‘There is an excellent local builder,’ said Anne, ‘and he’s English.’

‘But that would leave us with a maximum of £30,000 to sort it all out,’ said Doris. ‘I like it but I’m not sure...’

‘Give us time to think,’ I said.

We had been told that there were rules of thumb for restoration costs in France. Three quarters of the purchase price was generally regarded as top whack, and, even if you buy a bare shell (roof, walls, window and doors) the cost shouldn’t exceed the purchase price. Although we were aware that this would be subject to regional variation it was perhaps as good a starting point as any. On that basis – with £20,000 as a likely maximum for the project – we could just be in business.

‘I could see if the builder is available now,’ said Ian, ‘just to give you an idea of costs.’

We should have held back. Why was our luck suddenly changing so quickly? But how could it be wrong to seek advice from a builder? He would obviously know more than we did. So what did we have to lose? We were only asking for an opinion.

After all our earlier frustrations, it must have been prescient that the builder, Kevin, happened to be on his lunch break. By a remarkable coincidence he also happened to be the husband of Madame L’Agent.

He went round the property with us biting into a baguette. He had a pencil behind one ear, a Gitane behind the other, and a slim note book in the back pocket of his Wranglers. Consequently, his comments on the condition of the building were almost less interesting than watching his technique of juggling food, tobacco, and note-making without misadventure. I reckoned that anyone with such savoir faire, particularly as he never stopped talking, must be an at least competent workman.

He began with the outside.

‘Look at the condition of the drainage channels round the walls. In most of these old houses the walls go straight into the ground – no damp course and no foundations. But, if most of the water is dispersed, it’s OK. The rest of the damp climbs up from the ground, but again this doesn’t have to be a problem as long as there are no cracks in the pointing. Then look for bulges in the walls or anything out of true. Bulging walls are bad news – especially high up, it means your roof is on the way down.’

‘And look for damp patches. It could mean that there may be loose or cracked joints in the stonework; when the pointing comes away, the damp goes in. Our worst enemy is ivy. You know that the roots are going to pull out whatever they can and you can’t tell how bad things are until you cut it back. I’ve seen walls collapse when the ivy is cut. Virginia creeper and clematis aren’t as bad, they hang on somehow without eating into the mortar.’

‘I have known Brits who look at an old roof – all bulgy and uneven – and think it is part of the charm of the property. But there’s nothing charming about leaks, draughts and termites. When we go inside we will look for woodworm, but if the timbers are OK, the roof is probably OK.’

We followed him as he circumnavigated the property like trainee doctors in the wake of a celebrated surgeon on his rounds.

Finally, he cleared his throat and smiled.

‘Could be worse,’ he said. ‘Now let’s have a quick look round the garden.’

‘What are you looking for now?’

He continued his commentary on the hoof.

‘Well, you’ve got the river. If it floods, the garden washes away and the house will eventually follow, but I don’t see any sign of that. I also look to see if trees have been taken out. If you chop down a tree it changes the natural drainage. I know a bloke who cut down half a dozen trees to make way for a tennis court; it was always wet. Should have put in a swimming pool.’

‘And the roots from large trees can spread under your walls. We call it ‘Billy Connolly’ because it always brings the house down. Also look for cracks in the ground, they don’t have to be big. When people put up extensions it can all get uneven. Different levels you see. When that happens you see cracks or mud patches between the new bit and the old, but I think your barn was put up at the same time as the house. There don’t seem to be any problems here. Can we go into the house now?’

He had finished his baguette and poured himself a coffee from a thermos he had left on a low wall by the barn. He checked his notes quickly, tucked the pencil behind his ear and lit another cigarette. This was the signal for us to move on.

‘We start off by looking for the dreaded damp,’ he said. ‘It hides itself behind panelling and plasterboard. The bastard. So what we do is look at skirting board height for mould. We also have a good sniff. When a house has been empty for a while there’s always some damp. You’ll often see patches on wallpaper. That’s not too bad. When it’s bad it peels off.’

He stopped and hesitated.

‘Uh huh,’ he said, ‘look down here.’

He was now staring at an area on top of a skirting board. He ran a the little finger of the hand that held the cigarette along the top of the board and then lifted it to his nose.

‘Musty you see. Do you want to smell?’

We declined. It is sometimes best to accept someone at their word. It shows you have faith in them.

‘Is this a problem?’ I asked.

‘Not necessarily. You’d expect a bit of damp in a house like this. It’s easily sorted. We just strip back to the stone and put in some mortier bâtard.’

‘Bastard mortar?’

‘It’s a sand and cement mix with some of builder’s friend – lime. The French use it for everything. If it’s lime wash for the outside walls it’s called badigeon or chaux. There are lots of different mixes.’

‘It’s cheap, freshens things up nicely, and covers a lot of sins. An extra little dab or two in a hole or crack? Who’s to know? And better still it keeps the rain out but lets condensation escape.’

I was beginning to wonder where he had learned all the tricks of his trade when I was surprised to discover we could also count mind reading amongst his many skills.

‘Before I came out here 14 years ago I worked for a UK outfit called Bodgitt, Shaftem and Scarper. No, I’m only joking. But they do exist, honestly. They’re actually a reputable outfit. Blackpool or Cleveleys I think.’

‘They’d have to be good with a name like that,’ I said.

‘Unless, of course, it’s a double bluff,’ said Doris.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Kevin who immediately continued the tour.

‘I’m pretty sure there’s a vide sanitaire under this boarded living room floor. That’s good news. It helps with air flow – cuts out damp and stops the joists from rotting. So let’s go upstairs. We may not be able to see much of the roof joists – they’ll be hidden by more floorboards, but we’ll do our best. Remember to look out for woodworm.’

We followed him cautiously up the rickety stairs.

‘We’ll need some new treads here,’ he said, ‘don’t worry, that’s nothing. And yes, I was right, we can’t see the roof timbers because of the boards. But look at the size of the beams going up. Know why that is? In the old days they used to shovel in buckets of earth as insulation. Works better than rockwool but it’s heavy. The good news is that it means the house was built properly. Built to last. Not like modern houses. OK, so let’s go downstairs.’

The house obviously had massive potential. It also, more or less perfectly matched our requirements. There were just two more questions.

‘But how much will it all cost?’ asked Doris.

‘And how long will it take? I asked.

Kevin carefully dislodged a piece of salami skin from a tooth and lit another cigarette. Then he moved his head from side to side in the manner of the Old Bailey weighing scales. Finally he spoke.

‘Ball park figure? I could firm things up later. Well, let’s see. Rewiring and plumbing; new walls up, old walls down; new boards here; new boards there; some windows and glazing; some pointing and plastering; new kitchen units; bathroom suite. ‘Course it depends what you want to spend there. Keep it simple and it shouldn’t be too bad. You don’t want gold taps do you?’

I shook my head. Gold taps were not part of the equation.

‘Well, let’s see. I reckon, with you working alongside me, around 15K should do it. 20K tops. Once we get really up and running we should get most of the work done in three to four months. So what do you think? Are we going to make this un maison magnifique, or what?’

His estimate was more or less exactly the figure we had hit on earlier. And it was just what we had hoped for. Was this serendipity or stupidity?

Doris and I looked at each other. She smiled. We both knew he had us.

‘You’d be able to start when we need you?’

He nodded.

‘Then we’ll take it,’ I said.