A Year at the Chateau

by Dick Strawbridge

  Looking objectively at what we got for our money, it was lots. It was no longer one of the grand estates owned by the aristocracy, but it was still very special. Our plot is about twelve acres altogether; within that we have mixed pasture, woods, a moat and a very neglected walled garden. In addition to the château, which was huge, lovely and in need of attention, we had a collection of other buildings: an orangery and seven outbuildings, including two barns, each with planning permission to become three-bedroom houses, a coach house and stables that we subsequently got permission to convert into a seven-bedroom home, four other agricultural buildings, plus several ruins – a piggery, a building down below the moat and a tower in the walled garden. And, last but not least, we had all the contents the family left behind.

  We had a close shave with that and nearly missed out on lots of the treasure the château had to offer, as the Baglion family had started to clear out all the old ‘rubbish’ in the château before we took possession. Fortunately, we had arranged for a visit to take some measurements and found them throwing out lots of early twentieth-century clothes, magazines and papers. They were all being taken outside for burning! Being good buyers, we insisted that they just leave it and we’d sort it out when we moved in. That one bit of fortunate timing meant we had a treasure trove of goodies for crafts and decorating the château.

  We were very fortunate to also be given the original architectural plans for the building and all the bills associated with the rebuild that took place between 1868 and 1874. There have been a number of changes over the last 150 years but none that were significant. The old plans were incredibly useful when it came to planning routes for the utilities. The truth is that we had a blank canvas: there was just one ‘functioning’ toilet (we had to fill the cistern with a jug, but when you flushed it the contents went round the bend – although it was to be nearly a year before we found out what happened to the poop).

  Our first big decisions all centred around what was to go where in the château. Our plans had always revolved around finding a dream home that worked as a wedding venue. With my twenty years’ events experience and Dick’s love of cooking we are a great team. I love, love, love (I know it sounds cheesy, but it is true!) hosting weddings. I know I’m good at it, but who would not want to host an event that is full of joy and will be remembered for ever?

  One evening in Southend we had opened a bottle of wine and talked though dozens of different business ideas, from high-end foodie weekends to Dick hosting residential courses to build rocking horses. We tried to think of ideas that gave good revenue streams but we also wanted variety. French law says you can have up to five letting rooms and operate as a chambre d’hôte * without having to meet lots of official rules. If you have more accommodation you have to comply with hotel regulations, which are much more complicated. Ultimately we knew we wanted quality rather than a big operation, so this sealed our fate and we decided that we would not have more than five suites.

  We decided that our family suite (for us to live in) would be on the first floor, then there would be the honeymoon suite and three other suites on our floor and the one above. We roughly knew the role of each room and exactly where we wanted each of the bathrooms and toilets to go. That was the most important part for Dick so he could plan the utilities.

  There were a few changes along the way but not many, which is always the sign of a good plan, and we were sensible enough not to try to do everything at once. We knew we wanted a home and a lifestyle that was as sustainable and self-sufficient as possible, but I’ve enough experience to know how much effort that requires, so we parked it and prioritised the urgent important tasks first. It was going to be hard work but we couldn’t wait to get started.

  I grew up knowing and watching hard work. My parents, Jenny and Steve, were both grafters. When my dad was sixteen he did an apprenticeship in Hatton Gardens to become a jeweller and he remained a jeweller until the day he moved to the château. First, he rented a tiny space within another shop, then a few years later he moved next door to a small shop of his own, then five years later he moved to a bigger shop, and on it went. I knew from a very early age what you can achieve with hard work. Now we were going to be pouring all of that into our very own château.

