and have not seen a remotely suitable property.’

Ian produced a bottle of Pineau. ‘This will make things feel better,’ he said. ‘And we will find you a suitable property, and it could just be tomorrow. I have a list and we will come with you this time. After tomorrow though it will be someone else. We’re off to Limoges for a couple of weeks. It’s a basic training course for the job. But don’t worry, somebody will help you find the right place. Eventually.’

Perhaps it was the thought of losing Ian and Anne that concentrated our minds. More likely it was because they had done their homework. All the properties we saw were worthy of consideration and the last one we viewed was like a sardine to a pelican: it fitted the bill perfectly.

The house was in the village of Entrechoux – several kilometres from the market town of Paroisse sur Charente. We had visited Paroisse before and we felt it had a certain charm but, more importantly it had doctors, chemists, bakers and restaurants – just about everything you need when playing the senior circuit.

Entrechoux is a traditional rural French village – proudly dressed in stone and grey pantiles, more conformist than chic and now a touch threadbare since being stripped of almost all commerce. A stream divides the village north and south. By the south bank the Romanesque church marks the geographical and spiritual centre. In front of the western door is a small but manicured village green (featuring the village pump, lavabo, and war memorial) flanked by shady limes. A few paces further to the west was a packhorse bridge which still carried all traffic bound up and down the main street.

A most substantial house stood sentinel by the bridge with a garden running down to the south bank of the stream. The property had clearly been prosperous – there were signs of extensions as well as a large double barn.

Although in massive need of attention there was something sensible and solid about it. It also had the presence of a prime location, like a mini-chateau. This had surely once been the residence of someone significant, and it was available for £20,000.

I had that feeling, it was like the inevitable consequence of spicy food and strong wine: you know what will happen if you do, but then what is the point of going to the restaurant if you don’t? Doris clearly felt the same.

‘Could this be it?’ she said.

I squeezed her hand.

‘I hope so,’ I said.