Peace in the Valley

Having dreamed of going away somewhere peaceful and relaxing, to start writing my crime novel, I settled on Provence. It seemed idyllic.  I saw pictures of lavender fields and olive groves and flea markets, and I thought "what's not to love?", completely forgetting that I don't actually like lavender, olives or fleas. 


I found a house with a heated pool, a view of the Luberon hills and a grand piano (which I can't play but it will look good on the photos). Even though the rental cost is more than the house I rent in Notting Hill, which I would never have believed possible,  I sent off a cheque for one week, because not content with merely dreaming up a crazy plan, I then like to throw money at it and make it happen. 


I left England via the Eurotunnel and  drove for 12 hours from one end of France to the other, subsisting on nothing but ham sandwiches and Jelly Babies until finally, I arrived at my new home for the week. Exhausted, I forced myself to stay awake  just long enough to heat a bowl of "soupe de legumes", take a long hot shower and curl up in bed with my dog for a good night's sleep. And only then did I find out about the bats.  


The master bedroom would indeed have a view of the Luberon hills if they cut down the tree directly in front of the window, but then where would the family of bats live?   If the fear of bats ripping my eyes out hadn't kept me awake all night (and it did), the flapping of their wings would have.  My Mother, in an effort to be helpful, reminded me that bats are blind but how does that help? So they can't see me when they tear my eyes out. And? 


Fortunately, my bedroom is swarming with bugs as big as saucepans, so if a bat did come indoors, the competition for airspace would probably cause it to fly straight out again. 


At 6am, I gave up on getting any sleep and headed out to Isle Sur La Sorgue, the famous Provencal flea market, where I had read that french antiques can be found at bargain prices. You may think that 680 euros for a brass lamp is a bargain but I struggled to see it as such and I treated myself to a chocolate croissant for 80 cents instead. Anything with chocolate in the middle for under one euro is a bargain in my book. 


It started to pour with rain (lucky I spent all that extra money renting a place with a pool, eh?) so headed home to make breakfast and watch a DVD of "Murder, She Wrote" for research purposes. The fact that I could have saved myself a small fortune and watched DVDs in the rain back in London was not lost on me.


After a deep sleep ("Murder She Wrote" has that effect) the dog needed something to distract her from eating the 18th century  sofa so - still in torrential rain - I walked her to the nearby village of Menerbes. The house owners had advised, in their advertisement, that Menerbes is a mere 2km walk away.  They had neglected to mention it was 2km up a steep hill.


The sun came out so I headed back to the house and pool, but got lost. Luckily, my dog is a cocker spaniel, a breed that has an incredible sense of smell that enables them to track their way home, so I let her lead the way. When one hour later I saw a sign that said "Welcome to Oppede" , a village 3km in the opposite direction, I reminded myself that this is no ordinary cocker-spaniel.


Miraculously, but no thanks to my dog who would be half way to Switzerland by now if she was still navigating, we  made it home while the sun was still shining. 


Being British, I like nothing more than getting topless and lying on a sun lounger. And so there I was, topless and lying on a sun lounger, when my next door neighbour chose his moment to come on over and introduce himself. Wearing nothing but bikini bottoms, I racked my brains back to my french lessons at school but struggled to recollect the past participle and so, try as I might, I couldn't remember the French for "My boobs used to be a lot firmer than this". With my broken french and his broken English, I learned that he is a film director and has a problem with the heating system of his pool. Either that, or he watches a lot of films and cleans pools for a living. He would have to clean a heck of a lot of pools though - his house is directly next to this one and it would take ten  minutes at a brisk pace to jog to his front door. He also told me that he is here to be alone because his Mother died last month at the age of 60, which is odd because he looks 55 if he's a day. 


After making a supper of beef stew and plum crumble, all the while bewildered why I was cooking on vacation when I never so much as boil noodles back home, I lit the candles on the terrace and sat down with a glass of wine to write. Peace at last.  A full five seconds elapsed before I heard a rustling in the woods and my cocker spaniel - ever the loyal guard dog -  ran inside the house and hid, leaving me to fend for myself. Figuring that the noise lurking in the bushes was either wild dogs or the French Film Director, I prayed for wild dogs, ran inside and locked all doors and windows. 


I now lie here in bed and I can hear a banging sound every few minutes. Bearing in mind that I am alone in a 5-bedroom house in the middle of several acres of woods, what can the sound possibly be other than a mass murderer?


I have realised that going somewhere peaceful doesn't necessarily bring you peace. But come hell or high water, the book starts tomorrow.