  It was really interesting working with Angela on the plans for the château. She’d had several businesses before. The first was a vintage experience business, then she started a company that printed personalised T-shirts and most recently she had been running Vintage Patisserie, an events company that specialised in vintage-style parties. But these were her businesses, so right from the very first time I helped her prepare for an event back in London I did things her way – she set the standard for everything. To put that into context, I still have the notebooks in which I wrote down her instructions on how to make a ham and mustard sandwich and how to boil an egg the way Angela wanted. That may sound ridiculous since I’m a competent chef (I’ve run kitchens and restaurants) but, as the saying goes, democracy can lead to mediocrity, and that is not something you can accuse my girl of!*

  The château was our project and our skills are definitely complementary. To start with it was going to be a lot of physical, repetitive tasks and getting the basics done. Then Angela’s creativity could be let free. That said, the decisions about what each room would be used for and where the facilities would go had to be made right at the beginning and to do that I had to educate her on the limitations of the laws of physics and the fact that sewage has to flow downstream! To her credit, Angela now fully understands that dealing with the waste from sinks, showers, baths and toilets is far more problematic than putting in electricity and hot and cold water. Having just read the last sentence, I know it to be completely true, but if I was to be asked if it makes a difference as to where Angela would decide to position things to be aesthetically pleasing, the answer would still definitely be no. But at least she now understands why I get grumpy!

  It is nonsensical to start a major refurbishment project in January. Winter is the time of least productivity, especially if you have no power available and are reliant on daylight. But we had no choice in the matter, so before we moved out to France, we had already started sourcing materials and working out what had to be done first and why. We had worked out the routes for all our electricity, hot and cold water and waste, and exactly what each room would be used for. There were some challenges; however, we kept it as simple as possible with the flexibility to expand in the future. With a project as large as the château, one principle we set in stone was that we would only do things that we would not have to undo later – this was to save both money and effort. It was a good principle, though it did mean we had to wait a while for some things. For example, the service kitchen on the ground floor was very limited in functionality and storage but it didn’t get any love until we were ready to address it properly, after eight months of making do. Suffice to say, when it was finally done we really, really appreciated it.

  During all the planning, I’d had my lesson in the physics involved in sewage systems and I learnt about heating: ‘square metres’, ‘volumes’, ‘outside walls’ and ‘cubic heat things’. We had already decided to source all our radiators in advance so they would be ready to install when we arrived in France. I knew what I was looking for in terms of size and output, but finding radiators that delivered in style as well as performance was another matter altogether.

  Radiators are useful, ugly bits of metal. They are essential to keep you warm and to dry your wool socks on but not in any way aesthetically pleasing. I did the classic ‘look on Pinterest’ for inspiration but anything I liked was either not available or far beyond our price range. I soon realised that I wanted a classic look: a cast-iron Victorian radiator. Dick and I are huge fans of buying second-hand – firstly, because you can often grab a bargain, and secondly because it allows you to reuse an item. But on this occasion, it was not to be. I was shocked at the second-hand market for radiators. Most of them are used until the
y are ready for the graveyard, and it takes a lot of money and love to bring them back from the dead. We just did not have enough of either in the early days. Luckily, this style of radiator was in vogue and often used in renovations of old buildings, so I decided finding new cast-iron radiators was the way forward. I got the look I wanted as well as the peace of mind that they would be reliable.

  The next lesson I learnt was that radiators don’t come with a thermostat. And it came as a shock to me that these cost half the price of the cast-iron radiator and were also ugly. Instead of anything thermostatically controlled, I settled for a manual screw twist, as they were cheaper and a bit less ugly. Five years on, Dick still chunters at my decision and the fact he has to run around our big house turning radiators on and off. I have to say, on this occasion he was right, but he’ll have to read this book to find that out, as I will not say it out loud to him!

  I’ll never forget the date we made the ‘Oh, there is no turning back’ move to France: 30 January 2015. Not just because it was a big deal. Obviously it was, but there are lots of significant dates I can’t remember: for example, I can’t remember the date that Arthur or Dorothy said their first word or took their first step. The feeling is imprinted in my memory but the date is totally gone. However, our big move came the day after Arthur’s second birthday, so I will never forget it. And, because as a mum I didn’t want it to affect his birthday (don’t get Dick started on whether or not a two-year-old would remember), all our friends and family gathered in Southend to celebrate. We dressed up as pirates, walked along the pier and ate Chinese food. Then the next day we had to work out how to fit all the pressies in the car! If I’m honest, that detail still makes me laugh. What was I thinking?!

