We were not terribly pleased with our gite.  

On our arrival, a stench of rotting food hit us – so we emptied the bin of the maggots, a task seemingly not included in the cleaning  between occupiers.  The blinds to the south had been left open during the day, the glass doors creating a greenhouse effect where tomatoes would ripen in a blink of an eye. Those of you close to us will already know that the loo in the second bedroom, which faced directly though the frosted glass door onto the front door and the street, was marked with a sticky label saying Broken: Do Not Use. The constantly flushing whine sounded throughout the night so much so that Dearly Beloved later found a washer in the kit he always carries and tried to stem the flow, to no avail.  A canvas lounger lay in shredded disrepair on the balcony, its springs scattered over the tiles. The kitchen, newly installed with a high gloss wooden counter, contained warnings about using it – not to get it wet or to put anything hot on the surface. It was all a bit intimidating. Better not drink anything then, I thought, we could get out of control here and wreck the place. Our bedroom was  furnished with the only wardrobe and dresser in the house (available for 8 holiday makers), with an en-suite shower room – but if the shutters were open, anybody on the road could see you using the facilities.  

It was hot – 30 degrees C at night for the first few days. The plastic sheet on the mattress had us getting up to cool down with cold drinks and washes throughout the night. From 7 am, traffic bounced down the rutted roads two metres from where our hot heads lay. We thought of moving into the quieter back double bedroom but as the space between wall and bed on each side was barely 6 inches, we realised it was not for us, our youthful days of springing over the foot of the bed having long gone.

The bathroom facing the front door also had a futon and a hefty glass fronted bookshelf in it. Everything to hand then, including a door onto the balcony.

We barked our shins on the 5’ square coffee table in the lounge, its polythene sheet, screaming “Do Not Use” at us. We shoved it into a corner and thought we would treat ourselves to some satellite TV (a luxury for us, as it is not available in the Chateau due to planning restrictions). The signal flickered throughout the evening as we sat uncomfortably in the armchairs, the cushioning of whose seats was now a distant dream.

What had we  come to?   

We had been seduced into hiring a gite an hour’s walk from the village, because  it sounded idyllically remote and peaceful, save for the tinkling of the Pyrennean stream behind, flowing into a swimming hole  to which the gite had direct access. We had looked at the pictures and could see a small gravel beach. We thought we would be able to cool off  in the fresh mountain water. That first day, we clambered over the rocks at the foot of the garden and stared into the pool. It was a steep drop of a metre or more. The beach was on the other side, behind a barbed wire strip, a small goat bleating balefully at us as if to remind us of the physical traits that were necessary to even consider such delights. But we paddled up and down the stream for a while and decided to dry off in the sunshine.

I sat in the garden in the shade and DB opted for a bask on the plastic lounger he had found on the roof terrace. DB had lowered the lounger onto the balcony.  I sat peacefully listening to the stream. A crash and loud yell ripped through the valley. DB’s lounger had sheared right through at the point where the seat joins the back. Luckily, Dearly B was shaken but not stirred, and the bumps on his head and hip not too bad. We called the owners who said we could have the loungers from the apartment below if we wanted. We would have to get them ourselves. Could they fix the toilet soon? Yes, they were going to anyway, as water is metered and it was costing them money. Could they fix the dishwasher door where the spring had gone, making it drop like a boulder on to the shin of the unsuspecting holiday maker? Oh, they did not know it was a problem. Could we move the polythene sheet from the  coffee table? Well…only if we were very careful. The seats of the armchairs are broken – really? They did not know.

We opted for a siesta indoors, first clearing away the persistent ants that marched daily across the bedroom floor from one nest to another. A few days later, they got bolder and colonised our bed one late evening.  

I could go on, but I wouldn’t want to complain.

Good things about the gite: the view of the mountains from the balcony; a good hair dryer; the showers were hot and powerful; the sound of the stream. And the WiFi access meant that we could use  the tablet computer to find out that an old friend, not seen since university days, was staying further down the coast just over the border in Spain. Would we like to visit for the day? Well yes! 

The great thing about a gite that doesn’t feel right? You go out and about and see and do stuff! 

And that will be told soon enough.

A bientot.