Homme de la maison

89. Fin

2011-03-15T22:43:00.006Z

They say all good things must come to an end. Now I'm not saying my blog entries these last four years have been perfect, but I sincerely hope those of you who have visited have enjoyed what you've read.

This is my last entry to this blog.

I started by asking a question - can a metrogay from the big, bad city give up this life in favour of a rural life in the French countryside, or should he try to share the best of both worlds.

Well, you know I just spent a year living that rural life. It was amazing. Having had my house for many years I have made some friends who are now friends for life. You find some wonderful moments in the smallest things, and you find some days where you wonder what the hell you're doing here.

I have found, and it's only my opinion, that the place and the people are what you make of them. This is a truly wonderful place and the friends I have met I wouldn't swap for anything.

But I also must admit that, being a Cityboy, there are many things I love more - seeing friends I've known all my life anytime I want, Marks & Spencer, theatre, cinema anytime, English food, the wonderful smell of the city, there's so much more. And thankfully I'm still young enough to enjoy it all.

I'm back in France soon, and my view is that I will continue to have the best of the city and the French countryside. So if you ever feel like selling up in Britain lock stock and barrel, remember this - France IS fantastic, the people are lovely, but it is a foreign land, so learn the language, understand their ways, accept it will be different, but always remember that you are British. Remember that we are neighbours and while we may pretend to love to annoy each other, we went to all the trouble of building a tunnel under the sea to be closer, so we probably all like each other a lot more than we are willing to admit.

And for those who really want to know, I'm still looking for my Mr Right, there have been some nearly Right's along the way, but real love is a special thing and having tasted it once or twice before, I'm happy to wait until the real thing happens again.

Take care, and thanks for reading my blog these last four years. Maybe see you on a train sometime sous la Manche.

Oh and PS - check out this fab new site www.poitoutv.com - it's rockin'! Lol.

Homme x

88. Bike fantastic

2011-01-31T23:15:00.006Z

It may still be winter, but when the sun does shine, you gotta get out there. So with a friend visiting from the south, we take on a 40km cycle one brilliantly sunny Sunday afternoon in mid-January.

Suitably wrapped in thermal cycling kit, we head for Gencay, a little town 19kms from the house. I love the energy of cycling, the movement, the speed, especially on the downhill bits and the sun is lovely and warm on our faces.

The countryside is beautiful. Clear green fields, not yet ploughed for the spring. Hollow trees, stripped of their summer leaf and evergreens defiantly splendid even in darkest winter. We speed past chateaux, petit-ponts and quaint little villages. I love it here.

We arrange with another friend who lives in Gencay to meet her for a coffee at the bar on the main square, when we arrive. I opt for a Cappuccino - well a cafe grande at least. It's a refreshing way to pass a Sunday.

However, the ride home was long and hard, most notably because the wind was against us. My poor mate really struggled and we stopped at Sommieres on the way back for an urgent injection of energy via a chocolate bar from the local bar.

I think we slightly underestimated both the ride and our lack of fitness. Well, it is winter after all, and it is a well-known fact people exercise less in winter months. At least we do! Later I cooked a warming roast chicken supper with lots of veg, stuffing and gravy. Delish.

But as we kicked backed and watched a DVD, I gradually began to feel a wetness in my nose, the sure sign for me that a cold is in the making. So I spent the next three days sipping lemsip, homemade soups, and sneezing endlessly. That'll teach me!

87. Fit for 2011

2011-01-03T10:20:00.006Z

Happy New Year everyone. Well, the dust is beginning to settle on the fog that surrounds all those celebrations, and my focus is now firmly on getting fit again.

If there's one thing I really miss about life in the city it is having a decent gym nearby.

For some reason unknown to me, the 'sports club' is not something you find in abundance here in rural France. However, there are miles and miles of quiet country roads and pathways that are perfect for jogging and cycling. And I've managed to turn a corner of the study into a little gym for light-weights and yoga style workouts.

Of course, no workout is complete without having some great, upbeat music to get you going, so I plug-in my iPhone to the system and off I go.

And if you can't face all that healthy sport, there are always calorie-burning tasks such as chopping firewood and schlepping it all into the house to get the excess fat dropping away.

Okay, so it's not exactly Holmes Place, but at least it gets you moving, the only thing missing now is the lovely Jacuzzi and sauna after the burn - anyone got any ideas?

86. The Snowman

2010-12-15T15:02:00.005Z

Like most Brits abroad, I've watched the folks back home struggle with yet another year of gruesome 'early snow'. And though far less austere, we've had quite a bit of snow down here too in the South West of France.

I'm told it's unusual for us to get snow this early here, far less that it has stuck around this time. So when the garden turns white, the younger side of me can't resist heading out to make my first snowman in decades.

Of course I have to give him a smiley face, and eyebrows too. So he stands proud - if a little short - on the terrace and appears to wave to all the neighbours as they pass by. After a few days though, he either simply melts back into the land, or cold-foots it further north - I hope it was the latter.

And then, a few more days later, I receive a call from a friend down near Biarritz, who tells me they're having 21 degrees. It's the top story on French news with the headlines reading something like 'Biarritz basks as Paris freezes'.

Right here, somewhere in between, it doesn't quite reach 21 degrees, but neither is it perishing cold like the capital. So if you see a rather short snowman with lovely eyebrows chilling-out on the Place de la Concorde, say bonjour from me.

85. The 'ex' factor

2010-11-03T23:42:00.005Z

Okay 'tis the season to be glued to ITV on Sat and Sunday nights for the all important drama of the autumn, but hey we have lives too. Yes, indeed.

One of my ex's came to stay the other week, it was really nice. But of course we missed the Saturday night XFactor episode since we were out to dinner. Bummer, though thank God for catch ups!

Now, let me first explain, we are both happy to have spent some of our lives together and we are both very cool that we have moved on and are now great friends. In fact we still care about each other very much. Just not in that way anymore.

He was very sweet in discussing my 'singleness' and assured me that all I need to do is return to London and I will find my life partner. Mmmm.

After he left, I realised that having someone around in your life IS really quite fantastic. So I felt I should start to focus on that. Then, during the week a straight mate came round to the house and practically wailed at me - 'No, this is all yours, enjoy it, don't make the mistake of feeling like you "NEED" someone to share it with, believe me, it aint all it's cracked up to be...all you need is friends etc". Clearly he has no idea of the sex drive of a typical gay guy.

Truth is, after a lifetime of partners, I am quite content with my own space, and the idea of sharing - which has always been my default position - is now thrown into question by a married hetero with three kids and a wife! Maybe he knows something I don't.

I'll have to think this one through a bit more, meanwhile, it's around midnight so really shouldn't open a bottle of fizz at this time. Bugger that, who's to say no, cheers...

84. Seven months

2010-10-13T21:07:00.002+01:00

It's mid-October and I have now been at 'the French house' for seven months. From spring, through summer and now into autumn. I can't believe how quickly the time has gone.

Becoming a 'country boy' has been great fun, I've loved most of the time here. Unfortunately, the house is STILL not finished so that's a bit of a let-down, but I have made a lot of progress outside. Lawns seeded, walkways constructed (but not tiled yet) and walls built. This has all really been due to the amazing weather this year. Still easily into the mid-20s right now. So no surprise I've spent as much of every day outside as is possible.

But, and it's a considerable 'but', I am starting to miss working for a living - believe it or not - and also I'm missing my friends back home. So, while the tranquility of France is appealing, I'm now starting on the long road towards finding a new job.

The only problem is, I don't want just any job, and whatever job I do get, I know I'm going to miss this place a lot. Not least because it will doubtless become logistically difficult to make more progress when I'm stuck back in the big smoke that is central London.

Now, where is that winning lottery ticket...

83. Season's change

2010-10-05T22:35:00.003+01:00

Last week, an ex (also one of my best mates) came to stay for the weekend. He was lucky to get the amazing weather that September delivered.

However, he left on Sunday and Monday brought the first heavy rain in months and it now looks like summer has, eventually, slowly, almost reluctantly, allowed autumn to show its face.

Over the weekend though, we did manage to have the roof down on the car, not only during the day, but also for the evening drive back from the fab auberge run by Franck and Frederic, where we had supper on Saturday night. It was great to drive beneath a crystal clear starry sky on the way home. I think this may be the last 'roof down' for the season, but I'm an optimist so watch this space.

It's funny, but I love the summer, and though autumn also has its charm, I miss the carefree days I've enjoyed this long summer - the night comes earlier, the wind is louder, the sun weaker. And it's strange, but I do feel the call of the city when autumn comes.

Season's change and I guess our moods do too.

82. A long summer

2010-09-29T23:28:00.002+01:00

It's been a wee while since my last post, but with good reason. The summer continues to stick around, thankfully, and it's been pretty busy here. Guests (pictured) arrived from Scotland so I've been in host mode - trips to Cognac, La Rochelle, Poitiers, dinners out, dinners in, village pub visits and so on.

And thanks to the national strike last week, they stayed on an extra two days and then had to be driven to Bordeaux for a flight back to the Scottish capital. However it gave me the perfect reason to swing into Ikea Merignac for some more candle and napkin supplies!

Everyone is loving the hot September sun, so getting out and about with visitors is a must. And more guests are due, so more outings are planned.

But in between there has been much work going on too. I've been shovelling spade-fulls of concrete into the cement mixer and laying foundations for the border wall to the rear of the house and mixing mortar for other little tasks, as well as clearing mountains of rubble and unwanted weeds.

It's all great exercise, which I thrive on now, having no nearby gym anymore, but I'm not sure it's the perfect mix to be so hard at work while my guests watch from the sunny terrace with a glass of rosé in one hand and sun cream in the other.

One thing I have realised though is that exercise is the key to staying active around here. Moreso giving the regular alcohol involved when holidaying visitors are about.

81. A medal for the mayor

2010-08-26T15:15:00.002+01:00

The charismatic mayor of Anché is honoured for her long service to the community.

80. Twilight vampires

2010-08-24T14:08:00.008+01:00

Some local Brit friends invite me to a vampire-cowboy party at their very chic new barn conversion.

I try to guess the reason for the vampire theme - it's too early for Halloween - but then decide it's just cool anyway.

Everyone has gone to great effort to dress up, not least the 20 or so friends who fly in from London and other places around Europe for the event, and the evening is a great success.

Of course having a pool in the garden, and what with it being the hottest day of the year so far, it isn't too long before some of the vampires - and vampirettes (does that exist?) - shed their outfits for the ambient comfort of the pool.

Despite the ghoulish theme of the night, the sight of Karen attempting to teach everyone the basics of line dancing, is by far the scariest part of the evening. Even her little dog has had enough and tries to 'leg shag' her off the dancefloor.

I watch from the safety of the impressive grand staircase in the grand salon as rows of vampire-cowboys try to follow Rachel's lead in line dancing to Lady Gaga's Bad Romance. It aint pretty, but it IS hilarious.

In the twilight hours, and after having spent a wonderful evening meeting new friends, dancing and drinking, I head home to my lair and dream of other vampire-cowboys. Thankfully, none of them are line dancing.

79. Millau my

2010-08-11T17:30:00.005+01:00

Martial invites me to spend a week at his parents' gorgeous hilltop villa near Montfort. The fab weather and great hosts leave me feeling like I'm the VIP guest in a 5-star boutique hotel.

We enjoy bike rides through beautiful scenery, chic aperitifs on the coast near Bayonne, and great food, thanks to 'les parents'. So when it comes time to drive home I'm surprised to find one more 'treat' in store.

Comfortably seated in Martial's father's Mercedes S320, we drive 500 kilometres east to the awesome Millau (pron Me-o) Viaduct. It's a hot August weekend and the drive is fantastic, but nothing prepares you for this amazing structure perfectly sculpted into the French landscape.

Okay, I know, 'it's just a bridge' I hear you say. But no, it is much more than that. This €400m beauty is taller than the Eiffel Tower and only a tad shorter than the Empire State Building, and spans the Tarn River connecting the main autoroute from Paris to Montpellier.

Anyways, as if simply seeing it wasn't enough, I discover we are also booked into the Domaine de St Esteve, a great new hotel perched on a mountain commanding great views of Millau town and its domineering viaduct.

We spend the afternoon lounging by the hotel's luxurious horizon pool, and dine in its chic terrace restaurant in the evening. All the time with the viaduct providing an imposing backdrop - it looks even better when floodlit at night.

For anyone who thought Paris had it all with its famous Eiffel Tower, think again. Not only has this impressive viaduct created a much needed link for Parisians to reach the Med, it's also put the beautiful town of Millau high on the tourist trial, creating thousands of jobs in the leisure sector. And for adrenalin sports junkies - para-gliding from the mountain tops is one of the town's main sports now. And, no, I didn't have a go. Maybe next time, though.

So a grand merci to Martial for once again thinking of an amazing treat. It was fantastic and confirms why I love France so much.

Go see it.

78. Tout le monde

2010-07-30T04:31:00.004+01:00

British novelist Karen Wheeler, draws a huge crowd for the launch of her latest yarn about the lives and loves of the Poitou-Charentes. But what do the locals make of it, and is it really just a shaggy dog's tale...

77. Crazy Cress

2010-07-24T00:21:00.007+01:00

Author Karen Wheeler rustles up a delicious naturally sourced water cress soup for me. Favoured by celebrities as a tasty alternative guaranteed to keep you slim for that all important photo-shoot, this is truly a delish dish. Just spare a thought, though, for the cleaning staff...

