The Chateau, The Witch and The Wardrobe: Part One of my Gap Year in Rural France

'I dumped London in favour of rural France'

I remember it was late summer of 2018, and I could hear my mother on the receiving end of a rather agitated phone call. I listened as the caller spouted the following: “there’ll be nothing for her there, it’s a bad idea, she won’t find a job, it’s too isolated,” you get the message. The angsty caller turned out to be the mother of my good school friend. Their family had moved to a quaint middle-country village in central France once my friend had finished her schooling at the high school we both attended, and I had just come back from visiting them in France for a holiday a couple of weeks prior. What the mother was stressing to my mother, was that I should not come back. Well, that’s a perhaps a little misleading. That I should not come back to stay for a year to live with her daughter before I would start university later the following year, liked I had planned. Most people call it messing around for a year, I called it a gap year.

Freshly rejected from the London university I was dreaming of attending, I was at a loss as to which route to take next in life. Thank goodness that brass-knobbed, eloquently festooned solid oak wood door firmly shut in my face (I’m trying to liken arrogant, league table-obsessed universities to a rich but stubborn old door here if that wasn’t strikingly obvious), in turn directing me under an archway laced with garlic and onions, to the land of the pastries and impossible administration (here I’m metaphorically walking to the country we affectionately call ‘France’ if you hadn’t guessed it.) Essentially, I dumped London, in favour of rural France. Quite the switch-up non?

I had always enjoyed learning the French language from a young age. I even won a prize at age ten for being the ‘best French speaker’ during our primary school trip to Brittany. I can’t quite imagine how the judging took place for this; I must have only exchanged a bar of soap for my Monopoloy-esque euros at a market stall in Dinan, muttering ‘bonjour’ and ‘merci. Obviously the teachers took this for sheer talent, and so here I was, nine years later, embarking once again to the promised land.

The plan was to spend the year living with said friend, who had her own house she was sharing with her boyfriend, and find work, in the hope of soaking up the culture and learning better French than that interaction at the market all those years ago. Then I would study the language properly at university and already have a good grip on it. My friend’s mother was right to be so indignant though: finding work was no small feat, in fact it took me 9 months to get a proper paid job. But the experiences I had in-between were so chaotic and brilliant, it was so worth the risk of buying a one way ticket to one of the smallest airports I’ve seen in the world. And so commences the story of the chateau, the witch and the wardrobe, a.k.a, my gap year in rural France.

'I didn't want to play the starring role in the next 'The Shining''

As soon as I dumped my bags chez mon amie, I encountered the first problem. I didn’t have a car. Of course I didn’t, I was 19 with no money of my own, and in a foreign country. But if you’ve ever holidayed in ‘ La France Profande’ as they call it, or ‘deep France’ (essentially the real France, non of that Paris pomp), you’ll know public transport isn’t really a thing. My friend lived a 20 minute drive from the town centre (and when I say town centre, it consisted of an Intermarché, a barricaded butchers and four bars, segregated into those for ‘locals’ and those for British expats), yet it was where there would be any ounce of activity, so being cut off from it was not ideal. This meant I quickly had to secure myself other means of accommodation, more centrally, and move out of my friend’s dwelling. Besides, in my efforts to give something back to this friend who had been hosting me for the first month, I did a massive clean up of her barn-conversion house and accidentally shrunk her jeans in the wash in the process. Co-habiting had its trials. So flat hunt I did.

I first tried at an estate agent’s, who showed me a dingy central apartment and queried as to where my means of funding originated, to which I made the mistake of saying ‘I do volunteering’, not wanting to sound like a couch potato. She must have assumed that I was a benefits squeezer as I never heard back. Then I assiduously plastered homemade posters advertising my need for a rental, on the public notice boards in the three shops in the town (OK there were more than three shops, but you get the picture, this was a small town). One English expat got in touch with me and proposed I stay in her house over the winter, free of charge, whilst she returned to the UK. It was a very oddly laid-out, Victorian-esque house with a loft that was definitely haunted. The shower was next to the kitchen, the kitchen was next to the toilet, and the toilet was next to the kettle. Odd lay out like I said. Anyway, the house was again too far from the town centre and I didn’t want to play the starring role in the next ‘The Shining’ so I gave this one a miss.

