La Maison D’Etre legally became our future home on August 2nd 2002. But it was almost a year later – when Doris retired in July 2003 – when we moved in. Well, ‘moved in’ is a slight exaggeration, the truth was the house was still 100% uninhabitable.

Kevin had laid down a gravel area to put the caravan on and had tapped into the house electrics so we could have a ‘hook up’. He had also attached a hosepipe to the only tap in the house which provided a water supply at constant pressure.

‘Well, we’ve always wanted our own caravan site,’ said Doris.

We had hoped by now to have made at least some progress with the renovation. Kevin had promised that essential repairs – such as the barn roof – would already have been dealt with. However, it had proved impossible to cajole him from the other side of the Channel or during our flying visits to France.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ve been snowed under with work. But now you’re here you will have my special attention. Don’t worry, you’ll be in by winter.’

We had arranged for our furnishings to be delivered. Temporarily they would have to be stored under tarpaulins in the barn. This was unsatisfactory, but cheaper than leaving them in store in the UK. When you add in insurance, storing a typical houseful of furniture with a remover costs at least £50 a week.

As you come down the hill on the way into the village from the north the first thing you see is a clump of trees, then, as the road narrows to the old pack horse bridge there is a sign announcing ‘L’Odorat’. On crossing the river La Maison D’Etre is the first house. The village name plate is attached to the side of the house, the post box is embedded in the wall below a large mirror for the benefit of drivers approaching what amounts to the village’s only crossroad. On the other side of the road a large lamp illuminates the junction with the light reflected from the mirror and the windows. At night this Christmas tree effect adds to the stature of the property. The longest-term residents are a colony of bats that feed on moths and, as yet, other unidentified flying insects, which are attracted by the lamp.

We plumbed in the washing machine as a matter of urgency. It died on the first rinse cycle. The machine had survived six previous moves so this demise was not totally unexpected, but my suspicions remain that a post mortem would have revealed dodgy French electrics, or at least a combination of French water and reduced voltage.

I reminded Doris that the old village lavabo (washing place) was strategically placed just across the road so that the dirt discharged directly into the river. This I considered to be a silver lining. Doris’s response was that not even her shortest-term plans included scrubbing my underwear in full view of the local population. That was fair enough. We began our search for a new machine immediately.

We sorted the pile of junk mail that had not yet been discarded; there were plenty of electrical goods on offer, but almost all were subject to monstrous delivery charges. Apart from FNAC, which trades only in the larger towns and cities, we couldn’t really find an equivalent of Comet and Currys. Set against this, even modest-sized towns have the kind of specialist retailers which provide an excellent service. So we went to nearest decent-sized town – Ruffec – and found a specialist supplier.

The salesman demonstrated a masterpiece of Teutonic engineering that could not only adjust to various water types but had programmes to perform all laundry functions you can imagine and some you may prefer not to. This was the cleansing equivalent of a NASA probe: smart, cutting edge, and ludicrously expensive. We went for it.

But I baulked at the delivery charge: an extra €20 to shift the machine a few kilometres.

‘If it is so clever,’ I argued, ‘why not just give it a couple of euro and tell it to come on the bus?’

Either my French wasn’t up to it, or washing machine salesmen are born with the humour switch jammed in the off position. We paid up.

At least the shower in the house worked in the sense that it discharged water, and, as this was France in August, it was hugely welcome. During the first few days we both became skilled at bobbing and weaving around the cubicle to balance the hot steam and cold plunge effect. Later I found that if I turned the shower on and hid within the plastic wrap of the shower curtain, I could then leap out to enjoy a minute or so of safe ablutive rapture. Doris’s technique was more scientific, she determined that the pulses from the showerhead were arpeggios of temperature and if you picked the right sequence of notes there was little to fear. I never quite worked this out.

We were prepared to put up with the shower, the rising damp, the leaky roof, the venerable gas-fired water heating system in the kitchen, the lack of adequate cooking facilities and even a proper bed to sleep in. Six months of living in a caravan had given us a siege mentality, and the cavalry – exemplified by Kevin’s ample trouser cleavage – was coming to the rescue. He had promised that our problems would be sorted out toute de suite.

‘Just as long as we are in for the winter,’ I said.

It was amazing how many of the locals were taking an interest in what we were doing. It wasn’t so much nosiness as civic pride: one tatty house makes those around it look tatty.

One very old man, Monsieur Crochet, would sometimes sit in the shade on the green opposite the house and monitor our progress. He could not see much, full stop, but he enjoyed the sounds and smells associated with building.

‘Is the plastering going well, Monsieur?’ He would ask.

‘Very well,’ I would say, ‘how did you know?’

‘The aroma, Monsieur. It reminds me of when I was a young man. I would walk with my lover in the fields, after the rain. You know, when the sun begins to dry the corn. It was most romantic.’

And on another occasion, ‘Have you finished treating the timbers, Monsieur?’

‘Not quite, but how did you know?’

‘The aroma, Monsieur. When I was a boy I used to visit my aunt in Pornic. It was sometimes early in the year when they took all the small boats out of the water for repair. The smell of varnish always reminds me of the sea, Monsieur.’

On another occasion he asked me if we had successfully dealt with the problems of the septic tank. No, I didn’t ask. Perhaps I should have done.