76. Five-star friends

2010-07-22T21:58:00.005+01:00

Like most people, I value my friends and family above most other things in life. So, when Martial, a good friend I knew when I lived in the Middle East, comes to visit, I look forward to catching up.

Being French, and a former executive housekeeper at one of the world's leading hotels in Dubai, Martial wastes no time in pitching-in and helping me with the mountain of work still to be done on this not so 5-star house.

He varnishes doors and shutters, steam-cleans rugs and basically deep-cleans the entire house to a level I didn't know was possible. He speeds off to the shops to get 'bits n pieces', and helps me sand walls and paint. Trimming the boundary hedges simply would not have been done, were it not for mon ami.

In the evenings we cook great food, open quality wines (most of which he brought) and watch good movies - Almodovar etc. He is great company and we laugh about the old days in the Gulf, and what lies ahead for us both.

When the time comes for him to leave, I feel genuinely sad, because it reminds me that I love having other people around me in my life.

Of course I would have been just as happy if he'd sinply relaxed and enjoyed the sunshine, for two weeks. But when friends pitch in with a project it's all just much more fun and less of a chore. He will be welcome anytime...especially since he always gives the place a bit of 5-star chic.

75. Dig that...

2010-07-19T09:34:00.003+01:00

In April this year, a very excited Kipling - the son of a great local friend - arrived chez moi for his first ever ride in a Maniscopic earth mover - courtesy of Pascal one of my friendly builders. A brilliant 'first moment' for a 6 year old boy - who probably now wants to drive big machines for a living, when he grows up! And, yep, that's his mother screaming with delight (or is it sheer terror?) at the top of the clip...

74. Anché's big opening

2010-07-10T22:39:00.006+01:00

After being closed down last year, in the midst of a rather raunchy scandal, the local bar in the pristine village of Anché is reopened by the mayor. What was the scandal? Watch the video to find out...

73. Piscine around

2010-07-07T17:45:00.004+01:00

The weather has, thankfully, turned very hot and one needs to cool down. Just as I was about to fill the bathtub with more cool water, I noticed this inflatable pool lurking in a dark corner of the study.

Okay, so it's no dreamy, sexy, rectangular infinity pool with fabulous loungers and equally fabulous pool boy on hand, but needs must.

Bought years ago, this little pool has languished unused for far too long, so, while the real thing remains a hopefully not too distant dream, the old inflatable will have to do. It comes with it's own electric filter system and I even found some chlorine/anti-algae liquid, to keep those nasty germs at bay.

With the weather now in the early 30s every day, I'm certainly going to get my money's worth out of it. It's great fun, at just three metres wide, it's certainly not for swimming, but is perfect to throw a 'li-lo' into and just relax in the sun. It also means I don't need to pack a bag and jump into the car to the nearest 'plan d'eau' every time I want to cool off and there's no more need to fill the bathtub with cold water either.

Just a shame there's no hot man around to 'li-lo' with me in my inflatable piscine, but no worries. And of course, if you're passing by this way and want to cool off, don't forget your 'cossie' - unless you want to bathe au natural.

Now there's an idea...

72. The wall

2010-06-28T15:51:00.004+01:00

When doubts creep into one's life I always tend to just go and do something creative to better occupy my mind. I've never build a stone wall before, but I knew that I wanted the steps to the garden to be flanked by two small walls made from freely sourced Charentian limestone.

So I have just spent two weeks 'borrowing' on a permanent basis a mixture of stones and bricks found buried in my garden, old stones donated by kind neighbours and rough stone allowed to me by one of the local farmers.

Okay, so it's no masterpiece of construction, and I dare say it may not last a thousand years (or even just ten), but the satisfaction of having ticked off another item on life's list of things we should all try at least once, I am justly proud.

In fact many of the locals have tooted and thumbed their approval over the period it took me to build the walls, which provided an added boost to one's confidence. And while the house and the gardens may still be a long way from finished to a standard I am happy with, I am also content that, having wilted in my enthusiasm lately, the entire exercise has re-ignited my belief in what I am trying to do here.

Sometimes you just have to give yourself permission to say 'well done me'.

71. What now?

2010-06-10T12:50:00.003+01:00

It's exactly three months to the day since I left behind London city life and headed to France for a six month stay. I can't believe it's gone so quickly.

So what has been achieved? Well, the terrace is done, the bedroom nearly finished, the kitchen, well almost, but STILL not totally there. New lover, hmm, well that one's still yet to happen, although there was a brief fling with a cute guy from Poitiers. Alas, it wasn't to be.

Unfortunately, there's still so much more to be done, and worse, the money's dwindling away, so looks unlikely any more big changes will come any time soon. That's a bummer, because I had hoped the place would be looking and feeling a bit more 5-star rather than the unkempt building site it is right now.

The weather so far has also been a bit off colour. I had hoped for endless days of hot sunshine, but even today, we're blanketed in cloud and rain, with only occasional bouts of the big bright planet.

I'm beginning to look for another job back in London, because one needs to work to pay for all the improvements yet to come. I'm also bored of having to watch my pennies - so not used to that.

I've even given thoughts to selling the place and just accepting that maybe it's not to be. Socially, there's always stuff going on, but I miss the gym, being able to meet the boys in a suitable bar, hang out in places that don't close at 7.30pm, and swimming - I really miss swimming!

I've had this place for seven years now. And I'd really much rather be in a smaller house, with a more manageable garden, a stone's throw from a beach on the Med, where at least the sun shines a bit more.

So, what next? Ideas most welcome...

70. Rachel 'lite'

2010-06-01T16:35:00.006+01:00

I'm beginning to think Rachel's won the jackpot on the lottery and is keeping it a secret from everyone. I haven't seen much of her lately, on account of her travelling across Europe for a series of fabulous little breaks.

Last week it was Portugal's gorgeous coast and right now she's off on some killer detox week at a top boot camp in southern Spain. She says she needs to renovate her body, to get rid of all the horrible toxins she's amassed. It's costing a fortune and all I can hope is that she's happy with the outcome.

As a friend I'll be happy whatever, but for the next week she'll be eating a squirrel's diet, juiced up raw veggies and being hauled up a mountain twice a day for exercise. I wish she'd discussed it with me beforehand because for half the price I would have happily locked her up in my spare room with a packet of Ryvita and a running machine permanently set to maximum incline.

Needless to say I think changing one's entire look in 7 days is seriously risky to long term well-being. And yes I realise that many, including Victoria Beckham would disagree with me, but Rachel doesn't even have a weight issue to begin with. At least nothing a consistent exercise and diet regime wouldn't kick into touch.

And I couldn't see why Spain was a more suitable place to get into shape than the great outdoors of the Poitou-Charentes. But Rachel duly informed me that she would be unlikely to stick to a regime back home. Which begs the question, how will she stick to it when she does return?

Still, I'm sure the new brand of Rachel 'Lite' will be just as lovely as the current brand, and I'm keeping the spare room and the Ryvita's on standby, just in case she gets a taste for long term 'Lite"

69. Paris by night

2010-05-26T19:06:00.003+01:00

Ah, Paris in the spring. Mum and dad come to stay for a week - yes an ENTIRE week! No, it was un plaisir to host them really. Even despite fielding endless 'what's that' questions - as if I was suddenly the oracle of all things French! Bless.

As a special treat, we booked a weekend escape to Paris, what with it being dad's birthday an' all. The comfort of a first class coach on the TGV whisked us from rural SW France to the capital in just over an hour and a half. And to make it easier to wander around the hotspots - Louvre, Champs Elysees, Tour Eiffel, le Marais etc - I booked us into the 4-star Saint James & Albany Spa hotel, directly opposite the Louvre on the Rue de Rivoli.

A bit pricey and with a very nice entrance, but the rooms were a real letdown, so be warned. Although the long pool in the spa was lovely for that early morning swim.

On the Saturday night after an early supper I took them to the Arc de Triomphe end of the Champs Elysees so we could stroll down the famous boulevard then hang a right for a view of the Eiffel Tower in all its night-time illuminated glory. Perfect, except for the dreary rain/drizzle that dogged our every step.

Eventually, the great tower turned on its sparkle, dazzling the skyline for the 5 minute duration of the spectacular show. Mum thought it was wonderful, though dad, I fear a little weary from the wet weather was typically understated in his awe. He was definitely happier once we were out of the night rain and cosy in the hotel bar, where we ordered a nightcap.

Paris by night is truly beautiful, but as dad clearly saw, probably much easier to appreciate without the drizzle of a spring evening.

68. On a balcony

2010-05-06T22:10:00.004+01:00

Mmmm...spring is definitely here. The air is warmer, plants are beginning to bloom and the sun is strong and welcoming, even though the wind still pierces de temps en temps.

And while the long dreamed of heat of a languorous summer day, may still be a while off, I'm happy that the new balcony is now finished. The dirty work is over, the tiles in place and the dressing has started - strategic, yet unassuming plants in subtle pots, the correct amount of lighting, and mini plants to guard the porte d'entree.

Okay, so no actual furniture yet, but it will come when I have made the final choice of the right seating and table for the space. Not that easy to find so ideas welcome!

My parents arrived today from Scotland and something happened that's made me feel more attached to this place. Not sure what it was exactly, but maybe it's because they are the first guests to arrive in this sojourn. I'm seeing other people use the space for the first time - and I like it.

After working so hard over the past two months on improvements - garden, balcony, kitchen, bedrooms, etc (all still far from complete) - it's great to see it being appreciated by others.

So, will I return to London in the autumn to find more work, or will I decide to stay here? Thankfully, that is still a choice that's some way off right now, so we'll see. Meanwhile, I'm going to enjoy the balcony and it's view, which (if I don't look too hard at the mud-flat that will eventually be the driveway) is rather pleasant and tranquil on the eye.

67. Kitchen nightmares

2010-04-20T22:53:00.005+01:00

It's enough to have me cursing like Gordon Ramsay on a good day! Almost one month ago I decided it was finally time to tackle that cooking place in the house - it didn't warrant actually being called a kitchen back then.

Being typically hard on myself, progress has been slow. Oh I've bought the kitchen, built the units and ordered les electromenagers - oven, hob, fan, dishwasher - but getting the room prepped and the plumbing re-organised has been a nightmare.

So today I finished off prepping the walls and shifted all the units into the damn kitchen room, in the vain hope that someone, somewhere will turn up to help me get it all properly in place. It's hard to believe there's supposed to be a recession on, given the difficulty I've had in finding a plumber and kitchen fitter out here in 'backsville' who is able to squeeze me in.

Rachel, though, offers a timely hope by referring a friend who may be able to help. She also passes on some amazing news that could mean an end to all of us having to avoid flying 'Ruinair' back to London with the news that a Hungarian airline is planning to start full service flights to London Gatwick from Angouleme - I for one will definitely be supporting that as much as I can - Mr O'leary take notice - we are all done with your pitiful idea of how people should fly - www.citylineswiss.com, we all have high hopes of you. Bienvenue.

66. Open doors

2010-04-04T00:53:00.004+01:00

Well it's been a few weeks since I arrived here, and it's all chaos! So apologies for the silence.

When I first got here, the weather was pretty good so I spent as much time in the garden as I could - cutting back years of overgrowth - backbreaking is the only word for it. Also, a new main entrance to the building has been constructed on the West-facing side of the house; complete with a balcony too.

Like everyone these days, I'm trying to be a little more 'self sustainable', so seeds for potatoes, carrots, radishes, beans, tomatoes, courgettes and Rocket have also been sewn - hope they deliver!

Then the weather turned - bloody awful is the only way to describe it - so I turned way focus to the inside - bought a kitchen (only partly installed so far) and set about getting the bedrooms up to grade.

Socially, there have been dinners, lunches, aperitifs and days out with neighbours. It's weird, but with so much to do, I haven't actually had a moment to realise that I'm here now for the next six months. But now the weather's turned and now that things seem to be settling on the social front, to be honest I'm really missing having a special 'significant other' to cuddle up to. Well that and helping out with the hefty list of things I still need to do to this money pit of course.

In the meantime, it's on with the work list. Hope you like the new doors.

65. Au revoir le 'City'

2010-03-16T23:16:00.004Z

A week ago I waved goodbye to City life, suits and stocks for the foreseeable future and headed south to the little corner of the Poitou-Charentes that is now home.

Since arriving here the weather has been fab, the social calendar packed and the house accommodating. I haven't even given a thought to the hectic and exhausting life I was living only a few weeks ago. More importantly, it is wonderful to be able to rise at a normal hour instead of the 4am starts I've endured over the past three years.

There's been too much to do here to think of much else really - friends to catch up with, grass cutting, garden repairs (following the awful storms of February), renovation projects to plan - and I'm making it all more difficult by filming it too. Who knows, maybe a clever TV producer will consider it worthy viewing for the masses!

The many friends I am fortunate to have out here have been very welcoming and encouraging. Last Sunday we all traipsed over to a fab restaurant called The Mad Hatters for a traditional Sunday roast - I know, rather British, but the food is amazing and the prices make it a sin to miss.

And it so nearly didn't happen. I thought we were meeting for supper, so when the party called at lunchtime to find out where the hell I was (in the garden up to my neck in dirt and grime), I had to high tail it across country, breaking practically every speeding law that exists to join them in time.

Usually, I'm very reliable about this sort of thing, but being extremely late for a very important date with friends at a place called The Mad Hatters surprised even me. It made me think, hang-on, perhaps this is less a move to south-western France and more like falling through a kind of Alice's looking glass; in which case I'm thrilled, because that means it's going to be an awfully big adventure.