  It was pitch black when we left Southend with all our possessions squeezed into the car and very cold. Emotions were all over the place. We were mostly excited but also nervous, even a little anxious. Similar to any move, I guess. Mum and Dad came to wave us off and then we were driving the familiar route out of Southend. Leaving at 4am on a Friday morning had its advantages: the roads were quiet and peaceful, and it allowed us both a moment to reflect. We were driving to a new life! Although it sort of felt like we were off on holiday, to be honest.

  Angela is a great, caring mum, but sometimes she worries about things that aren’t a problem. I’d say having a two-year-old’s birthday party a couple of days early isn’t a crime but maybe I’m wrong. Honestly Angela, Arthur would never have known – he was only two! If it wasn’t for the fact we wanted the family to be involved we could even have waited until we reached our new, temporary home in France, which was to be a gîte not far from the château, where we would stay until the château was habitable.

  For the children, leaving England was a non-event. After the normal bit of chatting and fidgeting they slept all the way to Folkestone. The tunnel crossing gave us the opportunity to get them out of their car seats and we played in the terminal, changed nappies and grabbed a bite to eat. As the train arrived into France it was a matter of drinks, a dummy for Arthur and securing them in for the first leg of our journey to the Mayenne. With 450 kilometres to go we were keen to get some miles under our belts before Arthur and Dorothy protested too much and we had to stop to allow them to burn off some energy.

  It couldn’t have gone smoother: we found our way out of Calais and headed south and very soon joined the péage * south of Boulogne-sur-Mer. With all our travelling to and fro to try to find a château, we had reached the stage where we accepted that taking the fastest route was going to cost us money. Having said that, we wouldn’t have road tax to pay so it was swings and roundabouts. With much less traffic than the English motorways and a speed limit of 130 kilometres per hour, which is reduced to 110 kilometres per hour in the rain, the péage is a great way of getting from A to B as efficiently as possible. Such positive thoughts seemed to tempt fate though.

  We’d been driving for about an hour. Angela, Arthur and Dorothy were all asleep and the temperature outside was around 3 or 4 degrees, so I was keeping the speed down to about 110 kilometres per hour. Then suddenly there appeared to be a line across the road and the temperature dropped instantly by six degrees. Freezing rain – a phenomenon that is not very common but quite brutal – had left the surface of the motorway like glass. Before I knew it, the car lost all traction and went into a skid. There were a couple of cars just ahead of us and three or four visible in the rear-view mirror. Time seemed to slow down. I managed to keep the car on the road and skidded and slipped for what felt like the best part of a kilometre, before a gentle left-hand curve meant we ran out of road, and hard shoulder, and the right wheel ended up in the drainage ditch. It was only then that I hit the brakes and put my left arm across Angela’s chest to keep her back in her seat. I think I shouted, ‘Oh f***!’ as the drainage ditch came to an abrupt end and the front wheel hit the concrete. At this point things moved very quickly and I had little control. Airbags went off. The car jumped into the air and ground to a standstill in the middle lane some fifty metres further on.

  Now, there were several things I was unaware of when it comes to airbags. Firstly, the powder that the airbags are packed in makes the inside of the car look likes it’s full of smoke, which makes your bum twitch after an accident. Secondly, and I should have thought of this, they inflate so quickly they shoot out with some force. It didn’t help that I was leaning across to try to hold Angela back as I was braking.

  I very quickly confirmed that Angela was OK and that Arthur and Dorothy were not injured (and I will always be thankful that we invested in the best child’s seats we could find and that they were rearward facing) before jumping out to start evacuating. Taking in the scene made me thank my lucky stars – and the training I had on skid pans while serving in Germany in the early 1980s. I could see about a dozen cars that had also skidded on the ice, some had collided and others had come off the road. The nearest vehicle behind us was well over half a kilometre away amongst a scene of carnage. Some vehicles were up the bank and others turned over.

