The Napoleonic Code

Land ownership and division in France comes under the Napoleonic code which can make things rather surprising if not totally chaotic.  The shape of a piece of land can be very peculiar. The rules about who can do what are amazingly complex. But every Frenchman seems to understand them

We are expecting a visit from our neighbour, Georges tomorrow.  Well when I say neighbour, I mean the man who owns the derelict house next door.  It has been empty since we bought our house and is in a disgusting state of repair, including the garden.  Occasionally I climb on the wall between our gardens and spray weed killer into his three metre high growth. We’ve been philosophical about the fact that our entry is through his land ( une servitude) and consequently is rather unattractive. George has also tipped huge piles of broken bricks and tiles and concrete against our hangar which is the first thing you see when you arrive at our house.

Georges'garden

Entrance

But all that is about to change. We plan to build a wall between his hangar and ours and claim back the land he has gradually appropriated. 

Between the two hangars

This map  (le cadastre) of the three properties in our little bit of the world shows the issue.  Our irregular piece of land is coloured in green (lot 315). Georges’ is 313. The little bit in question is the thin green strip along our hangar on the left of the cadastre.  It’s partly of matter of beatification and partly of security. In our Acte (mortgage) the language is more obscure than the old systems titles if you’ve ever seen one.  That’s not surprising because the ownership and division goes back to 1824. Hence the “Napoleonic Code”. The house would have been a farmhouse and an attached “tabac” for drying the local crop of tobacco. I would love to find more about the history of this little place.  We know the village dates back to roman times because there are many remnants of mosaics in many of the cellars of this tiny village..

Cadastre

We’ve contacted a surveyor who will (at great cost) point out the markers for our boundary and then we can lay the foundation for the wall. Spouse has already dug out  the rubble against our hangar. 

I hope Georges is happy about our plans.

Tiling Chaos

According to Chaos theory seemingly random events can be traced to minor apparently unrelated ones. The fluttering of a butterfly wing can induce wind currents causing havoc elsewhere. Chaos, in all its definitions, seems pretty normal here in France.

This year we finally had the pool fence finished replacing the old legal but ugly black mesh one. We had to relay some tiles because the area on the creek side of the pool had dropped. This was because some years ago when the pool was installed, the person introduced to us by the pool company (WaterAir) actually had no experience in pool installation at all.  He dug too big a hole and then had to fill it in with dirt that of course did not compact immediately. This resulted in a gradual collapse on one side of the pool.  In those days, we were intimidated by French speaking workers and so just continued to dole out money while the work continued. Nothing much has changed since those days except that now we understand the process better. Gallic shoulder shrug.

Early this year, our neighbour (who shall henceforth be known as Pascal)  worked to rectify this collapse around the pool with “Jean-Jacques”, a crusty septuagenarian with a heart of gold. He has worked with rocks and blocks all his life and dauntingly plugs on carrying the huge dalles and setting them in place. A few weeks after working on our job, he collapsed at work and was taken to hospital.  Now he has been released, he is straining at the bit to get back to work.

Pascal and Jean-Jacques promised to get the job  done before we left. We had friends coming to house-sit in our absence and we wanted everything to be nice for them.  At the last minute, they volunteered to do the joints between the tiles as well. Accepting this offer proved to be unwise. See below.

Now we are back in France, we are having the terrasse tiled.  We had two artisans expressing interest: one an English bloke living here in France and the other our local neighbour Pascal, who functions normally as electrician. Both are jacks of all trades.  In the end we settled upon the English one (John) because he had done a good job tiling our pantry and laundry. Pascal was a bit miffed but  his commitment to any job is, at best, occasional.

John has been tiling valiantly against the odds of rain and heat. As long as he is sustained with cups of coffee and words of appreciation, he perseveres. His understanding of chaos theory is evinced in his continual analysis of how tricky tiling is.  One millimetre out and the knock on effect is catastrophic, he assures us regularly. He works solidly all day and makes acerbic comments on the obligatory 2 hour French lunch. Pascal visits and gives condescending words of advice, translated through Spouse. John accepts stoically.