64. The right wheels

2010-03-02T11:37:00.004Z

Having been made recently free from the rigour of work, I've spent the last three weeks practically chained to my laptop, surfing my way through the world of cars that is Autotrader.co.uk.

Trying to find a decent car as my transport for the next six months in France has been an ordeal. First choice was a BMW 3-Series either coupe or convertible. Then I thought perhaps I'll find a decent Merc, and then I moved onto Audi. Aaargh!

I spent entire days dragging myself from one side of town to the other and all around the home counties - Kent, Surrey, Bedfordshire - looking at would-be suitors for my wheels. Every time, there was something not quite right - dodgy engines, missing parts, shoddy bodywork, missing vehicle histories. I really was beginning to lose hope.

Moreover, I was starting to feel dizzy and quite sick of the sight of my otherwise cherished MacBook Pro - too much time spent on these things is so not good for you.

Then, I caste my net even wider and started looking a cars I'd never previously even thought would be an option. I feel like a world expert now on the entire industry.

In the end I settled for a 10 year-old Saab 9-3 convertible. It feels okay to drive, has decent mileage, all the vehicle history, and - because I bought it from a Saab dealership - I get a year's warranty to boot.

Okay, so it has a tape deck rather than a CD player, but now that we're all using wireless MP3 transmitters, even CD players are becoming obsolete. So hopefully will be heading over to the French house very soon. If you see me on the road, give me a toot!

63. Destiny calls

2010-02-08T13:22:00.005Z

My bosses made 11 positions in our department redundant last week - mine was one of them. So, after two-and-a-half years of indecision and to-ing and fro-ing, I am finally faced with some real choices.

Do I just take the money and run? Should I take the position in another department that I have been offered? Do I try to find new work straight away? Or do I move to France and see what happens next?

Okay, I can hear you all yelling for the latter, so, assuming I get my recently refurbished and expanded London home rented out, I plan to move to France for the spring/summer and quite frankly cannot wait to get going.

Whilst it was indeed a fab job, the conditions of late, as well as some of the new people (they made over 100 colleagues redundant last year), were quite tedious to work with. And don't even get me started on the fact that our swish city office block was awash with mice, which were frequently seen scurrying across the office floor - yuk. No, it was time to go and thank goodness I got the opportunity of a redundancy package rather than simply, just looking for another position.

What I'm really excited about now is being in France for spring and summer, getting loads done to the house, growing my own in the kitchen garden and hopefully writing my first book. And who knows, maybe even Mr Scotland (yes, it's still bubbling under) will find it worth hanging out in the French countryside!

62. A big night out

2010-01-25T14:30:00.006Z

It's late January and the big night finally arrives. In the afternoon I head to the Salle de Fete and 'dress' our table for the Disco d'hiver. We opt for an understated, but chic affair. Rachel provides the smart white linen table cloth and tea-light holders and I supply crockery, cutlery glassware and two feature silver candelabras, plus gauche pink napkins to set the table off.

One of our group, the maire from a local village treats us to pre-dinner cocktails chez-moi from an old French recipe - Champagne soup. This consists of lemon juice, Cointreau and Champagne, which is delicious, though deadly I surmise, in quantities, which we wash down with Salmon on bread snacks.

Eventually, we all troop down to the village hall, which has been transformed into 'The' place to be seen. Low lighting, candles everywhere, fabulous decorations and a full disco and dance floor. Though our table looks hot, everyone else has gone to as much, if not more, trouble and really dressed their tables to impress.

Rachel's goat's cheese and onion tarts with a side salad kick off the dining part of the evening in style. This is followed by my Boeuf Bourguignon and then a scrumptious desert of individual Black Forest Gateaux and or Apple Crumble courtesy of two of the other guests at our table.

More than 120 guests have turned up and the evening is a great success. It's fantastic catching up with friends and neighbours - French and English - and dancing the night away. There are people of every generation laughing, chatting, drinking and dancing - and fun and happiness fill the air. Though if I'm honest there is something a little odd about watching the elder members of the gathering get down to The Prodigy's 'Smack My Bitch up'!

I realise that this is very much a community, not only an international one, but one that I feel very much a part of. And I love that people in the country are just as keen as city folk to 'glam' up and make special, provided someone creates the reason for it - top marks to my friend Mich for organising.

More wine is drunk, more chat, and of course, more dancing. Typically, we are the last to leave, in the wee early hours.

As I rush around the next morning, trying to ignore the obvious hangover, and preparing to catch the train back to London, I stop for one moment, to remember how great it is out here, even in winter.

61. Disco D'hivers

2010-01-13T18:43:00.006Z

Welcome to 2010. Feels pretty good so far - apart from the weather of course. Over the festive season there was lots of time spent with family, friends, and even a little romance - okay, just great hot sex and cuddles. No need to buy a hat! Alas, it was just a fling. So on we go.

Because you have all asked, Rachel is fine - actually looking great these days and having big 'love in' with a local Italian beau, for the past year. I went for a lovely walk with her through the French countryside on New Year's day, which was great despite the small matter of a neighbour's hen being murdered by her otherwise cute little chien - it was his 5th killing in as many months - so 'serial' comes to mind.

Riley is also fine, though the cold weather has sent him packing back to Blighty. I'm guessing he's not being naked there either though - what is all that snow about? I missed him not being here for the New Year festivities, actually, but something about the cold and his 'slow renovation' means England was probably more comfortable and heck, just warmer.

I'm looking forward to a special night out in my village being arranged for late January, by an English neighbour. The venue is the the local salle de fete, which will be transformed into a steamy nightclub for a 'Disco D'hiver' (Diva, get it?) but should be great fun. I should admit at this point that I have this thing about disco's. After a certain point in the evening I always seem to lose my t-shirt on the dance-floor. Don't ask me how. It just happens.

So, if January' proving a little too much, why not just get yourself down to a warm disco and dance the winter - and all those calories - away. And if the diva inside you wants to get out - just lose that t-shirt and go for it. Party-on 2010.

60. Au revoir 'noughties'

2009-12-31T11:25:00.003Z

So it's the last day of the year, the decade even, and I will usher in the new age right here in France.

Many will be glad to see the back of the 'noughties' - a decade that was often very naughty indeed and frequently quite nasty, too. History will record it as the decade that saw 9-11, new wars in the Middle East, global financial calamity, and the threat of previously unheard of diseases such as bird and swine flu.

But for each of us there will also be highlights too. For me the noughties will always be the decade I bought a house in France (seasonal pic of local ville above); it will be the time I took a year off to travel around the world with my partner, Gary; it will be the time I decided to live in Arabia (Dubai) for three years; and the decade which taught me that happiness and love are, after, all the most important things in our lives.

As the final hours of the last day of 2009 tick away, I find myself excited and hopeful of the next decade. Excited because it's just great to be here, and hopeful that we will all learn to love a little bit more, and hurt others a lot less. Well, you have to hope!

I entered the noughties partnered, and though I'm leaving them as a single guy, I am at least happy. Of course no-one really knows what lies ahead on the relationship front. However, I haven't been able to get the guy from Scotland out of my mind. Wouldn't it be funny if, for all my worldly travels and adventures, I ended up falling for a sweet guy from 'back home'? I kind of like the idea. I'll keep you posted.

For now, I hope you all have a fabulous celebration tonight and the happiest New Year...see you on the other side, in 2010.

59. Winter wonderguy

2009-12-28T10:19:00.007Z

I arrive in Scotland for the festive season and, while checking my email, notice that a neighbour has sent me this photo (left) of my house in France with the snow.

It's nothing too unusual, except that it rarely snows in the Poitou, and almost never before January or Feb, sometimes even March.

The photos are taken the week before Christmas. Scotland, too, is showered in the magical white stuff as it prepares to deliver the first 'White Christmas' in half a decade. Everything is preserved in this surreal brilliance and the whole place feels very dreamlike, almost Narnian, one might say.

Christmas comes and goes with all the usual fayre and fun with extended family - Champagne on arrival, delicious big lunch, children running around and then entertaining with carols, party games - we play pass the bomb and Outburst - both very funny and noisy affairs - and rightly so on Christmas Day.

On Boxing Day, I head to the gym to work off some of the excess. And, then, in this winter wonderland, where time appears to have stopped, I meet a lovely, sexy and smiley Scottish guy. We arrange a drink together, but don't stay long in the bar. We're both clearly very attracted to each other and need to do something about it. It's getting late, so he drives me through the snowy darkness to his family home, where we get to know each other an awfully lot better. It's a fabulously unexpected, but much needed, much welcomed treat. After all, isn't Christmas meant for sharing?

Later, we spend what seems like hours lying around in each other's arms, chatting about nothing in particular, laughing, kissing. Unfortunately, time starts to move again too soon - I have to rush back to my parents in order to catch a flight to London. For the next day I have to Eurostar it over to the French house for a week.

So here I am, right now, sitting alone in biz class on a Eurostar, on my way to New Year in a foreign land - all the while wondering if I should have invited the lovely Scottish guy to come stay in France awhile.

58. 'Tis the season...

2009-12-15T19:45:00.005Z

So how did that happen? One minute, I'm just blundering my way through yet another year of indecision, and suddenly it's less than two weeks to go until Christmas.

As usual I'm not as prepared as I should be, but I just swallow my dread and head up to Oxford Street. I dash in and out of Hamleys, TopMan, French Connection and the deliciously sexy Abercrombie & Fitch.

This year I'll be heading to Scotland for Christmas to spend some quality time with my parents, before heading out to France for a week for New Year.

Something tells me 2010 is going to be an important year where the French house is concerned. Not sure why, but am hoping things could alter somewhat in terms of the time I get to spend there. Would be great to be wealthy enough to 'decide' when I come and go.

Looking back briefly on 2009, it has to be said that some excellent progress has been made - New roof, guttering, pathway (still not finished), new cupboard, new study, new front door. Although the must have pool is still to be added, I hope to continue the progress into 2010 and already have an offer from an 'ex' to come and house-sit and project manage.

So a Merry Christmas to you all and roll on 2010.

57. Curry by a cauldron

2009-11-16T20:59:00.005Z

'Fire and brimstone, what's the hurry, lashings of rice and a ladle of curry'.

Rob invites Rachel, myself and a couple of other friends round for a curry in front of his newly created fire-pit in the garden.

It's still mild, so we all venture out and the impressive cauldron he has set up in the garden does more than a decent job at keeping us all warm - the curry's pretty hot and tasty too.

I realise that the cauldron, is just the sort of thing I perhaps ought to be looking out for at Brocantes, because it is the perfect shape to hold a contained fire in the garden.

The curry, the wine and the company are a lovely way to pass an autumn evening and Rob is the perfect host. I should confess to being a tad jealous as I raised the notion of having a fire-pit in my own garden during the summer and Rob said he was thinking the same, and has subsequently, though fairly beaten me to it.

How lucky he is to be here most of the time. I admire his ingenuity though am somewhat alarmed by the border he has created around the fire. Although I can see it is an attempt at safety, one wrong move and you could be hurtling head first into the damn thing. Still, I'm sure Rob will continue to make adjustments and improvements.

Now all I have to do to get MY gorgeous fire-pit made is create the right surrounding and look out for a suitable cauldron at the next broc that comes along. Though, with winter well on its way, that could take some time.

56. Grenier gold dust

2009-10-21T19:28:00.006+01:00

Rachel invites me to a vide grenier in a nearby village on a hot a sweltering Sunday afternoon. It's the perfect excuse to go wonder around aimlessly with friends looking at a load of old tat, so I jump at the chance.

We agree to meet at the cute little Bar du Commerce in her village before heading off. Joining us is Rob, another expat from London, who's already been to the sale and bought lots - too much I fear - of little things that he doesn't really need. Worse, he's going back again for more!

Eventually, we arrive at the sale, and it's quite impressive. There are loads of stalls and there ARE some very buyable items. But, while Rob buys up half the boot sale, I find myself saying 'no' to almost everything, insisting that I need to spend my money on getting the house done first - new roofs (already on now), driveway, gates, border walls, etc...even a kitchen for goodness sake.

However, when I spot this chic little metal salver (pictured above), I just have to have it. I think it's copper, but I can't be sure, and the pattern is fabulously intricate with a five-pointed star at its centre. Very Templar Knights, and a worthy addition to the house.

Rob, who simply asks the price of things and then pays, is impressed when I haggle a 40% reduction on the salver. I can't help it - 'buy low, sell high' is a mantra I know well after twelve years in 'the City'.

Compared to Rachel and Rob, I have hardly gone on a spree, but as well as knowing I should get the house fit first, one of my other mantras in life is - less is more. And I can tell you, the satisfaction of my single purchase is no less pleasurable for it.

55. Bonfire of the vanities

2009-10-09T23:43:00.008+01:00

What a week! Earth moving, landscaping, working every sinew in your body...crikey, I feel fit. I must have burned about 4,000 calories a day just shovelling soil and trying to get this land licked into shape.

I love the exercise, but I'd really rather be swimming, jogging, visiting galleries, driving fast in my hired car and looking at all the hot guys in France. Instead, I'm up to my neck in dust, dirt, flora and fire fumes.

The roofers today had a good old laugh when we sat down for beers at 5pm , when they looked at my face and said I looked so black, even my facial hair was tarred. Eventually, they left and I carried on tending this huge bonfire, created out of the huge 'Manitou magic' of yesterday.

