Chapter II – Getting On With It

Growing up in London, I was fortunate enough to have spent many a summer holiday in France. My godfather used to stay in his childhood friend’s country house, Somewhere in the Loire Valley, and somewhere between Versailles and a tent. He would often invite his best mate – my father – and us, to come and stay at the house. Along with the Donkeys, with Monsieiur Trottier the land manager, and with Alexander and Karin, both ballet dancers of considerable note, we spent days playing monopoly, watching Hitchcock films, and shooting cans with an air rifle.

One of the many features of Champteussé is a charming dry stone wall, lining the public footpath that lead to the local town. Subsisting of a solitary Tabac, where one could find a generous pour of calvados, cigarettes, et Les journaux locaux. Not to mention Monseiur Trottier, with a number of other local gentleman, discussing the goings on, local, regional, et national. 

A short section of the wall, at an unknown time in the house’s long history had fallen over. In exchange for staying in the house, Alexander was tasked with supervising and overseeing, the preparation of works, required to contemplate the beginning of potential construction of parts of the wall, at some point in the future.

Essential tools required included a card table, two director’s chairs, an ice bucket, and endless supply of Vin tres Ordinaire, made from grapes picked on the wrong side of the Loire River.

Despite the preparation, diligence, and skill applied to the task, the wall, to my knowledge, remains unfixed approaching 30 years later. Of course, anyone who has taken on such a daunting and intimidating task such as the Champtesse wall, knows that it is not that simple. One cannot simply build the wall.

One must first ensure the table is flat and level, and in the shade. One must ensure that the ice bucket has sufficient ice, and that one’s glass remains full. Only then, perhaps can the discussions begin.

We find ourselves in a similar position, only with many walls. Champteussé has taught me that detailed planning is essential to undertaking works of this scale. Champteussé has also taught me that sometimes you have to get on with it.

January was a get on with it month.

*Addendum  – I have subsequently learnt that as of 2017, works on the wall has been completed. See below. I have defamed my father, my godfather, and Monsieur Trottier, may he rest in peace.

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Issy’s parents were staying for the first few days in January. Shelley, hamstrung with a shoulder sling, took a supervisory role, and Simon as an impressive, and extremely good value, general labourer.

First job on the list was to rip up the carpet, to assess the integrity of the floor, and try to get rid of the smell.

While the first impression of the property is the astounding fig tree as you descend down the entrance walkway, the first impression of the house interior is the pungent smell. So intense is the plume of stale vinegary rot, it is hard to distinguish which one of your senses it is attacking.

We suspected, with eventual confirmation, that the smell was coming from the carpet. We have also been subsequently told by a neighbour that there used to reside a clowder of cats here. Numbering well into the dozens.

The carpets came up with reasonable ease, assisted by a boxcutter knife that also inflicted the house’s first injury. While slicing through a section of carpet I missed and stabbed myself in left index finger. I immediately sought medical assistance from the resident Doctor, who diagnosed me as pathetic and prescribed an immediate dose of something called recommencement of work. Must be new, I’d never heard of it.

Rolling the carpet and underlay into the trailer, the true horrific scale of issue made itself apparent. Hundreds of overlapping yellow, brown, orange, and god help them – black circles. My thoughts are with the cat responsible the latter stain, as they were surely not long for this world. 

We ripped up the front two rooms, and were pleasantly surprised with the state of the floor underneath. Pine flooring with character, that will come up nicely after a clean, sand, and finish. Only a few will need replacement.

The rear of the house is a different story. Turns out the cats were housetrained. But only to the extent that they were trained to piss in one particular corner of the house. Luckily for us, it is also the room that suffers from the profuse leak and the floor was destined to be replaced anyway.

We decided that it is better to live with the smell of the carpet, than to risk injury from falling through the floor. However we did rip up enough to expose a panel that sat across the grain of the rest of the floor.