The problem with the pool tiles was not the butterfly effect: it was the joints, the space between the tiles, that we discovered on our return to be filled with very thick dark cement, not at all like the light coloured (ton pierre) mortar we had used elsewhere around the pool. In a word, it was ugly.

Fortunately we have other neighbours to come to the rescue. Louis, who lives en face, made disparaging comments on the laying of the tiles around the pool and in about an hour had dug up about three square metres of tile and concrete, not around the pool but at the junction of the terrace tiles and the pool dalles. It was to do with the level, he assured me. Spouse, who had unfortunately been responsible for this part of the work, had rather gone to order more tiles at the time and was rather perplexed and stressed when he saw what had been done.

 A linguistic note: there are three sorts of tiles in French: dalles - the thick cement and stone ones which typically are used for paving, carrelage - the ceramic ones used in paving and also in bathrooms and kitchens and tuiles, which you find on the roof.  Using the wrong one, as I often do when speaking French, causes chaos as well.

Pansies for the winter

Finished at last

                                                                     

PS The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

The Locksmith

We had to replace the key to the back door because our friends who help with maintenance in our absence, haven't been able to get in. We were told there was a serrurier ( locksmith ) at the local hardware store. They, in turn, directed us to the village next to ours, where one could be located. You will have to go to his house, they advised parce qu'il  est sourd (deaf).

Spouse found said serrurier, (Francois) mowing his lawn but he agreed to come round later. Hearing impaired (or indeed destroyed), he may be but he spoke local dialect French very loudly and very rapidly and with much animation. I wasn't sure whether he would find me easier to understand when he read my French speaking lips than others find my  French speaking Australian  accent. Anyway, we all got by and he replaced the lock and we ordered 4 additional keys

I also asked him to look at our safe. This enormous and very heavy piece of solid iron, we purchased with the house. It had a quite complex and old fashioned set of locks and a key which rather unfortunately had disappeared years ago. To my disappointment, he confirmed that it was impractical to break into it. I guess it will just stay there, black and forlorn, in the pantry, locked, empty and useless, a relic of the  past of our house.

Today he sent an email saying the keys would be ready at 6 but Spouse forgot because two of our neighbours turned up to discuss some work we need done and stayed for an apero or two. One seemed to have had quite a few beforehand  as well.  At about 7 Spouse went around  and banged on the door and shouted but to no avail. Either Francois was locked inside in his silent world sheltering from the heat, or 6 pm was a definite appointment that we missed.

We'll send another email and try again tomorrow.

Tile Delivery

We had some tiles for the pool to be delivered today.  Spouse had paid the delivery cost of 88 euros and also paid for the tiles.  As our house is a bit difficult to find I was not surprised when the phone rang and a French voice announced he could not find the address.  Could I go up into the village and meet him so I could show him where to go.  “Bien Sûre .” 

Shoes in hand, I went downstairs and up the short drive to see a man standing next to an enormous truck. “ Bonjour” I said “Are you the man I was just talking to on the phone?” “Non,” he replied, “Is this your truck? It is blocking the road.” And yes, he couldn’t get through and neither could the lady in the car behind.

“It is a delivery for me,” I began, “ the truck driver is looking for me in the village to show him where to go.” 

“ I am going to call the Gendarmerie” said the man

“Ah bon? Pourquoi?”

“Because he is blocking the road”

I gave what I hoped was a Gallic shrug put on my shoes and plodded up the road to the village where I found the truckdriver. I reported the other’s intention to call the Gendarmerie.

“Is he French? “ said the truckdriver

“Mais oui “ said I

He gave an even better Gallic shrug as if to say what else could you expect.

He accompanied me back and moved the truck to allow the( now) three cars to pass. Our drive is narrow and has a turning .“Can your husband help me with the delivery, “he said.

“Probablement “ said I and went inside, leaving the rest to Spouse.

The one ton of tiles (dalles) was at the back of the truck and the mechanical device for lifting them was behind the dalles toward the front of the truck.

‘Do you have some strong men to help me lift the device over to help unload?” said the man. “Non” said Spouse,” Je suis seul”

“Well will you sign to say that they have been delivered?

“Non” said Spouse. “you haven’t delivered them."

The man with the truck went away with our tiles. We are hoping they will be delivered again next week.