I'm getting more and more tarred by the thick black suit of the burning waste as it smokes away, but I feel closer than ever to this rich fertile land.

Watching the fire eat its way through all the flora, on a perfect night with the moon in the background, I feel warm and happy and centred. A desk job in the City is nothing when compared to getting this kind of thing under your skin.

My muscles ache, though, and all I want is a hot guy to press away the pain in a hot bath, to kiss me anywhere and tell me this project is no vanity, that one day this place will be fab, the heavy work over and the real fun will begin.

I know it was right to buy this property.

54. Boy toys

2009-10-08T22:47:00.006+01:00

It's probably not the right thing for a 'metrogay' to admit, but I just love big machines that tear up the earth. So when Pascale - one of the hot French builders putting my new roof on - sees me struggling with a garden fork to re-shape my land, he offers to rip up the ugly 45 metre long border of the house with his big digger. It's all I can do to stop clapping my hands and shouting - 'Go for it hottie'.

It would have taken me probably around two weeks solid graft to deal with the years of neglect and growth that had become my village-facing border. Pascale and his great big 'Manitou' digger ripped it all out and wrapped into a bonfire heap within about two minutes.

The weather's fantastic, Pascale and Francois are topless laying the roof, and I'm topless laying around, or probably just looking to be laid, really! Seriously, though, there's just something about a guy in a big machine. I'm now trying to pluck up the courage to ask: 'Can I have a go on your Manitou?' They seem so accommodating, I'm sure they'll say yes.

We all enjoy a beer together at the end of each day, and as they leave I wonder if they've left the keys in the digger, so I go check out the 'cockpit'. Alas, the blighters have put security first. Shame. I was really looking forward to riding that Manitou!

53. Foodie friends

2009-10-07T21:54:00.009+01:00

It's one of those days: Hot, sunny, fab...but with not even a sniff of a hot man to waste my hours away, I head over to Rachel's for an aperitif.

Her little moggy, Mackensie - yes she has a dog now! - is running back n forth trying to be part 'o the gang' - I love him for it.

He's a wonderful little bundle of fun. Totally mischiveous and so demanding, we're all convinced he's a 'gay' dog. He's super cool, knows exactly how to behave in any given situation and always wants to be top of the table. He's really quite a cool little black terrier.

I plonk myself at Rachel's table while she fusses over whether she has a Veuve Clicqout in the fridge or not, and we chat. We chat, and chat and chat...then, when I take my leave, she asks whether I'd like a 'tarte du chevre et onion' or two that she made - Hello, I'm a guy - we never say no to good home-cooked food.

An hour later, I'm at home tucking into a gorgeous salad and two of Rachel's tarts! Dontcha just love friends who can cook?

I discover over the next few days that, for a Londoner in visit mode, it is actualy possible to just accrue such delicious 'degustations' all week if you're lucky. A couple of nights later, we're all entertained to a curry by a very impressive fire - all cooked by a lovely 'married' gay friend from London, who also happens to share our love of the Poitou Charentes.

And note, the dish in the background is my purchase from a cool vide grenier on Sunday - Some went mad buying almost everything they looked at, but I could only cope with the one. Though, I'm now making a list of things that I really NEED, for the next French equivalent of a car boot sale. Though I'm determined to stop short of hoarding.

52. A guy on a train

2009-09-28T18:48:00.004+01:00

It's a Sunday morning and I'm up at the crack of dawn to catch the outrageously early 10am Ryanair flight from Poitiers to Stansted. At £70, I thought the price quite cheap, but not ridiculously so.

The flights used to leave at 5.30pm on a Sunday which made the weekend jaunt from London much more worth it. The flight lands at Poitiers airport and half an hour later we are all told there's an engine problem so we aint going anywhere. That was it, no alternative plan offered, no apology - no way to get home!

I immediately spring to action - 200 other passengers are still deciding what to do, but I'm already in a cab hot footing it to Poitiers Gare for the next TGV to Paris. €99 later I'm in a first class seat heading for the French capital. I get the iPhone out and call Eurostar's frequent traveller number to arrange a one-way ticket - they only had first class - to London. £175 thank you.

Thing is, I prefer the train anyway. I love watching the countryside fly by, as I kick back and sleep, read or just daydream. But I'm upset at having got up so early for nothing.

So some £300 later (including the original ticket, taxis, etc) I arrive home 8 hours later than planned and knackered. So this is why I won't fly Ryanair again. My feeling is that 'budget' airlines are really a bit of a misnomer. So I'll be training it from now on - or BA'ing it to Bordeaux. As for Ryanair, good luck - perhaps one day you'll run out of passengers to treat like monkeys - though somehow I doubt it.

51. Remembering to stop

2009-09-03T10:53:00.005+01:00

It's been a long month. I couldn't get to the house at all for most of August. And it's been the best weather. I so envy those who have managed to arrange their lives so they can spend most of their time here.

But envy's a very unattractive emotion, so I've kept my mind on productive things, like planning the new kitchen and trying to make headway with the new bathrooms, all of which I can take small steps forward with on the very short weekend visits I get to make.

I love the light at this time of year. When the sun's still warm and it casts its lazy rays around the house, making everything appear to yawn in contentment. It's important for me - in all the rush - to remember to stop and just take things in for a moment; to savour the perfect bliss of just being.

Even in London - in the midst of the chaos of renovation work - I try to make sure I find islands of space and time to reflect and contemplate. Just as well, really, because right now everywhere in my life is a building site - the French house, the London home - even the office is building a new studio in our midst.

Of course, eventually, all the building work will be done and other happy pursuits will take up my time. I can't wait until it's all just about entertaining valued and interesting friends, maintaining the garden, going for bike rides, - and making lots of love with someone special, naturally!

50. Shifting gear

2009-08-02T18:32:00.007+01:00

I'm finally managing to shift-up a gear where renovations are concerned. The London house is in the midst of having another floor added - for a bedroom with en suite. And next month the French house will have a new roof - three new roofs actually.

Then there's the much needed downstairs bathroom renovation and, at long last, the kitchen. The target is to have all these projects completed by December. But there are myriad other little jobs to be done too.

I'm not sure whether to replace or repair the shutters on all the windows; do I re-tile the entire ground floor or just shine up the herring-bone terra-cotta ones already there? And of course building a fire surround and mantle-piece. They seem like easy enough jobs, but I've been here before, and it's never that straight forward.

But the point about all these activities, I guess, is that they are at least a distraction from the fact there's still no significant other in my life. It's officially two-years since my last relationship, and it's been on my mind lately. Well, it is summer after all, and how long can anyone really go without being kissed, cuddled, touched by another?

Rather than indulging in hot nights of passion with guys that pass in the night - very easy to do both in London and rural France, and I have enjoyed both - I'm hungry for meaningful kisses and hugs on a regular basis.

So, in the absence of any of that, I'm focusing on these tasks that need completing, as yet another summer slowly turns to autumn, then winter. Hopefully, somewhere along this road, the perfect guy will appear and help me shift up another gear from happy, but lonesome singleton...and if whoever that may be takes a little longer, at least I'll have two lovely houses to show off when he finally does show up.

49. Poison in France

2009-07-26T11:45:00.007+01:00

It's been a hell of a strange week. First, there was the oversleeping incident on the TGV coming out here; various social gatherings at which some expat friends weren't talking to others; 'barbies' that seemed to start all wrong; glasses being 'accidentally' smashed - I even even partially fell into my fosse, while cutting the grass!

The weather came out in sympathy, too, with some of the worst night-time thunder storms I can remember. Then, to cap it all off, on the last night, I awake in the early hours and spend about 20 minutes chucking-up the entire contents of my stomach. Projectile vomiting is no laughing matter.

Worse still, I have to travel back to London by train in a few hours time, so I have to force a recovery. One of my closest friends in the village, Maxie, comes to the rescue suggesting I eat some dry toast and mint tea. Dragging my aching torso to the kitchen, I follow Maxie's advice and it seems to help, though I suspect I won't be my normal self again for at least another 24 hours, which probably means missing out on my Eurostar meal and Champagne. Quelle horreur!

I haul my ailing carcass halfway across France on a TGV, in a weird kind of semi-high, unreal dream-state, shivering one minute, nauseous the next, neither here nor there in my head. I grab a taxi in Paris for the Gare du Nord, to avoid the crowds and any unnecessary movement.

Finally, a Eurostar brings me back into London - 'Home, Toto, there's no place place like home'. Still in my freaky numb-like state, head now aching, along with every bone in my body, I grab another taxi home and to my fab neighbour, who is waiting outside. She ushers me inside and allows me to collapse in a heap onto the sofa, while she calls a doctor.

I am diagnosed with gastroenteritis, a horrible, vile, painful and unrelenting form of food poisoning. He prescribes and gives me Electrolade (alas no Champagne) and suggests plenty of rest. As I descend into a long, deep, desperately needed sleep, I promise myself - never eat Pâté again!

48. Swing hammock, swing

2009-07-25T10:00:00.012+01:00

Two friends from London arrive the day after me for a mini-break at my rural French hideout. Like me they also choose the train route over a Ryanair flight - more expensive yes, but infinitely more civilised.

I'm never sure how to organise people's time when they come to visit. Do they want culture? Do they want tourism? Sports activities? Or do they just want to chill? One has to strike the right balance.

It is important that guests don't just feel there is no rhythm to their time with you. To be honest, these last visitors were happy to chill in a hammock and sit around enjoying the hot weather. Though it has made me conscious that next time visitors come to stay, I definitely want to structure their time more creatively.

There ARE things to see and do in this part of France, and getting into the culture of a place is a necessity to fully appreciating its value to the world. Although I can also see that chilling in a hammock under the shade of a tree, with a favourite read may also be of major importance to stressed-out city types grabbing a quick weekend away from the hustle and bustle of London.

47. Asleep on a train

2009-07-24T09:39:00.004+01:00

This has never happened to me before. It's a warm Friday afternoon and I'm on my way to France for nine glorious days. Unusually for me, I book a Eurostar to Lille, where I change to a TGV for the journey south to Poitiers.

I usually take the Eurostar to Paris and the TGV from Montparnasse, but it was not possible this time. The only drawback being that the Lille-Poitiers TGV trip is a whole two hours longer. After a lovely lunch on the Eurostar, I hang around Lille Europe station for the TGV.

Soon enough I'm being whisked south and the late afternoon sun shines into the carriage, before giving way to dusk.

In the quiet first class coach, I read, text friends and then eventually nestle into my corner seat, with an hour left to reach my destination. I decide to listen to the music on my iPhone and drift off into a deep sleep.

At exactly six minutes after 10pm I awake with a start, slightly disoriented and find to my horror that I have in fact missed my stop. This horror is compounded by the fact a friend is waiting there to pick me up. worse still, my iPhone is dead from having used the power to listen to music.

I spring into action - borrowing another passenger's iPhone charger. Make hasty calls to various local friends and eventually find a Samaritan who is still sober enough on a Friday night - this is France after all - to come rescue me from the chilly exterior of Angouleme station.

Despite being rescued, I can't contact the friend waiting in Poitiers and discover the next day he waited almost two hours to see if I was on a later train. It's a real wake-up call - pardon the pun - as I never usually fall asleep with such disastrous consequences when travelling.

Tristan, who collects me from Angouleme, is a true hero, as is Riley, who waited in vain at Poitiers. All I can say is thank goodness for friends like these. I eventually arrive at my house at about 1.30 in the morning, leaving me with virtually no time to prepare for mates arriving the next day at lunchtime - let's just hope they don't follow my example of falling into a seriously stupid slumber!

46. The Man In the Mirror

2009-07-09T18:05:00.008+01:00

It's been a weird few weeks. Don't even get me started on Michael Jackson's demise. Whilst not exactly a fan, I can't deny my youth and 20s were spent dancing to his amazing music. His sudden departure from our lives was a shock, but his music will live on for goodness knows how long. Amen to that.

His death affected me in a rather unexpected way. Rachel - you know, my Bridget Jones-like co-conspirator here in France - and I had a bit of a falling-out recently. We didn't talk for weeks. Won't go into the details, but MJ's passing suddenly made me realise that when you make friends with someone, no matter what happens along the way, we must all value the essence of those friendships, for they truly are what make us.

Don't cringe - but I do feel that making the effort to be happy with each other creates so much positive force in the world - it really does 'make this a better place.'

Love, and friendship is a fragile thing. I'm happy to be able to say that Bridget, sorry, Rachel and I, by calmly listening to each other, talking and eventually through laughter, are now firm friends again. I guess that's the real test of friendship - do we actually care enough about each other in this difficult world to say 'you know what, no-one is perfect, let's move on together to the happy place'. Holding grudges is not my style, and it shouldn't really be anyone's, because who among us knows when this great party we're all at will end?

And talking of parties - Rachel told me in our 'making up' call about a new novel that's just been published. Tout Sweet (cover pictured), written by a woman who lives somewhere nearby in our little corner of France, is apparently a great, hilarious, honest read. I'll be in Waterstones tomorrow demanding my copy for the Eurostar journey to France next week. I just hope it's not 'chic-lit' squeaky clean, because I can tell you rural France is anything but dull!

As for MJ, thanks for all your music. I'll be playing Billie Jean, Rock With You, Beat It, Thriller and Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough at my barbies in France - most likely with Rachel insisting we all line dance to it!

45. Here's the sunshine

2009-06-30T15:19:00.005+01:00

As the song goes, 'We're having a heatwave, a tropical heatwave', and I love it! The sun's energy really is a gift from the universe, and the way it transforms the landscape AND oneself is really great.

