Attacking the Walls - Pt. 1
This trip (April 2012) we went after the plaster on the walls. The walls on the 2nd floor for the mot part are reinforced concrete, which is actually a huge relief, since they sit on top of the 4 ft thick first floor walls and add a great deal of stability to the place. But on the 3rd floor, the walls are covered all around in different types of plaster.
The big concern with that is I don't know what lies underneath them. I was reasonably confident that the north and south walls, by the fact that they carried the A-frame roof were likely stone, but the east sand west walls seemed to some degree to have a wood frame.
This work would take the lion's share of the trip, partially because we used the wrong tools to start and partially because there were different types of wall and plaster.
Using a mallet to loosen the plaster along the stone wall and then a chisel to bring off the remaining plaster without breaking the underlying stone, we started to pull it back.
I was right, it was stone. And in pretty good condition...
More to come including the right tools to use.
Salles-La-Source
Beautiful, lovely, enchanting Salles-La-Source is near my house. This town doesn't have much to offer in way of restaurants and bars, but what it lacks in amenities it makes up in views. The creek that runs through it accounts for 7 waterfalls as it wends its way from top to bottom. All are fantastic but none more so than the Grotto in the center of town. The water comes flinging off a cliff walled with buildings, down into a deep green pool before spilling down some rocks and below the roadway on it's way to the river below.
I am not a good photographer and this place is so beautiful even i couldn't screw it up.
Wikipedia page
Wikipedia page
It's been a while
I've been back a few times and a few things have changed.
1. I met more neighbors, including the one who owns the two houses that back up to mine.
2. my Chaux experiment failed. I am not getting the mix right
3. I took down all the plaster on the 3rd floor.
most importantly my wife came with and saw her house for the first time. She loved it!
More details to follow, but first a photo, from our last day there. Double Rainbow all the way!
Sorry for the delay!
I just got back from the house and a lot got done. I'll be posting my first experiences with Chaux de Fleur, as well as what to do when a beam moves on you (!) and also, pix from the charming villes of Marcillac and Salles La Source.
A lot was learned on this trip.
A lot was learned on this trip.
The story of Madame de Feu
The last time I was over in France to work on the house I had the extreme fortune to meet the local town historian who I will refer to as Mme. L. She was most gracious, offering to me the use of power via an extension chord, showing me the place she had just restored across the street, and even invited my and my compatriot into her house (work filth and all) to sit down, have a glass of tea and pick her brain about the town (and my house's in particular) history. I will delve into that in greater detail later, but as we were going back to my place a strange thing occurred.
I had always noticed that no matter what time of year it was, a single lone smokestack always belched out a thin-whispy line of smoke. It was a small smokestack among many others on top of a row of houses, and it always struck me as odd that only this one smoked. Even in the dead-air heat of summer it puffed away. I thought it a curiosity and nothing more. But as we walked down the street, just before we turned from her street onto mine, an ancient wooden back door opened and an old, dirty, wrinkled hand emerged. It reached down to a little seau bois wooden bucket, and retrieved scraps of what looked to be extra crown moulding and bits of angled wood. Things you usually see piled next to a table saw. I noticed that some of the angled pieces looked like ones I myself had cut and left out front of my house not that morning.
Mme. L greeted the phantom hand with a 'Bonjour Madame!'. The door closed quickly, but I did catch a return 'Bonjour' from the disembodied hand, and more importantly a brief glimpse of the madame. She had the shapeless form that comes with extreme old age. her hair, if she still had any, was wrapped up tightly in a scarf. She wore a long faded black dress, but if the streaks of soot on her face were any indication it could've been white originally. Mme L and I walked on. When we arrived at my place and Mme L was sure we were out of earshot she pulled me aside and told me very politely that I mustn't leave any more wood outside even for just an hour.
"But why, Madame?" I asked.
"Because she will take it. All of it. She is old now, and her eyesight is not so good. She cannot see nails on the wood anymore. We leave her wood in that basket, but only if it is safe, do you understand?" I nodded.
"Why does she take wood, surely she can't be cold." I asked.
In typical gallic acceptance, she responded "why does anybody do anything? Why does a man cheat?" I had no answer. Sensing perhaps that this was an unacceptable answer to an American used to answers she tried to fill in the details.
