When we arrived in France in 2002 with our 8-month-old baby, we gave up our established lives in England, for a dream.

The dream was here in Normandy, in a retired farmers house, along with several barns, lots of space and an orchard with a bread oven. Little by little over the past six years, the house has been renovated, the barns repaired, and the bread oven brought back to working order.

The desire to see our children grow in the country, in safety, and the dream of eventually being self-sufficient food wise, was the driving force behind our decision to move here.
The first thing we established was a chicken house, and ducks, turkeys and geese have been tried and tested.
Sheep eat the grass in the orchard, and provide beautiful meat, and our latest additions are pigs and rabbits. The pigs are English Saddlebacks, and have produced their first litter of 9 piglets, all adorable.

We insist that all our animals have free range and eat natural food, and our new vegetable patch is totally organic.

Our love of all things ‘country’ lead to James’ hobby of collecting old farming equipment, including 2 old tractors, a plough, a couple of old carts; one horse-drawn, and he has just restored an 18th Century flour mill that chugs away turning out flour at some speed.

Also our love of good food gives us great fulfilment in feeding our family recipes using our own vegetables and meat. James also restores period property, renovating with care and sensitivity, to keep the essence of the buildings. In 2005 our second child arrived, born in France, to complete our family.

We are both kept very busy attending to the children, grounds, animals and businesses.

 APPLE TIME

Our smallholding has an apple orchard that is now very old. Each year, a tree or two gives up and topples over, but we still produce tons of apples. The wood is logged and is perfect when we light the bread oven for parties.

 Usually an old French man and two old ladies come every autumn to pick the apples, and in return we receive cider or calvados. Buckets and buckets are picked to feed the pigs, and the sheep in the orchard munch their way through a few too. 

I think this year, the thought that we had never made our own cider, was too much for our wonderful French neighbour Pierre. He came over one evening, asked if I had any barrels in my cellar, asked to look at them and told me to fill one with water, to make it swell and check for leaks. Then told us to pick a ton of apples that weekend, and he would arrange for the ‘man’ to come and crush them and put the juice into the barrel.

  In no time at all, we were assured, we would have cider.  The thought of not using the apples for ourselves was obviously just too much for him, and he had to say something. Dutifully the whole family turned out that weekend and picked the apples. At the moment they are lying outside waiting for them to be at the perfect point for juicing. Pierre keeps coming across checking the feel of them, so now all is in his hands.

            It was a glorious sunny Sunday when we picked the apples and the smell was almost intoxicating. One of our family, who shall remain nameless, wanted to lie out on the pile of apples and get drunk on the smell! This is the perfect time of year for us, glorious colours, perfumed air, and abundance of riches from our orchard, walnut trees and the vegetable garden.

THE PRESS MAN ARRIVES.

 Our neighbour decided the apples were ready, and he got in touch with the travelling press. He arrived only a little late one Saturday evening and we all dashed out to see the contraption.  Our neighbours and their family came to help too, to shovel the apples into the hopper. I think the two men running the press wondered what we were all looking at, and why were taking photos. We had to explain this was the first time we had made cider and it was all new to us.

They fixed a hose to the barrel in the cave under the house, and then the apples from the hopper were scooped into large sheets of canvas and piled on top of each other, then the press started to turn and the juice stated to flow. The smell was delightful. Occasionally one of the operators had to put his hand in the apple ‘muncher’ to free it and had a shower of apple juice over his cap, but it seemed all part of the job to him.

He passed a glassful around for us to see how sweet it was, and compliment us on the apples we had picked. Because it is such an old orchard, some of the apples are not now available, and are some of the very best cider apples.  I must say I had second thoughts about drinking too much of the juice at this stage, but it was very sweet, and suffered no ill effects.

This was another ‘first’ for us; apples pressing by headlight and torchlight and the adults found it as exciting as the children. Now we have to be patient until the cider is ready for racking.

WINSTON & CLEMMIE.