So I've been out on the bike at every opportunity, burning up and getting even fitter. Of course it also gives one the chance to really notice every detail of the land - one reason I nearly always have my little compact Nikon 8-mega-pixel camera in my pocket.

Some people find it a real chore, but the feeling of biking the breeze and getting a tan at the same time - as well as staying fit and lean - is the best pastime when in France, or anywhere else for that matter.

The secret is to enjoy it, embrace it and acknowledge how great it feels, and then follow it up with a gorgeous, healthy meal like a delicious Nicoise salad, some simply barbeque'd fish or healthy veggie marinated kebabs.

I never understand those people who endlessly complain about their 'bad skin' and 'heffer-hipped' arses, if they can't be bothered to get their pulse up to fat-burning level at least once a day.

I love the summer. and after all that running and cycling around burning energy, one is then free to enjoy the wonderful pleasures that six o'clock brings - Aperitifs with friends at cocktail hour, in one garden or another, the distant hum of Ella Fitzgerald, Said Mrad or Buddha Bar on the sound system, together with the sound of laughter and chatting in the garden and, of course, the sun still high and hot in the sky.

What could be better? Mr Right will love this, when he finally arrives.

44. Gravel graft

2009-06-22T18:35:00.004+01:00

As the world's top tennis professionals limber-up for another Wimbledon season, I watch with envy the pristine, perfectly manicured hallowed turf that make up the lawns of the world's most famous tennis club.

In my French garden the grass is a different, less tamed beast. It's not really a lawn at all actually, just a large clump of unwieldy meadow fodder and weeds which conspire to impersonate a garden lawn.

In an effort to make it look less feral, I decide that the plant border by the main catwalk of the garden path needs protecting - in the time between my last visit, the newly planted border has been invaded by all manner of weeds squatting in what should be a home for lavenders, sea grasses, yukkas and other carefully chosen greenery.

Under a baking June sun I line both sides of the ten-metre long pathway with black plastic, then proceed to cover it with unwanted gravel from the old drive and larger feature stones for decoration.

It's back-breaking work and the clock is against me. However, I do manage to finish about 80 percent of the task before time forces me to clean up and head for my TGV and Eurostar back to London.

Sitting in the quiet first class carriage of the TGV, I look longingly at the photos of my efforts on the digital camera, wishing as usual that I could've stayed longer. My bones ache and my fingers are raw from all the graft, but there is an achy satisfaction as I drift off into a high speed nap aboard Paris-bound TGV. While I dream of having the perfect lawn, fellow Scot, Andy Murray, is surely dreaming of ripping up Wimbledon's perfectly-hewn Centre Court grass to become the first British champion to win the coveted Men's Singles title since Fred Perry. Go Murray!

43. Lezzie fleurs

2009-06-20T23:41:00.011+01:00

I don't know many lesbians. Yet here in this little corner of France I am privileged to know not one, but a couple, not more than four kilometres from my front door.

Sienna and Jane are a sprightly couple who, romantically, worked their entire lives as signal-women on the railways in Britain, spending most of their latter years in Scotland, the country of my birth.

Except for a recent - and thankfully brief - separation (I guess everyone has the right to a mid-life crisis), they have been partners for around 36 years - that's gotta be about 150 years in straight terms methinks. An achievement I both respect and envy. It is truly an honour to count them both as friends.

Although they both get equal share of my affections, Sienna gets my heart, not because she is tall and graceful, open, kind and beautiful, but also because I have known her pain. Though more importantly, she's also a bloody great breeder of flowers.

So, after spending a lovely evening with them AND naked gay neighbour Riley and his esteemed partner Colin, in my garden with aperitifs, I drop by 'les girls' the next day, hoping to pinch a few cuttings. Sienna not only invites me to wander around her gorgeous garden collating a suitable little bunch for my vase de salon, she also throws in a number of plants for my garden.

I love this kindness and wonder how much they realise what it means to have people like them as neighbours. I hope they will never leave this little corner of England in France. They are quality people.

As for the flowers she gave me for the vase, they're fab. The sunlight, as it moves around the house, makes them look wistful, then potent, then strong, then momentary. And each time I pass the vase, I smile at their beauty, and long for the day when a significant other of my own will appreciate the simple pleasure that this neighbourly gift is.

In the meantime, I hope the girls like the picture at the top, because it is how the fleurs look in my house - a brief moment of beauty, kindly given, fondly thought of and warming to the heart.

42. A bowl of cherries

2009-06-11T18:51:00.007+01:00

Dontcha just love summer? The days are long and warm, people are smiling more and simple pleasures make you realise just how great it is that we're all here together.

I make a mercy dash over to France for another oh-so-short weekend. I came over to see how the steps to the path were coming on. Unfortunately the builder miscalculated a little and instead of a proud symmetrical stairway, they are out of kilter - but he sees the issue for what it is and happily agrees to redo the work to make them look as uniform as possible.

I decide to trim one of the hedges and cut the grass again - well, it just grows madly in the summer months. While pushing the lawnmower around I notice for the first time in 7 years, that my cherry tree is bursting with fruit. I grab a bowl and start picking-off the low-hanging fruit, tasting every so often the juicy, sweet delicious crop provided freely by mother nature. How cool is that?

I then discover also that the apple tree I planted five years ago has a few round green orbs hanging. I love it. I just want to stay, but of course, there's a flight to catch at an ugly hour on Sunday morning, to whisk me back to London, so I collect a load of cherries to savour in the afternoon and save a bag-full for my neighbour in London.

In the early evening naked neighbour Riley pops round for aperitif and we sit - fully clothed - at a table in the living-room by the west-facing window, basking in the warmth of the evening sun.

Our discussions centre on the many jobs still to be done in our respective houses. His partner will arrive any day now to help with the work, so he's hoping for good progress. I'm happy for them that they have each other and look forward to sharing all that I have with a partner of my own - Of course the house will probably be finished by the time HE turns up. But even in my currently single mode I can't help thinking how lucky I am and that life really is a bowl of cherries if you look at it the right way.

41. A room with a view

2009-06-03T20:17:00.006+01:00

The sun is hot in the sky, the wind has gone on holiday, bees buzz elegantly from scented flower to scented flower, a snail lazily makes its way across the path to an unsuspecting lettuce pot and all is quiet and calm.

But before you cue the romantic Puccini music from the title of this blog, I should tell you this is a description of my garden in central London - NOT France.

Bummer! Don't get me wrong, I love London when it's like this. But I keep having dreams that I'm waking up and looking out at that fantastic view of the village from my house in France (Pictured). It's frustrating really.

After two years, I'm still working in 'The City', loving the job and all that comes with it, but I long to spend more time in France, finishing the house, building up the garden, watching French snails make their slow and easy quest to mass lettuce destruction.

Where is the rampant property growth of years ago? When will the economic boom start again? And what's wrong with my bloody lottery numbers?

In my well appointed London garden there are Delphiniums in bloom, Kniphofias on the verge and Lavender exploding. There are also radishes, potatoes, courgettes, lettuce and strawberries coming on apace. Yes we city-dwellers are finally catching-on and more of us than ever before who can are growing at home! And the small 35 feet by 15 feet garden this all takes place in, can be easily viewed from my bedroom window in central London.

If only it were France.

40. Spaced out

2009-05-19T14:51:00.011+01:00

Where did it all come from? I'm trying to find a copy of the original 'devis' (estimate) from the roofer. Wading through all the 'stuff', it suddenly dawns on me that this French retreat is slowly turning into a large 3-bedroom store-room for all the things I can't fit into my London home.

Somehow, I seem to have accrued copious amounts of paper and a room full of assorted and random 'things' that have no real apparent use or function: Satellite dish clamps (un-opened as already have some in use), sprinkler attachment for hose (never gets used), one folded up blow-up pool - yep - used once!

Time for a clean-out. It IS spring after all. The only trouble is, when I start sorting the stuff into two piles - Keep and Throw. The Keep pile seems to be getting bigger, so I adopt a tough stance and make some instant rules about only keeping items that absolutely must stay.

Then I realise there's a lot of stuff in the Throw pile that, while of no use to me, may actually be an essential must have for someone else.

A third pile emerges - Sell - and I make a note to definitely sign up for the next local car boot sale. Yes, great idea. In these credit-crunch days, why not try to make a euro or two from the excess bric-a-brac of one's life as well as freeing up lots of space.

After a couple of hours I'm certain it's been a worthy exercise. I then return both piles two and three in the recently built store-room next to the study. Only then do I remember that this is where it was all hidden away in the first place. And in fact pile one is really no bigger at all. What a waste of a few good hours! But at least I did track down the devis, hurrah!

Exhausted and frustrated I drag myself away, to the spacious calm of my bedroom where I soak in the relative minimalism that has somehow managed to be maintained in THAT space. Ironically, the bedroom is the one space where I wouldn't mind being a little squeezed from time to time.

39. Swept away

2009-05-12T14:52:00.006+01:00

I only discovered the other day that if one owns a real fire in a French home it must be cleaned every year, by a registered ramoneur (chimney sweep), in order that the household insurance remains valid.

From London I telephone and book a ramoneur from a nearby village to come round and work his magic on my rather aged free-standing log-burner.

My partial understanding of French allows me to gleam that he is unable to come on days when I am next at the house - weekends basically. So I arrange a date anyway and then ask my 'naked neighbour' Riley if he would mind being there in order to receive the 'sweep'.

Happily, Riley agrees to the task and even offers to be fully clothed. Bless.

Days later, when I arrive for a very short weekend visit, Riley invites me to join him and his daughter for supper. He explains during the meal that the sweep turned up not only on time, but early - and did a very efficient job of cleaning the chimney, too.

"He was very particular and careful," Riley explains. "In fact he was almost bordering on obsessive about making sure the job was done not only right, but to perfection." Now, that I do like to hear.

Then comes the soot-laden bombshell. Riley casually adds that the man who came to clean my dirty pipes was also rather hot. Young, fit, tanned and good-looking, according to my neighbour.

Bummer, I reply, making a mental note to ALWAYS be present in future, when artisans are booked to carry out important jobs on my home. Now, what else do I urgently need to have done?

38. Making friends

2009-05-06T21:06:00.016+01:00

A couple of years ago a single, middle-aged female friend in a nearby village asked a married neighbour to hang some plant baskets outside her bedroom window.

The guy duly carried out the task, but not without some apprehension - somehow misreading the lovely lady's request as a come-on, and, while drilling the screws for the basket fittings, commented that 'people' might start gossiping about why he was leaning out of her bedroom window that day. "As if!' the female friend said to me at the time, "I don't even fancy him".

Now, I have recently had a similar kind of experience, although, of course, being gay, we have to make so much more complicated. I was recently introduced to a gay guy of a similar age, who lives not too far, from me and who also spends his life between our little corner of France and London.

"Wow, we will probably have a lot in common", I thought - great times ahead swapping tips on how the hell we transform our properties into luxurious getaways. The only difference being he is 'civil partnered' to his boyfriend, while I am currently, gorgeously single.

Now, being the sort of person I am - i.e. with a strong moral conscience - I never waste my time with partnered people. And there's also the fact that he isn't really my type. However, I had hoped we might build some kind of friendship around our mutual experience of the region.

To be fair, he invited me to his place first, for what was a rather tasty supper, over six months ago. Yet every time I have tried to return the favour, there has been some calamitous confusion over why it is not possible. Now, this could simply be the chaotic and accident prone nature of this person - as a number of people have commented to me. However, it has placed me in the slightly uncomfortable position of having to consider that he may wrongly have assumed that - like the lady in the village - there is some ulterior motive in play.

How does one express to someone that, while you're just not that into them physically, you do feel that all the other things you may have in common would make for a half decent friendship?

37. The long road home

2009-04-28T17:41:00.009+01:00

It's a warm and sunny Sunday in April and once again I'm speeding my way to Bordeaux airport for BA 7988 to Gatwick. I nipped over on the Friday afternoon to see the finished pathway and pay the builder.

It's about an hour and 45 minutes from Bordeaux to my place, so the drive gives one lots of time to think and reflect. On the Friday, I am looking forward to seeing the work progress on the house; the sun is shining and the warm air makes me feel happy and hopeful about life.

On the Sunday, though, I just feel a little weary and tired of being alone again. In the car driving all the way to the airport at Merignac, my thoughts drift towards the question of a suitable partner. I tend to feel that love will turn up unexpectedly and sweep me off to a life of kisses and cuddles - two things I miss so much right now. Of course it would also be much more fun doing all the work on the house - pool 'n' all - with the help of a loved one.

As I pull into the Avis car hire return at the airport I sigh and tell myself to just get on with it. To cheer myself up a bit, I upgrade to a Club Europe ticket. After all, if one MUST travel the long road home alone, it might as well be in style.

36. View from the top

2009-04-17T22:02:00.007+01:00

Rural France is famous for its abundance of warm-looking and aesthetic terra-cotta rouge rooftiles. In any weather one remembers that one is after all abroad at the site of these lovely coloured coverings.

Of course in cold and wet weather a secure and sturdy roof is essential to both the well-being of a country home and its occupants. I don't know for how many decades the beautiful, slimly curved tiles that adorn my house have stoically done their best to keep my maison dry. Now, alas they seem to be arriving at their final season in the sun.

Monsieur Jerraeu, the local roofer gave me a devis (quote) last year for a reasonable sum, to replace all three pitched roof sections of the house with a new modern terra-cotta tile. Unfortunately, I have waited until now to attempt proceeding. Unfortunate because that damned euro strength or pound weakness has meant the quote is now considerably more expensive.