Upon closer inspection and a bit of a prod, the panel came free. Through the exposed hole was a root cellar, used to keep food fresher for longer, before the wide adoption of fridges.

The use of the cellar obviously predates the laying of the carpet, but there is also a power point down there. Like many – nay most – aspects of this house, their inception and purpose are lost to history. Like why is there 20 power points in the kitchen? We will likely never know.

Plans for the cellar are in the works. Probably just that, a cellar. If only we could keep more than 3 bottles of wine at any one time before finding an excuse to open them.

Shortly after Issy’s parent’s left, it was time for the big move. Now obviously we are approaching this place with the attitude that unless its electricity or plumbing, we will at least have a crack at it. We did discuss the logistics of moving up our stuff from Melbourne one trailer load at a time.

Ultimately, with Issy away in Wangaratta, we decided to fork out for the professionals. Most readers will not share my surprise at what an outstanding choice this was.

We moved up on the 5th, where temps were going to hit low to mid 40’s. I awoke at 7 and by the time I taped up the last box at 7:45, I was melting. I went and got the fellas a coffee to get out of their way, and so was an embarrassing trait exposed – the constant need to be respected by trades and workmen. This usually involves me harking back to my landscaping or scaffold days, complementing their tools, and to be overly accommodating.

Even this last week, I ripped up our floor with the expectation that the builder was coming the following morning, as arranged. 

“Hey mate, floor is up whenever youre ready to go.”

“Sorry mate, waiting on flashing, will be a couple of weeks.”

“No worries.”

There are in fact many worries… I have just witnessed Charlie, respected guest – shoeless and towel wrapped around the waist – cross the joists like a bloody gymnast, in an attempt to just reach the bathroom.

Having said that, yarning to my new mate Will (an electrician that I have engaged in services in exchange for currency), he has regaled me of stories of customers and clients that are rude, impatient, and demanding. I have worked enough jobs to know that the nice people get the best coffee and the largest pours. We may be getting the runaround or overquoted, but I think its more likely that we get better quality work, if not as quickly.

After the furniture had arrived, the house started to feel like a home. What was a few hours ago, a chilling, empty void, now looked.- and almost felt – like a proper dwelling.

—

We are new to Victoria, and have spent the last period of our lives in New Zealand. The only intersection of our lives and bushfires was when the smoke from the 2019 fires crossed the Tasman. I couldn’t really tell you much about them, let alone how to protect or prepare a property with multiple years overgrowth, on a day with conditions that experts were warning were the worst since Black Saturday.

I liken my experience on January 9 to the early days of COVID. I started the day in ignorance, annoyed that the air conditioning didn’t work. Out of interest, I started listening to the news and so started the period of denial. She’ll be right. What are the chances we buy a house, live through the biggest storm of the decade only to burn down 3 weeks later.

Come to think of it, that would be pretty on brand.

By Midday, I had the app, the radio, and the TV on like Houston Mission Control, and I was doing half hourly patrols of the property, with a large container of water in the car ready to put out any spot fires. It also doesn’t help that as well as significant overgrowth, there is also an obscene amount of rubbish and broken glass littering the property.

While the sight of me wandering around the property with a bucket of water would have been ridiculous, my concerns was not unwarranted. A fire started less than 10km from here on Fogarty’s Gap Rd and took out half the town of Harcourt. Issy was supposed to drive over that evening, but would have had to traverse both fire zones.

Getting the property in better condition for an inevitable fire jumped the growing and seemingly endless to do list. I also spent the day with a sense of guilt that I, the youngest man in the greater Maldon area by some decades, was not out there helping. I didn’t let the cliché stop me, and I signed up for the CFA the very next day.

—

With furniture, a good scrub, and a bit of bush removed, it was also time to host some guests. I lured a group of my old tutoring friends with the promise of dinner, cheap wine, and space on the lawn for a tent. All this! in exchange for a bit of labour. I did stress that it was still very much a construction site, and that while cheap wine was in abundance, comfort was not.