            At last, living in the country, has given us the space to keep animals.  We started with sheep, borrowed a ram and had lambs, which are delightful to see when they are newly born. Hens, turkeys, geese and ducks all followed, with some success and some failures. The miniature goat is a pet and is lovely, even though she gets into trouble at times climbing into inaccessible places.
 The greatest joy of them all is keeping pigs. We had heard of a lady who kept old English breeds, and went to look at what she had. We immediately fell in love with one boy, and Old English Saddleback. He soon became almost a member of the family, who enjoys a tummy tickle, and loved, as a baby, to go to sleep sucking  fingers like a dummy. Our daughter named him Winston, as we had been teaching her a little of English history, and she thought there was a resemblance.  We had some French neighbours try to tell us that he would turn ‘sauvage’ and that he should be castrated. Never! He was our breeding sire.  A few weeks later we got him a lady friend who of course had to be called Clemmie. They run free in part of a field, and have snuffled their way through all the grass and roots. The inevitable happened at the end of January 2008, when 9 little pigs were born. Unfortunately one died, but the others thrived, running about and squeaking like little velvet puppets.
            When the vet came to castrate the males, his eyes widened in amazement at the size of Winston. He had never seen a pig as big, and was even more agog when he found that he would lie down for a tickle. When they were weaned, some of the piglets were sold on, with the proviso that they had freedom to run about. They were bred for food, and have had great lives.  Clemmie has just had another litter, 11 this time but the runt is really tiny and is fighting to get on a teat, so we are keeping our fingers crossed.

THERE’S A NEW MARSHALL IN TOWN.

  Earlier this summer I felt the ‘collecting’ bug strike again! Having browsed through friend’s barn’s (full of goodies!) surfed the Internet for hours; I found what I’d been looking for. A Field Marshall tractor, Series 11, Mark 1 from 1946. I won’t pretend that I hadn’t always wanted one, but thought they were out of my range. I am lovingly, albeit slowly, renovating my old Massey Ferguson, but a Field Marshall was in another league. It was ready for auction, and hopefully in my price bracket.  I made enquiries as to the guide price, found myself an on-line bidder, and we were off. After a very exciting few minutes it was mine! I had to sit and slow my heart rate down. I was in heaven!

  Then I contacted the haulier that I’d been in touch with in England, to find out when he could deliver. It was very frustrating to find that, due to holidays and other commitments, he couldn’t deliver until September –months away!

  Eventually the great day arrived and I waited with bated breath. And waited! Of course, he’d gone to the village, and our house is outside the village. He stopped one old farmer to ask if he knew where Mr Foster lived. ‘Ah the man with the big pigs!’
‘Bien sur’- Certainly. He was then directed to our house, and arrived to beaming smiles from all the family. Here she was, huge, green, very imposing and beautiful.

  That evening the ‘good old boys’ arrived en masse. The tom-toms and smoke signals had obviously been out. ‘There’s a new Field Marshall in the village.’ They arrived still in their greasy working gear, went over it with a fine toothcomb, declaring it perfect. Then discussions went on about the correct way to start it, the paintwork, the engine, and the seat --- on and on. Did we have to supply them with lots of cider? Certainly. Did they have a great night? They certainly did, and didn’t want to go home. They took turns to sit on it, and without fail, they all had a silly grin on their faces. It shakes you about so much, you just can’t help it. Even my mother (whose age is a state secret) grinned like a fool when she sat on it. The family now call this ‘the Marshall grin.’
  
   We have had several guests who are tractor fans, and one actually got into trouble with his wife, for spending too much time in the barn with the tractors. I thought he was going to rub the paint away at one point!  I have been surprised at how many people who visit us, and our friends, love tractors. They all want to take a look, touch and climb aboard. The tractors are there to enjoy by everyone, and our guests can have unlimited time with them.

THE LUXURY OF SPACE.

            One of the joys of buying in France is that the house came with outbuildings, stables, barns or old cowsheds and lots of land, which is quite normal in rural Normandy. This gives me the opportunity of being able to enjoy my collecting habit, without having to worry about space to keep it.

            One of the first ‘collectables’ I came across was when I was doing renovations on an old chateau. It was a fabulous place that ate money morning noon and night. The owner was showing me around one day, when we came to the stables. They were huge, and the owner did say that they would be used for storage as they had no intention, or the money to keep horses.  At the back, covered in cobwebs, straw and the remains of a few small dead animals, was an old horse draw carriage, with leather seats, and folding hood. The wheels were about four feet high and the carriage lamps were still in place, albeit rusty and full of birds’ nests. I could imagine the original chateau owner being driven out to church on Sundays. As I walked over to look at it he said it was rather in his way, and did I know of anyone who would want it?
 ME!!
 We had a chat about price and haggled, talked some more and eventually agreed and it was mine.
            I knew that I would probably never keep horses, but to be able to have a small piece of local history was wonderful. We all gave it a good polish; let the children sit in it to let their imagination run free. It now sits in my barn, birds still nest in the carriage lamps and guests and friends still want to look and admire it. Inevitably this was only the start of filling the barns.