Boks, Boxes and Bangers

The Springboks returned to South Africa triumphant but exhausted. However, it didn't stop them from coming down to Cape Town to see us off on our epic French adventure. They hired a couple of buses and made their way down Loop Street to meet us at our hotel. Word got out and the roads filled with thousands of fans, singing and dancing and blocking their progress. Suddenly, it was party time and you could feel the love. The boks tried desperately to wave at us and shout messages of good luck and encouragement but we couldn't hear a thing. Nevermind, it's the thought that counts.

South Africa winning the world cup was only one of several annoying things that happened since we made the definite decision to move to France. After being on the yacht club storage waiting list for two years, we were finally allocated a rack. Instead of driving it across the road, we could now slide our kayak seemlessly from its mooring into the simon's town harbour to visit the penquins.

Dave and I love craft beer. How wonderful it would be if a brewery with a bar would open up in Simon's Town, so we could stagger home. The Hickory Bar arrived a week later, together with indoor braai and smoker. It doesn't matter, we said. Just imagine us walking to the boulangerie every morning to get our french bread. A notice announced, in the window of the empty shop two doors down from us, that a bakery would be opening soon and we should watch this space.

Undaunted, we brought in the international movers and soon our world shrunk, as every piece of furniture was enveloped in brown packing paper and every belonging packed into a box. We had to be careful what we left lying around. I had a moment of panic when I couldn't find the dog. Then I remembered we had put him in the kennels, to spare him the truama of the move. I wish I could have gone with him.

We left the warmth and the promise of a South African spring and arrived on a grey, cold autumn day in Toulouse. In our rental car we travelled, alot further than it looked on the map, to the tiny speck of Limbrassac, our home for the next six months. I had chosen this remote village as it was nestled in the countyside, up against the mighty, snow topped pyrenees mountains. Also, and more importantly, our husband and wife hosts were English, spoke fluent french and, as their website claims, have helped numerous expats settle in to french life.

So far, I have had several encounters with the husband. My name for him is Knob Head. He is a tall, lanky string bean, with a head too big for his body and a face too big for his head. You just know that he was bullied at school and didn't get a girlfriend until he was in his thirties. Passed over for promotion his whole life, he married the first female who didn't run away, bought a large property in southern France and became king of his own hamlet.

The holy grail in France is an original electricity bill. With this, you can do everything from get a SIM card to buying a car. As we don't own this golden ticket, I looked to Knob Head to help us. All we needed was a letter from him to attest that we are staying with him and one of his bills. It took a week. So important and busy is he, that I was reduced to grovelling at his front door for updates. It wasn't until he could see the fear and desperation in my bloodshot eyes, that he was satified I had suffered enough and produced the goods. Copies, not the much needed originals.

Lying in the warm sun of the Cape, we decided it would be a good idea to buy a 2CV6, the quintessential French car. I could just see myself with the top down racing through the french country lanes, my scarf dancing in the breeze and the baquettes in the boot. We contacted the owner, paid a deposit and arranged to pick it up once we'd arrived and settled in. It took only two days of single digit temperatures and torrential rain for us to come to our senses. We got our deposit back and headed to the nearest VW dealership. Our 2020 Passat will be ready next week.

So, it's now time to practice driving on the wrong side of the road . . . .

PS. Fun Fact about France - it is illegal not to have your dog in a harness and clipped in to a seat belt. Spot fine of E35 if caught.