Not only did they not complain, but their efforts in removing the whackamole poplar tree saplings was nothing short of extraordinary.

Olly and Poppy even gave me a peach tree, which is currently recovering from the wallaby stripping its branches of leaves. The wallaby – named Meeku – is a longtime resident of the property and we have somewhat adopted him. I put water out for him and have refrained from clearing the area of the garden that he lives. Meeku is large, old, and blind.

Infact, Issy and I were concerned that all the lower branches of the trees were dead. That is strange. What type of odd disease would only affect trees below exactly 4 foot? across multiple species?

Turns out, its just Meeku eating everything that he can reach.

We also have a pet Kangaroo called Ian. He is fucking terrifying, 6 foot, and likes to bounce directly at you when startled. I see Ian on a regular basis and he never fails to give me a fright.

—

Other jobs over the month included getting NBN installed, plastering the giant hole in the ceiling, and getting an oven installed. While I would love to expound on these individual tasks, turns out writing about laborious things is actually quite dull

The section of living room that we had to plaster was large, at about a square metre. We figured that since no water had come through the hole during the infamous storm in December (see chapter 1), that the roof had been fixed, but had not got around to the ceiling.

On our second try, we managed to get the plasterboard sheet into the square  that we had cut out. We filled the seems with plaster, and did an outstanding albeit amateur job. Had we paid a professional to do the job, we would be furious and off to VCAT.

Indeed, after the painting was finished, the ceiling looked exceptional. Only someone who knew there was a hole would be able to tell.

However,  two days later, the first summer rain since the infamous December storm came through. A short, unremarkable shower lasting not more than 10 minutes. Not enough to settle on the ground and barely enough to not immediately evaporate on the scorched rusty roof.

For reasons that surpass my albeit limited understanding, and indeed laws of physics, meteorology, and divinity, this short unremarkable shower saw enough water to penetrate the roof tarp (will explain in due course) through the valley tray, through the insulation, through the original wooden ceiling, and onto my newly painted plaster board.

Why the apocalyptic rains of December could not get through, but this short shower could, we may never know. I suspect this house has a sense of humour that I admittedly did not share at the time.

—

Other guests over the month included my Aunt and Uncle from the UK. This was a true test of whether the house was at an acceptable level yet. With no disrespect towards them, I really thought the state of the house was going to push their limits of comfort. I tried to book them into the local motel, but it was full.

I think a lot of people that hear about this endeavour think of a quaint Escape to the Chateau style of living, and while it is not totally inaccurate, this house has lived a harsher life than the picturesque yet run down chateaus of France.  There is undoubtedly a beauty here, but I don’t think Dick Strawbridge has to explain why there is the bag of a rotisserie chicken from the 90s blowing across the garden.

I do love those shows. Two useless brits, a bank manager and HR, looking for a change of scenery, buy a country home in France. Dreaming of converting it to B&B, and enjoying the provincial life . Two ad breaks later, their first paying guests are coming up the driveway and Colin is still knocking through the bathroom wall.

“yes, your room will be ready soon, how about a drink?”

My concerns were ultimately unfounded. Not only were L & H without complaint, they left us more excited about the house than when they arrived. Harry, an specialist painter, taught us how to select, prepare, and apply paint.

We went for Hogsbristle half on the trim, Hogsbristle quarter on the walls, and Antique white on the ceiling. A simple pallatte that will let Bella and George’s art shine, along with a random assortment of strange things we have collected on our travels – including some purchases at the Maldon Antique Fair

Looking back at the last month, it is really astonishing how much one can achieve when one gets on with it, and this was while we were still packing up and cleaning our recently departed and much loved rental in Melbourne, and Issy was still working hours away in Wangaratte.

What we really needed was a break. To unfold the card table, view the proverbial wall and fill the ice bucket. To take a moment of respite, and to plan the rest of the week, month, and year.