"We call her 'Madame de Feu' (The Fire lady). I am not young- no, no it is no insult to admit the truth- but I am not old, either; but she, she is old. I was born here and grew up here, and as long as i can remember, she has lived in there, burning wood. All night, all day, do you understand? And she has always been old. I was told that once she was the most beautiful woman in the village. Perhaps the most beautiful woman in the whole area. She had many beaus, but it is told she loved one and they were to be married. They never did."
"What happened? Was it the war?"
"This is possible, but I am afraid she is so old, nobody knows. She has outlived all who knew."
"Is this why she burns things?"
Mme L just shrugged her shoulders. "Some things we will never know. It is better this way, n'est pas? We just let her burn." She looked down the street to the little chimney, a black puff of smoke burst forth from it and quickly dissipated against the backdrop of the hills. She sighed and looking back at me with an earnest gaze spoke. "I know one day I shall wake up and open my windows to take in the morning air and there will be no scent of smoke in it. One day the chimney will cease. I know this must happen, but i have never lived in a world without it. Wherever I have gone i have returned here, to my home, yes? And her flame has always been there. I do not know what I will do when it is gone."
We stood in silence, staring for a while at the smoke, enjoying its constancy, the way it put 'clothes on the wind' until she took a few pieces of scrap from my pile that she deemed safe, bid me good day and made her way to madame's bucket.
I had always noticed that no matter what time of year it was, a single lone smokestack always belched out a thin-whispy line of smoke. It was a small smokestack among many others on top of a row of houses, and it always struck me as odd that only this one smoked. Even in the dead-air heat of summer it puffed away. I thought it a curiosity and nothing more. But as we walked down the street, just before we turned from her street onto mine, an ancient wooden back door opened and an old, dirty, wrinkled hand emerged. It reached down to a little seau bois wooden bucket, and retrieved scraps of what looked to be extra crown moulding and bits of angled wood. Things you usually see piled next to a table saw. I noticed that some of the angled pieces looked like ones I myself had cut and left out front of my house not that morning.
Mme. L greeted the phantom hand with a 'Bonjour Madame!'. The door closed quickly, but I did catch a return 'Bonjour' from the disembodied hand, and more importantly a brief glimpse of the madame. She had the shapeless form that comes with extreme old age. her hair, if she still had any, was wrapped up tightly in a scarf. She wore a long faded black dress, but if the streaks of soot on her face were any indication it could've been white originally. Mme L and I walked on. When we arrived at my place and Mme L was sure we were out of earshot she pulled me aside and told me very politely that I mustn't leave any more wood outside even for just an hour.
"But why, Madame?" I asked.
"Because she will take it. All of it. She is old now, and her eyesight is not so good. She cannot see nails on the wood anymore. We leave her wood in that basket, but only if it is safe, do you understand?" I nodded.
"Why does she take wood, surely she can't be cold." I asked.
In typical gallic acceptance, she responded "why does anybody do anything? Why does a man cheat?" I had no answer. Sensing perhaps that this was an unacceptable answer to an American used to answers she tried to fill in the details.
"We call her 'Madame de Feu' (The Fire lady). I am not young- no, no it is no insult to admit the truth- but I am not old, either; but she, she is old. I was born here and grew up here, and as long as i can remember, she has lived in there, burning wood. All night, all day, do you understand? And she has always been old. I was told that once she was the most beautiful woman in the village. Perhaps the most beautiful woman in the whole area. She had many beaus, but it is told she loved one and they were to be married. They never did."
"What happened? Was it the war?"
"This is possible, but I am afraid she is so old, nobody knows. She has outlived all who knew."
"Is this why she burns things?"
Mme L just shrugged her shoulders. "Some things we will never know. It is better this way, n'est pas? We just let her burn." She looked down the street to the little chimney, a black puff of smoke burst forth from it and quickly dissipated against the backdrop of the hills. She sighed and looking back at me with an earnest gaze spoke. "I know one day I shall wake up and open my windows to take in the morning air and there will be no scent of smoke in it. One day the chimney will cease. I know this must happen, but i have never lived in a world without it. Wherever I have gone i have returned here, to my home, yes? And her flame has always been there. I do not know what I will do when it is gone."