Always conscious that a good hat prevents many ailments I have decided to bite the bullet and have the job done and I am preparing to call Msr J with the happy news.

Sustainability, though, is close to my heart and I want to ensure any tiles still in good nick are saved for possible re-use, perhaps on the garage I plan to build, or maybe even the pool bar - well one has to dream.

So here goes - piles more money going into this little dream. Though I'm sure it will be worth every penny.

35. Choosing the right path

2009-04-16T17:25:00.014+01:00

Decisions, decisions. Life's full of them. I guess the important thing is to think carefully, choose wisely and make sure whatever route we choose, it's something we can live with.

So it is with this mindset that I set about carving-up my meadow of a garden into something to meander around in; a pathway to ponder in, I call it, and something which may help me to figure out other choices in the future.

I sketch out a rough drawing for the builder; choose my inspiration - the pathways of the One&Only Royal Mirage in Dubai if you need to know - and set about breaking ground.

It's over two hundred and twenty feet long and we spend a week digging and concreting and tiling under a gorgeous April sun until the weather gets the better of us. As the dug outs, then the tiled skeletons, become filled with concrete, the pathway slowly reveals itself.

I start lining the first finished section with carefully chosen plants and other flora, designed to make the journey more pleasant of course. There are many people I plan to walk around that particular path with, but it's that special one, I've yet to meet, that I most look forward to strolling along, hand-in-hand with.

Unfortunately, I have to return to London before the job is finished. But as I peruse the garden walkways one last time for this visit, I'm confident I have chosen the right path after all. Can't wait to see it - and tread it - when it's all complete.

34. Sins of the past

2009-03-26T21:25:00.008Z

It's odd how the simplest task can turn into the greatest labour! It seemed so straight forward at the outset: Take door off hinges, remove fittings, strip off horrible hessian, sand, paint and remount - simple.

When I remove the hessian it reveals an old sin. A large hole that looks like a fist has gone through it at some point in the distant past. It's a sunny, calm afternoon and the door is lying on the garden table. I wonder what futile row or argument led to all the energy of a fist or foot finding its way onto this door.

It strikes me how futile violence is. I wonder, too, if the perpetrator of this action got his or her way in the end and whether it even resolved the row for the better, in some other life, some other time, now long forgotten and past.

So I buy some wood board and new borders, and, with the help of my friendly builder, cover up the old sin on this otherwise useful, but sorry-looking, door. It's the painting that's the killer. French paint is notoriously rubbish. After four days and as many coats of satine it still doesn't look properly done, but time is against me, so it will have to do for now. The most rewarding part was taking off all the old yellowy-brown fittings, washing them in Cillit Bang and Brillo pads - they come up beautifully new in all their originally silvery-steel splendour - just like new.

A quick job, I thought at the outset. Four days later I mount the gleaming new door, with all its shiny new fittings replaced, only to find it won't close properly on account of all the layers of new paint. But I hang it anyway. Next time I'll have to sand it down 'til it fits snuggly into its newly painted frame.

Dontcha just love doing-up old houses?

33. March knights

2009-03-24T18:57:00.004Z

It's a warm evening in March, with just a twist of cool in the air. The TGV glides gracefully into Poitiers Gare and Noreen and Michael are there to meet me. Neighbours in my village, they are a lovely, young-minded couple, who always offer a warm and smiley welcome.

They have to pick me up because, being Poitiers, it's rather difficult to get the local car hire places to agree to 'out of hours' handovers. I have asked them to leave the keys at the Modern Hotel, by the station, but they now charge 70 euros for the privilege. So I'm forced to avail of my neighbours until the next day, when I head to get the car.

It may be March, but the weather's amazing and I spend the next few days wearing just shorts in the garden. After the long winter there's bramble to cut back and hedges to trim. I love it. Anyone who wishes to lose weight and get trim - my advice is get a large garden. You will save thousands in gym fees, eventually have a beautiful garden and develop a body as lean as you could wish for.

When evening comes, the air is a little chilly. But thanks to my penchant for collecting airline blankets, it is still possible to put my feet up and watch the stars and the moon, dreaming of a handsome knight to join me.

32. A different world...

2009-03-07T23:15:00.009Z

Hello again...Well it's been a while hasn't it? And SO MUCH has happened.

Global turmoil borne out of the 'great idea' to securitise debt brings me back to this blog in the midst of the worst financial crisis the world has seen in God knows how many generations. All I can say is thank God for Kylie Minogue!

Seriously, though, a lot has happened; some other quite major developments too. Remember my 'fag hag' friend and fellow writer Rachel? Well, she's in the midst of a major 'amour' with an apparently 'hot' Portuguese builder; she's so happy - though he's of the treat 'em mean keep 'em keen variety where communication's concerned.

As for me, well, there have been a few developments, but nothing worth reporting here. Really it's okay! So here we are in a world where a euro is almost worth a pound - why, oh why didn't I sell -up in the U.K. and move here while things were good. Actually, there are some excellent reasons why I shouldn't have - i.e. still have a job, which I guess IS lucky these days. And, although the exchange rate is a killer, it does seem to have risen a bit lately....come on Jean-Claude Trichet...help us get back to at least 1.40 to the pound.

So far this year I've been out to the French house twice. I'm off there again soon for a week's break - last year I managed 13 visits, which were all pure indulgence and little in the way of 'renovational' progress. That's why, this year I am aiming for the completion of major works. Achievements so far: I am now connected to the mains waste system, have transformed a doorway into a window and have changed the study from an ugly L-shaped room into a rectangle, with a store-room now created for hiding away all those things that ought not be seen.

So, tough times, but time to get the head down and be as productive and progressive as possible!

PS Nice to be back!

31. Au revoir - for now

2007-12-19T22:51:00.000Z

Alas, this has to be my last entry. I have taken a fab job in London (yes, the City appears to have won me, for now).

Unfortunately, one of the policies in my new company is that it is strictly forbidden for me to continue my blog. This is the case even though nothing I write about here has anything to do with the job.

So, for now I should say au revoir to all my loyal readers. I hope you enjoyed visiting me from time to time and reading of my adventures, feelings, thoughts and experiences. I have greatly enjoyed writing for you.

The French house remains. I will visit often and, maybe one day, I will be able to share with you once again my adventures.

Good luck, be kind and stay safe.

Mx

30. Eurostar's final Waterloo

2007-11-14T00:36:00.000Z

At 13 minutes past six in the evening the last ever Eurostar bound for Waterloo slipped calmly out of Gare du Nord in Paris before the switchover to its new London home, St Pancras International.

I love this train service. It is the ONLY way to get to France from the UK and anyone who has never done it is missing out on one of the great joint accomplishments of the French and British.

As usual I'm in business class (Leisure Select if you must). I do this mainly because they give me a meal and a lovely 'coup' or two of Champagne, which means I don't have to think about eating when I get home.

Once we are under way I think about the personal significance of this being the 'last train to Waterloo'. I was lucky enough to be one of the journalists at the inauguration of the Channel Tunnel in May 1994. The Queen, of course, was there, and Chirac. John Major was the PM at the time, although Maggie Thatcher was also there.

It was billed as a great new gateway to the continent, and I think it is a great success. It has preserved the romance of travel when all around are stripping it out - yes budget airlines, you know who you are. You pale by this railway beauty.

As we glide effortlessly through the dark and wet French countryside, I think of all the trips I've made on this service: sometimes with friends, sometimes with family, always with pleasure. I'm going to miss Waterloo, not just because I only live one tube stop or short taxi ride away. I'll really miss it because it marks the passing of time, the changing of things, the inexorable march towards the future.

Eurostar promises to cut about 20 minutes to half an hour off the journey time by moving to the new station and via the HighSpeed1 (HS1) fast line. But for me, and many others who live south-side in London and its home counties, that time will now be spent schlepping all the way up to Kings Cross on the Northern Line, so no gain at all.

Into the 'Chunnel' and I wonder what will become of Waterloo? Its 'International' days have ended tonight. No more will people arrive into and depart from the very heart of London, practically on the banks of the Thames, in sight of the London Eye and the Houses of Parliament. No, instead it will be to the magnificant St Pancras International, in north London; away from the 'very centre'; next to a rather dilapidated Kings Cross.

Rolling through Kent now and I wonder why they couldn't have kept Waterloo open, perhaps for leisure travellers; those not interested in saving a mere half an hour; for whom time is not the god of all things; those who like to see their train arrive into the centre of the city, past the river, the government and all the people in the centre going about their city life. That would have been a nice idea!

We drift gracefully into Waterloo International to waiting photographers, film cameras and reporters. As we exit this station for the last time, I notice the doors are all closed, the signs vacant, the gates hushed, the bustle over.

Goodbye Waterloo, thanks for everything. We'll all miss you so very much.

29. Murder most horrid

2007-11-12T11:39:00.000Z

This trip to France has been one of my longest. At three weeks I've shamefully done very little in the way of renovation or DIY, preferring instead to hang out with some of the local tottie. Surprising how much of it there is, too. Well, it is France after all, the home of l'amour!

In between 'les rencontres' I've spent a lot of time in the garden cleaning up leaves, having bonfires and chopping back trees. The days have been bright and sunny, but a cloud formed the other day when I committed my first act of murder.

Brace yourselves - I'd just come in from the garden and caught the awful sight of a rat scurrying along the back wall of the kitchen. I froze, felt sick and determined at the same time. Grabbing a lump of wood that was handy I chased it into a corner where the little creature disappeared into a small hole in the wall.

Now, I can't stand vermin and my immediate reaction was to burn the entire house down and build a new vacuum sealed one in its place. However, I settled for some rat poison instead. Next morning I saw the little bugger again. I grabbed the lump of wood and my nerves, fear and adrenalin conspired to battle it out to the death. In short I smashed the life out of it and batted it out of the door. It was a bloodbath.

I felt awful for days after until neighbours said it was probably the best thing to do. They also warned I should be careful next time because they often go for your throat when cornered. 'Next time?' I thought to myself.

Sure enough a second little furry rat was to be seen in its dying moments two days later, having gorged itself on the poison. Eeewww! Disgusting. Of course this is the countryside, mother nature is often violent and uncompromising. On this occasion the homosexual homo sapien won the day. This house is clean! Now, where's that Abba album...

28. Casting spells

2007-11-01T11:49:00.000Z

After too long in London, I find myself back in the French space just in time for Halloween. Rachel invites me to a soiree in one of the villages and the evening is surprisingly fun.

We don't realise it's fancy dress, although not everyone turns up as a ghastly ghoul anyway, so we don't look too out of place. There are, however, a number of very convincing witches and children with very realistic ghoul-like get ups. At least I hope they were costumes!

Of course, as usual there were the line-dancers - not ghoulish in any way, but this kind of thing usually has me scared out of my wits. On this occasion, the entire room is coaxed onto the dance floor for a brief lesson in this strange cummunal wriggle.

I gracefully decline the offer to join the '16 line-dancers of the apocalypse', but when one member of the troop drags my chair, along with me in it, onto the dance floor, I surrender to the cause. Even Rachel tries in vain to recruit me, but there's no way I intend to join this particular coven. Though I respect and applaud those who do. Really, I do.

As the evening rolls on, dinner is served, more wine is consumed and, thankfully, we are entertained with some lively traditional French music, before the night closes with that odd mix of 'classics' usually reserved for a wedding.

I leave as the witching hour approaches, and reflect that, as Halloween's go, it was actually a really good evening. Later, I dream of zombies line-dancing their way up the garden path to the sound of Michael Jackson's Thriller - Now that's what I call scary.

27. Woods for trees

2007-10-19T10:31:00.000+01:00

As usual, I'm missing all the fun. While I've been stuck here in London, everyone back in France has been getting their acts together - ploughing on with renovations, prepping gardens for winter and stocking up on logs - very important in the country, enjoying long autumnal walks through forests and taking the last bike rides of the year.

I should have arrived in France three weeks ago, but events have conspired to keep me in London. My tip for the day is - never buy a Whirlpool dishwasher. It's been a nightmare - no, worse. The old one, just six years into its cleaning life, broke down and since then it's been hell trying to get it repaired. They sent out an 'engineer', but all he did was stare at it then say: 'Mmmm, needs a new timer.' That cost me £60 and I was stunned that he was so talented all he had to do was look at the machine to know what was wrong.

Then they said they couldn't get the new part until December. Eh? What? It's 2007 for goodness sake. They said the part had to come from Italy, but I still couldn't see why it would take two months. 'Italy, Europe?' I asked: 'That's next door to France, I can pop over myself and get it in less time.' But the Essex-voiced lady just thought I was being facetious. As if asking a customer to wait two months for a machine part, somehow, wasn't.

In the end I caved-in and agreed to buy an entirely new machine. Very clever Whirlpool, I wonder how often they pull this one. They have now gone to the bottom of my list of companies that care about the environment.

So, this is how it is to be, apparently. I had hoped for romance and adventure in owning a French home and instead I'm left moaning about dishwasher suppliers in London and not getting out there at all. I feel like billing Whirlpool for keeping me here against my will, but I don't think it'll wash - a bit like their machines really.

There is some light at the end of the rinse cycle though. They say it will definitely be delivered within the next three days, which means I should hopefully be on my way to the French house soon. God only knows what state I'm going to find that place in, though.