'The (landlady) had the air of some sort of mystical, fairy-tale character'

I was on the cusp of losing hope until a chance interaction with an intoxicated lady at one of the designated ‘Brit’ bars. I had gone out with my friend, and this English lady got to talking with us, and mentioned that she sometimes did the cleaning for a lady that owned a chateau, whom she was sure was also the owner of a small gite next door, and why didn’t I ask about the possibility of renting it. Trying to piece the whereabouts of this chateau and accompanying gite according to the broken directions of this half inebriated woman proved a challenge however. You’d think in a small town, that a mighty chateau might stand out, but I just couldn’t for the life of me locate it. I resorted to asking a few locals, who regarded me quizzically and responded in a slight ‘Patois’ dialect (a dialect of the Limousin region, usually practised by its elders), which can be incomprehensible to the French ear, let alone the English one. Somehow, following a narrow, twisty little road leading away from the town, I managed to finally stumble across the sought-after chateau, sat primly on the roadside. It was a spectacular building, let me tell you that, with several mighty protruding turrets and stonework that harked a gone by era of chevaliers equipped with spears and horses. And sure enough, sat a few metres to its left, was indeed a charming little gite. If you’re not familiar with the French gite, it’s usually a modest property, in proximity to the landlord’s dwellings, which they rent out to either holiday makers, or years ago, travellers. Access to the main property’s garden, and pool if applicable, is often permitted.

I paused at the entrance to the grand castle, and took in the sign by the gate, that explained that the chateau was in fact a ‘chambre d’hôte’, or a BnB essentially. I took one last look at the statement I had diligently prepared with the help of Google Translate, and readied myself for interaction as soon as I lifted the brass door handle of the front door. But no answer. Perhaps the door bell might prove more successful? Still nothing. Once again feeling the bitter kick of disappointment, I resorted to leaving them a voicemail via the number I’d found on their website now I was familiar with the name of the business.

'I imagined I would certainly have an entertaining time with her as my neighbour'

A couple of days later, I received a voicemail in return, by a delighted-sounding lady, who invited me to tour the gite when I wanted. Taking them up on their offer, I trekked back up that windy lane, and upon lifting that door knob, was greeted by a petite but rotund-looking lady, complete with a flour-smattered apron and some rather bizarre clog-like shoes, that twisted into a spiral at the toe, and that were far too small for her swollen feet that had been smashed into them. She had the air of some sort of mystical, fairy-tale character: a fairy godmother perhaps? Or a wicked witch? Who knew. But it was time to find out.

She quickly bustled me through the door of the chateau, revealing what appeared to be a rather anti-climatic interior. The corridor gave way to a formal dining room that was decorated with antique knickknacks, and was far too big, and to the left was the cottage kitchen, which was entirely miniscule. Quite the opposite effect of a Tardis then. Perched at the little kitchen table was a spindly old man, diligently filling out a cross word. He didn’t much regard my entrance. But business was business, and as I sat across the table and explained my situation, the old man started to scribble on a piece of paper in that very French scrawl, the conditions of the contract.

Next, the old lady stuffed her feet back into her sunflower-yellow clogs and escorted me to look round the gite. The building stood well; had two floors, access to a small terrace garden of its own, and most importantly, had a spectacular view of the adjacent chateau. The inside, however, seemed like the dumping ground for every antique furnishing that the couple couldn’t squeeze into that tremendous castle of theirs. The living room sported about eight chairs made of some sort of strengthened straw and crumbling wood, a chaise longue that was completely unfit for use, and a fireplace that hadn’t seen an ember under it for years. The kitchen boasted a pot sink, a dodgy gas stove and an antique tea pot as a centre piece on the table. There was no oven nor washing machine in sight. The bathroom was connected to the kitchen, and was separated into the bath and sink, and the toilet in a separate room, as is so often the case with French bathroom layouts. Ascending from the kitchen was a spindly staircase, with the most impressively creaky wooden steps, leading to the first bedroom, that was very open plan, and left fairly sparse aside from two single beds and a desk. Next to this bedroom was the ‘main’ bedroom, which contained a double bed made of immovable wood and an accompanying immovable and stonelike mattress, and a wardrobe fit for C.S Lewis in the corner.

The landlady continued to bustle about, shaking out sheets here and there, throwing open windows and speaking to me as if I understood every word. I didn’t, but was glad for the optimism. My confidence started to grow, and I started to query certain bizarre objects scattered about the premise, for example I found one of those miniature ironing boards that is meant for pressing the collars and sleeves of shirts, which I had never seen before. I liked that she placed the utmost of importance on the most inconsequential of things; she was morphing more into that fairy godmother and further from the wicked witch as the day went on, and I imagined I would certainly have an entertaining time with her as my neighbour.

It didn’t seem as haunted as the other property I’d looked at, so I said I’d take it, and a contract was signed for 300 euros a month, excluding bills. I would find a job, grow my own vegetables and get that fire going so I could perch beside it every evening. I had my chateau, my witch and my wardrobe. What could go wrong?

Come back for part 2 of the adventures of my gap year to find out!