We stood in silence, staring for a while at the smoke, enjoying its constancy, the way it put 'clothes on the wind' until she took a few pieces of scrap from my pile that she deemed safe, bid me good day and made her way to madame's bucket.
A Primer on French Music
French music is often maligned as being all accordions and berets, Maurice Chevalier circa Gigi, or 30 years behind us, but that's a bit unfair. While it's true that alot of French music can be comical in its gallicness (the aforementioned Chevalier) or well behind the times (see Mylene Farmer), there's a lot that is good. Here's just a few I have in heavy rotation.
For old school stuff, nothing beats Serge Gainsbourg's 'Ballad of Melody Nelson', which sounds a lot like an old lusty frenchman doing spoken word while eating moules and drinking wine, if that Frenchman happened to have P-funk as his dinner companions.
For slightly more modern faire, try the following three one-man bands, who run the gamut from 80's new wave retro sounds (m83), to rave music (Anoraak) to flat-out cool techno-pop with a hint of gallic humor and real sexuality (Sebastien Tellier).
For old school stuff, nothing beats Serge Gainsbourg's 'Ballad of Melody Nelson', which sounds a lot like an old lusty frenchman doing spoken word while eating moules and drinking wine, if that Frenchman happened to have P-funk as his dinner companions.
Serge Gainsbourg - "Melody".
For slightly more modern faire, try the following three one-man bands, who run the gamut from 80's new wave retro sounds (m83), to rave music (Anoraak) to flat-out cool techno-pop with a hint of gallic humor and real sexuality (Sebastien Tellier).
Anoraak - “The Wizzard”
M83 – Skin of The NightSebastian Tellier - La Ritournelle (Mr. Dan magic wand mix)
two weeks to go!
Two weeks to go before I'm at the house with mes amis!
After checking to make sure the weather/termites/biblical conflagrations haven't taken my home down to the foundation, this is the (Highly ambitious) plan of attack. I will provide great before and after pictures when I return, of course.
Wednesday night
1. overnight flight arriving in Barcelona at 8:45 am Thursday.
Thursday 17
1. Pick up car and hit the road by 10am.
2. 5 hours on the road, gathering supplies along the way.
3. unpack, run by the house to show it, take stock of what we need to buy and
discuss the order of work.
Friday 18
1. go to Mr. Bricolage. get gloves, etc.
2. pull back boards in attic.
3. take down ceiling tiles in 3f back room.
4. clean up 3f.
6. make runs to dechetterie.
Saturday 19
1. mason work on the crack on the 3rd floor.
2. disassemble 2f poele.
3. reassemble poele on 1f.
4. dechetterie.
Sunday 20
1. Fix attic flooring. Make it stable
2. fix attic hole.
3. dechetterie.
monday 21
1. Shut down house for winter.
4. take the last of the junk to the dechetterie
Tuesday 22
Check out and head for Barcelona.
Big celebration dinner in Barcelona!
After checking to make sure the weather/termites/biblical conflagrations haven't taken my home down to the foundation, this is the (Highly ambitious) plan of attack. I will provide great before and after pictures when I return, of course.
Wednesday night
1. overnight flight arriving in Barcelona at 8:45 am Thursday.
Thursday 17
1. Pick up car and hit the road by 10am.
2. 5 hours on the road, gathering supplies along the way.
3. unpack, run by the house to show it, take stock of what we need to buy and
discuss the order of work.
Friday 18
1. go to Mr. Bricolage. get gloves, etc.
2. pull back boards in attic.
3. take down ceiling tiles in 3f back room.
4. clean up 3f.
6. make runs to dechetterie.
Saturday 19
1. mason work on the crack on the 3rd floor.
2. disassemble 2f poele.
3. reassemble poele on 1f.
4. dechetterie.
Sunday 20
1. Fix attic flooring. Make it stable
2. fix attic hole.
3. dechetterie.
monday 21
1. Shut down house for winter.
4. take the last of the junk to the dechetterie
Tuesday 22
Check out and head for Barcelona.
Big celebration dinner in Barcelona!
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