26. London life

2007-10-08T10:33:00.000+01:00

I've been back in London for a few weeks and am now missing the French place a lot. London, though, is fun this time of year. It's still possible to lunch outside and, when the sun shines, all the city folk look beautiful.

The sheer buzz of the city is also great and there's so much to notice - sunsets over Waterloo Bridge, all the new buildings going up. It keeps you fit too. As Rachel recently commented: "It's easy to forget how much one walks in London - talk about burning calories."

Being back in London reminds me why the UK is such a great place to live, after all. Despite our many failings it remains, nonetheless, one of the most sought after places in the world to live. It's probably a freedom of the mind thing, which isn't doesn't come easily in many other places.

I enjoy a Sunday lunch at a little gastro pub in Kennington with my new London flatmate. He's just moved in and we're both slightly distracted by all the lovely talent drifting by, as we tuck into a lovely Sunday roast outside in the warm and hazy October sunshine.

Everyone's got that lazy Sunday chilled-out thing going on. After a few weeks working in the City - a freelance gig - I think I'm looking forward to getting back to the French house for some real relaxation. But, to be honest, all this chilling out in London has me thinking 'the Capital' is not really all that much different. I guess it's that state of mind thing.

25. Le petit weekend

2007-09-24T20:41:00.001+01:00

I've been working back in London on a freelance gig recently, so I'm having to commute to the French house at weekends. I'm only doing three days so Friday to Monday I get to commute courtesy of Eurostar, my favourite mode of escape from London.

There's nothing like it for calm and easy travelling. Rachel kindly picks me up at Poitiers and I spend the next two days chilling in the warm September sunshine.

After a brief aperitif with some friends in the village, Rachel and I try out a swish new restaurant in another nearby village. The owners have put a lot of effort into the interior, which wouldn't look out of place in Chelsea or some other smart London location. The food is equally delicious. Everything is fresh, crisp, just out of the garden or the sea.

Unfortunately, the service is a bit on the slow side. We discover later this is due to two staff leaving earlier that week. The chef joins us in the dining room at the end of the meal. Those of us still there are treated to a drink, courtesy of the chef - a nice touch.

We praise him and his front of house wife for their excellent food. We also suggest the room is too brightly lit with garish overhead lighting, and could have looked more welcoming had they lit the beautiful small lamps around the room, and perhaps placed some candles on the tables for intimacy. Chef takes our suggestions warmly.

Two weeks later, Rachel passes by the restaurant only to find the interior in almost complete darkness. Oops. We pray that it was their night off and not a sign that our 'suggestions' have been taken either too far, or worse, had an unthinkable outcome!

24. Queer as folk

2007-09-08T10:33:00.000+01:00

Wasn't it Shakespeare who said there's nowt as queer as folk? He wasn't wrong. I get a message online from a guy who lives some way north of here inviting me to meet up with him and have a beer or two.

It's gorgeously hot and I feel like company, so off I go hoping to meet a new acquaintance. When I eventually arrive - one-and-a-half-hours later - we sit and chat about nothing in particular in his well appointed, but still unfinished garden.

He complains that it's so hot he has to remove all his clothes - another one, I think to myself. What is it with France and British nudists? He asks if I have a partner - No. Then, out of the blue, he suggests perhaps I'd like to urinate on him. The mouthful of beer I was swallowing sprays, projectile fashion, from my mouth. I mumble something about the time and a window I've left open at home. Then make a hasty exit.

On the drive back I remember a programme I once saw where some American singer always drank her own urine: Apparently for the minerals. But I can't think why anyone would to drink someone elses.

I wonder if Rachel has this problem with men: 'Hi darling, could you just pee on me?' Mmm, I think not.

Once home, I head out for a rather long and satisfying bike ride, wondering to myself what else is going on here behind the well-tended jardins and thick walls of country houses.

23. It's 'Yurt' life

2007-08-19T00:26:00.000+01:00

You come across a lot of unusual things in the country: Naked Scotsmen; Nocturnal walks; Holy foreskin and so on. So it was no surprise to meet a lovely British couple the other night, who have gone into the business of selling Mongolian property to the French.

To describe the Yurt as a large tent is to do it no justice at all; it is so much more. Invented by the Mongols thousands of years ago, the Yurt is a portable, felt-covered, wood lattice-framed dwelling structure which comes in a variety of sizes and has become increasingly popular among the well-heeled over the last few years.

I make a trip to the couple's house, a few miles from my place to inspect one myself. I'm really impressed. Although it's a sunny day, it's quite windy, but inside the Yurt they have set-up in their garden, it's as calm and quiet as a summer's day.

They've got a website (http://www.esprit-yourte.fr/) and tell me they've just sold two yurts to some French customers before I arrive. Interest seems to be quite high as well, with local musicians keen on using them to perform in. I wish them well in their venture and I'm sure it'll be a huge success. As I cycle home I wonder what kind of business I could set up out here.

22. A dangerous ramble

2007-08-13T16:14:00.000+01:00

Once a year our sleepy little village organises a night-time ramble, or randonnée nocturne, to give it its French name. It's an occasion to experience the country footpaths and lesser known parts at dusk.

Of course, its also a great opportunity for the French and the ex-pat Brits, Dutch, German et al, to mix a little and get to know each other more.

There's a good turn-out, about 100 people, including various children. One of the organisers proudly announces before we all set off that people have come as a far away as Gencay (14kms) and Poitiers (44kms) to join tonight's ramble, which makes me laugh, given I hail from Scotland originally and there a lots of other Brits on the walk.

It takes about two hours, with one pit-stop along the route where the Mairie and some women from the village have set- up a little refreshment stall with juice, water and cakes.

Somewhere on the final stretch, a number of us become detached from the groups ahead and behind. We stray from the route only to find ourselves on a dangerous main road. As one of the few people to bring a torch, I light our path and try to warn fast approaching cars that there's a bunch of looney folk wandering along this road in near darkness.

Someone in our lost group has a child in a pram, there's an elderly man who is clearly becoming fatigued and we're all a bit confused as to how we got lost.

Finally we make it back to the safety of the village. They serve us a meal, which is great if you like soggy-breaded onion soup, and the main course of slices of ham and crisps isn't one I can say I've been introduced to previously. But the wine was definitely welcome and all for just five euros.

Not sure I'll be taking up rambling as a 'sport', but certainly was a pleasant way to spend a summer's evening.

21. Lazy faire

2007-08-09T11:29:00.000+01:00

Finally it feels like summer. Having just got back from London, I mow the lawn and air the house. I think about just chilling in the sun with Harry Potter, but there's work to be done.

I realise that it's August, which basically means no-one in France is working. It's the big holiday, so it's up to me if I want to achieve anything here. I pour myself an Ice Tea and think about that.

Since everyone else is on holiday, I decide it's not worth bothering and opt to work on the tan instead - got to get rid of those white lines somehow.

The weekend takes me to Angouleme for supper with friends. It's a lovely place with stunning views from the centre of the town, which is situated on a mount.

Back at the house, I draw up yet more ambitious plans for the renovation. Tennis court here, pool there, garage, kitchen garden, new driveway. It all sounds fab, but seems like it will never happen.

I just wish there was someone to share it with and, more importantly, help to get it transformed. I pour another Ice Tea and think about that as well.

20. Naked truths

2007-07-31T10:02:00.000+01:00

It's been a bit of a funny summer so far. Old naked guy in the village hasn't been able to do much nudity this year, bless. And Rachel's French bloke has apparently asked to marry her - having found out it only costs about €100 - bargain!

August is upon us which means the whole of France is getting ready for the 'Grandes Vacances'. I'm hoping this month will finally bring the hot summer weather we've all been waiting for. Frankly there's just been far too much rain all over.

The sheer size of the task facing old naked guy in the renovation of his house makes me want to go down there and help him. I think he craves privacy, and would love to be wandering around his large rear garden in the buff all year round, if only he could get things finished, planted and growing.

I've been getting into the 'nude' thing a little bit myself. I've officially started nude sunbathing, mainly because I noticed I have a tanned torso and a rather white arse, which looks very odd indeed. It's quite liberating actually, though not quite into group hangouts just yet.

Although I have enough DIY projects on my own place to be getting on with, they are so slow-moving it looks like they're in regression. In fact, some people have just bought the barn at the edge of the village and seem to be making more progress than any of us - show-offs. As usual, it brings me right back to the old question of either selling-up here or selling-up in London. Or perhaps even both!

19. Stripping the gardener

2007-07-30T10:50:00.001+01:00

I've just sacked the gardener. It was coming. Every month he takes my money, and every time I turn up, the garden looks sadder, more overgrown and totally uncared for. He even manages to destroy a previously beautifully-tended line of Laurel. Utterly useless.

It's one of the perils of engaging the English for jobs like this - they tend to be rubbish and just want the money. Doug hails from Bristol I think. Although he's assured me otherwise, I suspect he's an unregistered 'labourer', which means he's working on the fly - 'cash only please' - and not paying any tax to the French - or the British for that matter. And he's never given me any receipts, despite my asking.

He somehow manages to make the simple task of cutting the lawn and tidying up into a major complication. Time after time, I tell him he only needs to make sure it always looks in shape. Time after time, I arrive to find a neglected, badly abused state. If my garden was a child, he'd be doing time. He's mowed down a grapevine; decided to allow half the garden to go wild because he 'thought it looked nice'; and totally destroyed a carefully contructed wall of Laurel (probably on purpose). He's supposed to remove the grass cuttings each time, but I find them chucked carelessly in the undergrowth by the border trees.

I see a different side to this annoying little man after a neighbour confides that he's been moaning to him about doing my garden. I feel stupid about all the times I've given him beers and extra cash for the work - When I have no change I always round it up and say 'just a bit extra mate, thanks for doing it'. Stupid me!

Though I don't like getting rid of people - two-faced, useless, gormless Brits, who whinge at every turn and don't deal straight, are to be avoided at all costs.

18. Secret places

2007-07-23T23:07:00.000+01:00

Dontcha just love secret hideaways? I do. So, when one of my old mates from the UK invites me to his restaurant in a picture postcard village, I gladly accept.

At this point I'm ignorant of the fact that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are staying just five minutes up the road. But then again, why shouldn't they be. This place is stunning, tranquil, off the beaten track.

It's an easy place to miss. Most people would simply drive past the little seven kilometre access road that takes you to this hidden beauty. It's the sort of place you dream of finding: A French Brigadoon, except this village is for real.

Somewhere south of Angouleme, and a little further, but before one enters the Dordogne, the easily missed right hand turn eventually reveals one of France's most stunning locations. It’s the perfect setting for a film of any era. The vista is not dissimilar to Carcassonne, but is on a much smaller scale.

My host invites me to supper with a lovely British couple who own a house across the ancient medieval square in the village. Champagne starts the evening off. The English couple are charming, as is the meal, which is cooked to perfection. Downed with a delicious Chablis, we are all sated.

Later, my host and I savour the delight of a Grand Marnier over ice in the balmy night air. Eventually the night closes in and with it comes a furious downpour.

Two days later, he calls to say I should've stayed over a couple of nights as Brad and Angelina are holidaying nearby at the exclusive Chateau de la Couronne - one of the top five private houses in France.

He tells me visited the restaurant for a drink after taking in a local Brocante. It was all very chilled and the locals respect their privacy. I muse that his restaurant, Le Lavalette, is the perfect location for a delicious meal and a quiet drink - whether you're Hollywood royalty or not.

17. Ré of light

2007-07-18T10:04:00.001+01:00

In order to recover from the abysmally un-French Quatorze Juillet night out, I head to the Ile de Ré, on the French Atlantic coast. More chic than St Tropez and the weekend destination of choice for every well-heeled Parisien, this jewel of an island is gorgeous.

Bertrand, one of my friends from Poitiers, drives us there. After crossing the spectacular 3.8 km long bridge to the Ile de Ré, we head straight to the beach. I take to the waves with my 'body board' but the surf's not terribly strong, so the boarding is limited.

Later Bertrand takes me for a drive round Ré. He wants to show me some of the little towns on the island, such as the capital, St Martin. On the way we pass a place called Ars. I think it's funny and say we should stop a policeman just so we can say: 'Hi, we're looking for Ars!' Bertrand sniggers. Imagine people asking where you live: 'Do you live at the St Martin end of the Ile de Ré?' - 'No, I live at the Ars end.'

We eventually reach the beautifully maintained and oh so chic St Martin de Ré. It's picture perfect. Literally everyone is eating ice-cream sold by the two famous ice-cream shops by the quayside. And everyone looks gorgeous, hip and relaxed. We peruse the shops, where I spend 170 Euros on some designer shorts and a smart collared t-shirt. Crowds wander around with that post-beach chilled out look.

I take Bertrand to one of the quayside bars for 'une coupe' de Champagne. Mellow tunes drift on the air from the chilled-out live band in the background of the bar. As we drink and people-watch, the suns weakens. I think of another friend who's just finishing her book, which set in this gorgeous place. Eventually, we head home back across the bridge to the Ile de Ré.

16. Fruit Bastilles

2007-07-16T11:34:00.000+01:00

July 14th is a very important day in the French calendar. It's the Fete Nationale, where the entire nation celebrates the historic storming of the Bastille in 1789. So I'm looking forward to celebrating in true French style.

Rachel kindly invites me to an event being held in a little village about eight miles away, where rather a lot of Brits live, apparently. That should've been a sign.

The entire evening is as far removed from anything French I have ever attended. The little bar is owned by some northerners (British ones) and all but two of the guests are also British. A local - British - band provide the entertainment. And although they are very accomplished, I'm disappointed not to hear any French melodies.

