It’s been a long, soggy summer in Bretagne. Being mossy children of the misty Pacific Northwest of the United States, we don’t really mind it so much. In fact, we prefer it if the alternative is excessive heat. A strange sentiment to many of you, I know. A good many people spend their lives thinking about ways to escape to sunshine and warmth. A rational inclination, I suppose.
But I maintain that living in rainy climates builds character. It engenders discipline, breeds endurance, teaches patience – in most people, that is. I, myself, acquired none of those qualities. I just got wet. A lot.
One consequence of the rainy weather this year is that many of the north-facing, shaded areas of our home quickly acquire a green sheen of mosses and algae. Surfaces get slick. As a result, I’ve become even more well-acquainted with our trusty pressure-washer. It’s either that or risk the very likely chance of falling to my doom in our courtyard or terrace or, even worse, down the long stone staircase to our garden. Pressure-washing could be seen as a nice, zen-like activity. Slowly, methodically sweeping the jet of water back and forth; the gradual but satisfying reveal of a pristine surface; a place cleansed of the detritus it has accumulated over time. A metaphor for refreshing one’s soul. Mostly, it’s just dirty, cold, backbreaking drudgery. At least the way I do it.
The pressure-washing was inspired during an entirely different activity: installing gates. My primary activity this summer was to fill two gateways to our jardin. First on the docket was to address the smaller opening at the top of the jardin stairs. This was the more urgent task as this gateway mediates between our rampart terrace and the precipitous tumble of stone steps leading down to the garden at the bottom of the tower. Saxon (our dog), now thirteen years old, walks unsteadily past this opening every day on his way to the area where he relieves himself. He can sometimes be a little shaky on his feet these days. His eyesight is not so good either. Cherie lives in terror at the thought of the poor guy taking a wrong step and careening into the open stairwell. A scary thought.
One side of the opening at the top of the stairs is quite irregular, so there were some challenges to the design of the gate. I opted to construct a picket-style gate with regular proportions rather than trying to match the sloping angle of the low wall on the side where it latches. The construction is pretty basic so I added some decorative scalloping to the tops of the pickets and chamfers to the rails. After fumbling around for a week or so, I managed to produce the results you see here. Not particularly dramatic, but much more secure for Saxon.
The gate at the bottom of the jardin was an altogether different prospect. It’s a large opening – over two meters tall – and it opens out onto a public path (known locally as la ruelle) that follows the line of the ramparts on the north side of the old town. When we bought the place, the old gate had already rotted and been bashed in by vandals. So, the new gate needed to be big and secure. The resulting gate was so heavy and large that we opted to lower the beastly thing over our sun terrace wall and down two floors to the ruelle below. [For those of you who are climbers, riggers or arborists, we employed a simple Munter hitch to provide the necessary drag to lower the load safely. It worked like a dream.] Lots of beefy timbers, large, hand-forged clinch-nails and three big hinges resulted in a strong gate that should serve for many years to come.
Cherie was the true star of the summer. In a fit of inspired masochism, she decided to subject herself to not one, but two prolonged rituals of French administrative hell. Firstly, she wanted to get a French driving license. Bewilderingly, there is no general agreement for exchange of driver’s licenses between the U.S. and France. Instead, there are individual agreements between some U.S. states and the government of France. Unfortunately for us, the state where we hold licenses maintains no such agreement. Brilliant. And so Cherie enrolled in a driving school to receive the requisite training instruction. It was a months-long, arduous process involving a massively intense knowledge test followed by a driving test. Both were administered entirely in French. True to form, Cherie passed them both on the first attempt. Also brilliant (but without the sarcasm). She’s now the proud holder of a French driving license.
We have now lived in France long enough to be eligible to apply for citizenship (or, permanent residence – but where’s the fun in that?). Once again, Cherie dove head-first into the breach and applied. The first thing one must do when applying for citizenship is prove that your French language abilities are sufficient. Currently, this means at least a CEFR (Common European Framework of Reference for languages) B1 level in speaking, reading and oral comprehension. Cherie studied hard and, again, passed her test on the first try. Amazing. Truly, I have no idea how I ended up in marriage with such a smart and capable partner. It’s one of those miracles I try not to question for fear of breaking the magic. Currently, the love of my life is awaiting her final citizenship interview where she will submit the reams of supporting documentation she has had to procure and answer questions on a wide range of topics including French history and civics. She’s ready. And I have no doubt she will soon be the proud holder of a French passport.
Well, that’s just a sample of the many small tasks we’ve been up to over the summer. France continues to surprise and amaze us. Life is good and we love it here. We hope to be taking more time to explore and visit new places with more posts to come!
Finding Our France 