Oddly enough ‘a dangerous recipe’ was pretty much what Kevin called the plaster mix we made for the living room walls. It was basically what we would call Plaster of Paris, too heavy a mix and it dries like chalk, too light and it slides from the surface like snow from a shovel.

Kevin had demonstrated the mix method; not too much at a time, a clean bucket and scoop – I used a 500 gram plastic honey pot. Then it’s one scoop of water and two scoops of plaster plus a scoop of something called Presylis 35 which decelerates setting. It is almost impossible to mix by hand: I used an electric drill with an attachment that worked like a food mixer. Finally I tested the mixture and added more water, a drop at a time, until I had a thick porridge.

This basic plaster mix – or pldtre – dries so quickly you have to work like an anabolically enhanced window cleaner. You start at the bottom and work up, floating the mix smoothly upwards and outwards; it dries almost as you go. Experts can handle a mix of four to one with two scoops of water. I had bought the basic plastering tools which included a filler knife and a metal float but they rusted instantly so I binned them and bought a new set in stainless steel.

The amazing thing about the French method is the coverage, the exposed wall was built of large irregular stones about eighteen inches thick and some of the gaps were six to eight inches. In England you fill the gaps with mortar and render it before plastering over but in France you pack in plaster with a filling knife. Even the deeper recesses were touch dry by the time I had made the mix for the top coat. A light sanding produced a surface that was ready for decorating the following day.

It was around this time that I made another visit to the Mairie. I was already becoming aware of just how important and powerful the Mayor is in France. For example, Kevin had told us that his daughter had signed up for a school trip to Spain and that, as part of the protocol, she had to be given written permission from the Mairie to be absent from the commune. This has at least something to do with local accountability, but perhaps not in the sense it would be understood in Britain. In rural communities a child may be absent from school for several days – say for harvesting. This is considered reasonable. But what would happen, for instance, if harvesting coincided with some other activity – like a school trip perhaps – which would be otherwise beyond the control of the commune? There could be misunderstanding, even conflict. To avoid this a note is required.

Kevin had assured us that we did not need planning permission for internal changes. But anything outside – or anything that could be seen from outside – was different, and that included matters that may be considered largely cosmetic. We wanted to pull down a wall constructed from crumbling brick and replace it with breeze blocks.

‘You take a picture of the wall as it is,’ said Kevin, ‘then draw a sketch of the alterations you want to make. Then you go to the Mayor, on your knees, and ask nicely.’

The Entrechoux Mairie is a small stone-fronted, ground-floor office situated between the redundant pissoir and the former fire station. Occasionally, as on my previous visit, Monsieur Cabacou, Le Maire himself, is in attendance, but when he has other business – such as delivering the post – the office is most regularly staffed by Madelaine, the wife of a motorcycle mechanic who travels noisily each day to work in Ruffec.

Madelaine has a winning smile and a big bundle of patience. What we could not manage in French was accomplished in sign language and when she was sure she had the thrust of each point she made notes which were later attached to the photograph and sketch. She explained that all this was necessary to obtain the ‘Declaration de Permis de Constuire’ and a copy would be sent to the local tax office. I was a touch concerned about this, but Madelaine explained that it would make no difference to my tax bill, a swimming pool perhaps, but not a replacement wall. The documents had to be sent in anyway. As soon as I had my permission I had two years to complete the work, otherwise the process would have to begin again.

‘You will know in two weeks,’ she said, ‘but there will be no problem.’

‘How do you know?’ I asked.

‘Because you have done it properly,’ she said. ‘The papers must be correct. That is all. Otherwise they come back.’

‘I will remember that,’ I said.

‘And I will assist you Monsieur.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘There are some people,’ she said looking towards the window, ‘who do not care to be correct. Their paper comes back many times. Many times.’

I knew she was speaking of what the villagers called the ‘Ghetto’. This was where nine English families were all packed into a cul de sac of modern housing.

‘I apologise for the extra work caused by some of the English,’ I said.

‘It is not because they are English, Monsieur, it is because they are ignorant. No charm, no manners, no sense. We call them “Les dindons”.’

‘The turkeys?’

‘Because they run round in circles and have no sense. But they make a lot of noise.’

‘I am not un dindon?

‘No Monsieur, you are un pigeon. You fly around. You look. You see. You eat. It is a compliment Monsieur.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

And that, as it turned out, was the seminal lesson in French bureaucracy. Get help. Get it right. Get whatever you want. Nobody cares very much what it is. But it helps if you are a pigeon.