A month in France

After years of planning and anticipation, France is now a reality, though at times it seems unreal.

We retired, consolidated our savings, packed stuff, sold stuff, gave stuff away. Our furniture is in storage awaiting shipment here at a later date.

We said goodbye to children and grandchildren. Hard hugs, flowing tears, constricted throats at the airport.

Singapore Airlines Premium Economy Sydney to Paris, then a Blacklane Mercedes to Versailles, then a Citroen C4 to Roanne, then on to Castlemoron sur Lot.

We have people on our side, which is smoothing the transition. My second-cousin-in-law Karim has rented us his holiday house here in the Lot et Garonne and facilitated the opening of a bank account.

We also have the irrepressible John Dislins from Pleasehelp.fr to make things happen.

He and his team have already done much to assist us and will be in my corner for the Carte de Sejours.

Now, with Christmas behind us and 2017 about to unfold, we take stock of one month in France.

It has been every bit as good as I'd hoped.

When there are sunny days, we go cycling to St Livrade in one direction, or to Clairac in the other.

We pass broken down stone structures covered in blackberries. We pass magnificent Chateaux. The one near Granges lies abandoned and mouldering, but the one near Fongrave is superb. It has been faithfully restored and now offers luxurious holiday accomodation.

Our cycle route takes us between the river and its flood plain, skirting expansive farms that stretch away to forested hills crowned by the odd Bastide village, such as Laparade.

These are the vast acreages on which massive irrigation structures sit like great, steel stick-insects, poised, waiting.

And dotted around this agricultural landscape are farmhouses with pigeonnieres and soot-black timbered barns and industrial-sized polytunnels running off into the distance.

And then there are days of cloistering cold and fog, keeping us at home with a fire in the insert. As the weak sun slowly moves in a low arc towards afternoon,  the neighbour's farmhouse and orchard emerge out of the murkiness. We eat a simple lunch of cheese and cornichons on a baguette.

During those years in Adelaide, whilst plotting our escape, I would occasionally read the negative experiences of expats in France. I sometimes feared the journey might be better than the destination.

I needn't have worried. My fears were unfounded.

We just love it here.