  I phoned emergency services who were aware of the accident and, rather than having the family leave the vehicle in the sub-zero temperatures, I threw on a jacket, grabbed the obligatory fluorescent jacket and triangle and set it up a 200 metres behind the car to slow down anyone who tried to pass. It was bloody freezing and I have to say the response of the emergency services was impressive, though it was some time after they attended the scene before they found us way down the road.

  I had been in quite a deep sleep holding the kids’ hands – I tended to travel with my arm back through the gap between front seats stroking or touching the children if they fretted. Dorothy was only nine months old and still fed every few hours, so with the build-up of the move and all the packing, the white noise of the car had allowed me to have some rest. I woke up seconds before we hit what must have been a low wall. I must have sensed something but I was oblivious to what was really happening. I glanced at Dick and saw a look in his eye that I’d never seen before, or since, and then the airbag hit him very hard in the face. But it was the smoke that terrified me as I thought the car was alight. Dick’s nose was broken instantly but thankfully other than that he was fine. He got out of the car, calmly put on his bright yellow jacket and started ensuring the safety of his family. I know I have a good man but moments like this remind you and also make you realise how precious life is.

  As we were all unharmed (other than Dick’s broken nose and black eyes), we were taken to the garage to have the vehicle assessed. Unsurprisingly the car was going nowhere, so the insurance company organised for us to be transported to a vehicle rental place in a nearby town so we could grab a vehicle and then come back for all our belongings. All of this took time and our intention of arriving at our new home with lots of daylight to settle the children was obviously not going to happen.

  It was five minutes to twelve when we arrived at the car rental office and we had our first experience of the importance of lunch in F
rance …

  The scene is simple to picture: Dick looked like a grumpy, unsuccessful boxer; I was worrying about Arthur and Dorothy, and trying to make sure they didn’t pick up on any of the vibes; and Arthur and Dorothy were wondering why we were in an industrial estate that didn’t look like much fun. We launched into our best French to try to explain what we were after but we were talked over by the lady behind the desk who told us to come back at two o’clock. We were struck dumb for a couple of seconds, then launched into a tirade of French, English (and Dick may have even used some Gaelic), all to no avail. It was now midday and there was no one available to process the vehicle to allow us to take it away until after lunch.

  The impotence of not being able to ascertain who was in charge, not being able to demand the name and contact details of everyone superior in the organisation and not being able to make her give a shit was disheartening. We had no choice but to accept the particular kind of Gallic shrug that emanates from someone that knows they don’t have to be helpful and who has lunch waiting for them. What could we do? The answer was to breathe slowly for a few moments, find our centres and go for lunch ourselves.

  Of all the meals to eat out in France, lunch is probably the most French experience. We searched on our phones for a local restaurant within walking distance and headed off to fill the next two hours dining. We were not spoilt for choice but that didn’t matter as all we wanted to do was find somewhere comfortable that had something the children would eat. Like all small family-run restaurants, the offerings were limited, but that is often what makes it such a lovely experience. As always, when presented with two choices for starters, mains and desserts, we ordered one of each, and would decide who got what when it arrived.

  Drinks were included, but as we were only at the start of our journey, we opted for soft drinks rather than the wine and cider the other diners were enjoying. Arthur’s child’s meal was fish and rice and, as it turned up with a tasty sauce that was very like a ‘beurre blanc’, it boded well for our meal. Our starters of terrine and cornichons, and a salad of lardons and goat’s cheese hit the spot, though we were still coming to terms with the fact that butter seems to be rationed in little restaurants and the French don’t seem to have the same appetite we do for mopping up sauces with the wonderful fresh baguettes. Arthur loved the fish and it was obvious he appreciated the flavour, and Dorothy played with enough food to keep her happy as we fed her with what we had brought with us. Our main courses didn’t disappoint either: we had an adult portion of Arthur’s fish and an unidentifiable cut of beef, cooked well, and served with chips and a sauce that was a Béarnaise but not quite – lovely! To finish we had the ubiquitous iles flottante* and a chocolate mousse, to which both Arthur and Dorothy gave their seal of approval. The irony of having crème anglaise (that’s custard to us) the first day away from England was not lost on us.