We're asked to pay €10 for our 'meal', which consists of a tiny plate of 'Mexican chilli'. Again, not very French; and I'm still hungry after eating it.

I think, perhaps I'm being a little 'high maintenance', and that I should get into the spirit of it. But this is the single most important day in the French calendar. It's symbolic of the rise of the modern French 'nation'. Then one of the other guests whispers to me that the only reason he is here is because his wife is in the line dancing group that is performing. Otherwise they would have celebrated the occasion with the French locals in the village where they live. I feel justified.

Rachel, who is also in the line dancing team, puts on a brave face, but I can tell she's not impressed with me. At least they've festooned some red, white and blue flags around the place, although I don't really get the significance of the little Spanish sombreros they've also stuck up. Vive la France!

15. Tour de Londres

2007-07-09T18:21:00.000+01:00

I'm in London for a few days and manage to catch the Wimbledon finals and the start of the Tour de France. Being part of the one million plus crowd in Central London for the world's most famous bike race is awesome.

My lovely neighbour in the capital arranges for me and some friends to join a London Cycling Campaign (LCC) ride from Brixton to Hyde Park. The sun is out, the roads empty and it's the perfect way to traverse the city.

There's thousands of cyclists everywhere. Some very fit guys - and girls - and, of course, there are the inevitable disaster sports outfits. I don't know what it is about lycra. Just can't wear those horrible tight shorts.

If only London was car-free all the time, we say. Okay, not very practical for most, but it remains the fastest way to get anywhere, and there's always the tube for the velo-phobic. We arrive at Hyde Park and there's a massive bike-park to safely store our 'wheels'. There's an array of stalls and food vendors including a special 'French food' market, selling all things, well, French. I feel right at home.

The competitors race around the circuit to get their 'times', and we eventually leave the park and cycle home, more tanned, fitter and very satisfied.

14. Holy Foreskin

2007-07-04T17:01:00.000+01:00

I've said it before - I love the beach. But, given the current awful weather, it seems I'm not to get my fill of it. So the other option - in between trying to get the house renovated - is to explore the neighbourhood a bit more.

It amazes me, the number of people that come out here and don't bother to seek out all the incredible beauty that exists on their doorstep. I guess they spend all their time getting their properties scrubbed-up, so there just isn't the time.

This part of France - the Poitou-Charentes - is steeped in history. It's also fairly big on chateaux. There are just loads of them in the most unlikely places. I've been cycling around (very low carbon footprint, still) visiting some of them, taking pics and letting my head unfurl in the vast open calm of the countryside.

In one place, Charroux, there's an imposing and hugely historical 11th century octagonal Gothic tower that looks like the leaning tower of Pisa, without the lean. I discover that this is where Charlemagne allegedly stored the Holy Prepuce (Holy Foreskin), which he was given on his coronation. What a strange gift, I think to myself. It's probably withered by now.

Just outside Gencay is the fabulously named Chateau de la Roche, a 15th century Gothic wonder containing the only museum dedicated to the Order of Malta. It's full of all sorts of stuff relating to the Order and its Knights. There's just so much mysterious history here. Dan Brown could re-write The DaVinci Code here and not even scratch the surface.

Seeing all this history by bike is my way of keeping fit and trim. Well, you just never know when my knight will appear. And, while I love soaking up all this culture, I do wish the weather would change and allow me to soak up a week on the coast. One can only take so much culture, and my foreskin's in dire need of some sun. I'm aching for a warm nudist beach, the smell of factor 10 and sun-downers in a beach-side bar.

13. Pride and prejudice

2007-07-02T23:46:00.000+01:00

I've missed another London Gay Pride. Actually, I haven't been for about nine years. A few friends in London went along, but apparently it was a bit of a washout. It wasn't that attendance was low, but the rain drove lots of people off the streets and into the bars, somewhat spoiling the summer party feel of it all.

Those silly incompetents who tried (and thankfully failed) to blow up two cars in Central London last week really need to take a good long hard look at themselves. They should've known that nothing can stop us Brits from living our lives - not even the worst British summer weather imaginable. Nothing more needs to be said on those incidents.

Here, in the relative calm of the French countryside, I reminisce with Rachel and the boys about the first London Gay Pride I ever went to. It was 1989, Thatcher was in charge (of the country, that is, not Gay Pride. Mind you), there was no internet or mass mobile phone market, the Euro was a distant dream and I had just fallen madly in love with Jeff, the big love of my life, with whom I would spend the next six years.

Rachel suggests we accompany my visiting guests, Phil, Sam and Alex, back to London and go on 'the march'. I figure it's a ploy to escape her own current personal drama (see previous post), and I'm having none of it. She later confides in me that she plans to 'end it' with the French bloke. Very wise, I think to myself.

12. The Rachel capers

2007-06-28T19:41:00.000+01:00

Rachel's in trouble. Man trouble. She's been shagging a local French 'homme' and his wife's just found out about it. I 'm in the garden when I spot her skulking around in the laurel at the back of the house.

My favourite fag hag's sporting a Hermès scarf on her head and dark over-large sunglasses. She looks shifty as she whispers: 'Hi, is it safe to come in?' I have no idea why it wouldn't be and just nod.

She explains that she was parking the car out of sight and was trying to get through my laurel so she 'wouldn't be spotted by anyone'. Sensing something is amiss, I usher her in through the large rear-facing windows of the downstairs study and put the kettle on.

Apparently, she and this French bloke have been at it for months. Rachel says he didn't tell her at first that he was married, and then he 'fessed-up' and told her he was married, but was now divorced. Unfortunately, the wife still wants to save the marriage and followed him one day. She'd spied on them at a local bar, owned by some English poeple, and had seen them dancing and chatting together during a Salsa evening.

It emerges that the ex-wife has seen nothing more than the two of them dancing. Rachel says the woman confronted her and, out of total fear, she outright denied it. I suggest the wife has no claim if they're divorced, but Rachel reminds me that this is France - rural France. A car pulls up outside the house. Rachel lets out a yelp and scrambles upstairs, but it's only my visitors, back from a trip to Poitiers. I help her to the car, tell her not to worry, and that I'll come round later, with some wine.

11. Cunning Lingus

2007-06-27T11:52:00.000+01:00

I catch the news headlines in between the Wimbledon serves and I'm pleased to hear that the European Commission has put the stoppers on Ruinair's attempts to acquire its Irish rival, Aer Lingus. I appreciate that 'budget' airlines are flavour of the month right now, but we are all in peril if we think that the journey is not as important as the destination.

Clearly I am not a fan of the airline. I have lost both time and money on several occasions when trying to use their product - it doesn't warrant being called a service - and for me, the journey should have dignity and service as part of the overall experience.

Of course Ryanair flies to many French and other European airports, which is indeed a great convenience to many who, like me, have bought homes out here. But any airline that charges almost €4 for a cup of tea onbaord does not deserve to be called a budget anything. I just wish BA or Air France would hop onto the regional route bandwagon and provide some competition to Mr O'Leary.

The friends I have staying this week took the eco route and came by train, which is ten times less polluting than the plane, according to Eurostar's latest marketing taglines. Also, we calculate that the time it takes to get from Central London to Poitiers by train - including the change over in Paris - is roughly the same as taking the plane. Often though, the amount of time for the schlep up to Stansted on the dreadful Stansted Express, check-in, security screening and delays means the train is in fact quicker - and one arrives in a far calmer and more relaxed state of being.

10. Gay, set, match

2007-06-26T10:26:00.000+01:00

It's Wimbledon, which means it must surely be pouring in South London. Actually, it seems the UK is having the worst flooding in years. Though it's not much better here, with unusually low temps and fair share of wet, too.

Despite the rain, Wimbledon is quite special. Some people are gripped by Grand Prix motor racing, for me it's Grand Slam tennis. Watching 'The Championships' every year is a must, but I also love to play tennis, and luckily there's a stade de tennis in the village, which hardly ever gets used. Only problem is, I never really seem to have anyone to play with.

The rain, although fun to cycle in, means more time is being spent indoors right now and invariably I end up surfing the net. I drop a little message onto a favorite site of mine, www.totalfrance.com, about this blog and seeking advice on whether I should go for the full move or not. The responses are worth checking out.

It seems there are in fact many gay people in France just living quietly in the countryside. Most seem to be partnered, which I guess makes it more fun and less lonely. However, the post has developed an interesting conversation stream on how to spot whether someone is gay or not. It's interesting because, although I believe I have a normal functioning 'gaydar' (an in-built radar for spotting other gay people) there have been many times when I just haven't had a clue.

I've always been interested in the masculine. I guess that's why I'm gay. Overt campness and flamboyance (whether straight or gay) never did anything for me sexually. Give me a real bloke any day. I'm much happier getting dirty and muddy from cycling in the rain, doing some heavy DIY, or trying to figure out how to fix a motor engine.

I love chopping wood (no pun intended) and can hold my axe with confidence (ahem). I can stand up for myself when necessary and have never understood the premise among straights that gay blokes like 'fem' guys. It's the opposite, if you think about it. For me being gay means being attracted to the masculine. The idea of anyone mincing down the street, in high-heels swinging a handbag in full pout is probably more likely to appeal to straight blokes, because they are more naturally attracted to all things 'feminine'. Right?

Give me a real bloke who can hold his own with a Black and Decker workbench and take the mud, rough and tumble of a bit of off-road mountain-biking any day. Better still, let's sweat it out on Centre Court here in Hameauville, a la Nadal. Anyone for tennis?

9. Boules boys

2007-06-24T09:43:00.000+01:00

I love entertaining. With three mates arriving from London, I've been arranging rooms, listing places of interest - chateaux, ancient villages, floral parks, gay bars, gay beaches, etc - and stocking up on food and wine.

Thoughtful planning is necessary because Phil and Sam are a couple (and will obviously want private time together), whereas Alex is single and will probably be looking for a holiday romance with a 'hot French lad'. Or at least a shag.

The weather's a bit touch and go, so I've chopped a load of wood, just in case a fire is needed in the evenings. I've also shined up the boules set and cleared the weeds from the gravel drive. Everyone who comes to stay here has to play boules - or petanque as the locals call it - at some point. I toy with the idea of creating an extreme version of boules, just to make it more challenging. When I look up some options on the web, I come across an explanation for boules on Wikipedia which makes me snigger: "The aim of the game is to get your large, heavy balls as close to the small, white 'jack' as possible". Well, it made me laugh.

One of the very few things I don't like about the French house is the two-hour drive to the coast. As a confirmed beach-lover, I find this frustrating, as I could easily spend the entire summer of every year, surfing, swimming and sunning myself on the beach. Here, in the middle of the French countryside, there are inland beaches, or 'plan d'eau'. They're basically big lakes that have had the sand especially shipped-in to create little beaches. They vary in quality, but can be quite good, though nothing beats a real beach.

8. Awaiting artisans

2007-06-16T12:03:00.000+01:00

I'm waiting for the electrician to arrive. It cost €4,200 last year to have the house re-wired, recess lighting installed everywhere, new plug sockets and phone points plus a new electricity box. They laughed when I asked how long the job would take, saying it would only be about five days. But they disappeared halfway through the job and didn't return for three months.

I felt powerless to do anything, and they didn't seem to think it was important. I wasn't impressed with the work they did complete. They put some variateurs (dimmer switches) on upside down, missed out some sockets and forgot to replace the main box. Every time I pointed it out they simply laughed and said: "C'est normale, monsieur". Now the lights in the WC are flickering every time they're switched on. Great! I can't even pee or dump with confidence after daylight hours.

They were supposed to be here an hour ago. Thankfully, it's June so daylight hours are long and it's not a major issue. I keep thinking I want to be back in London. Or do I? The bathroom there needs urgent attention too, as does the kitchen tap fitting. I begin to slip into a hopeless negative strain and wonder what the hell I'm doing. And where's the bleeding electrician?

I wouldn't mind if they were drop dead gorgeous, but they weren't. The French equivalent of a couple of 'Chavs', they didn't say much when they were here last year. I got a bit paranoid, thinking maybe they'd spotted the gay porn on the DVD shelf, or worse, the vibrator I'd been given as a birthday present three years previously, and only very occasionally used. Must remember to check the batteries in that.

7. The F-words

2007-06-14T16:14:00.000+01:00

Gordon Ramsay would go ballistic. The kitchen here is a chef's nightmare. There's only a two-ring electric cooker, a small belling type oven-cum-grill, a toaster and kettle. Though I have got a magi-mix and food processor - ransacked from the London place - and loads of funny utensils like a potato masher, garlic press and steel rings. Amazingly, I've managed to produce some pretty decent meals for up to ten before, so perhaps it's not such a 'Hell's Kitchen' after all.

Despite the lack of a proper kitchen, I enjoy trying out new dishes. Of course, being here alone means it's mostly just cooking for one. Apart from being slightly lonely, no-one else gets to witness - and taste - the really great dishes, when they happen. So tonight it's just a simple affair - French bread with melted goats cheese on a green salad with walnuts and pan-fried chorizo (pictured). I believe that, even when alone, it is okay to have at least one glass of Champagne now and then.

There's no proper dining table here either. I've got a little square table that's really only good for four to have small meals around. In the dining area of the living room there's a hideous plastic white garden table and equally horrid white plastic chairs. As I eat, the frustration of not having the funds to get this place looking stunning, returns. If I sold the London house, there'd be no problem getting it done, but then I'd have nowhere to live in London, which still scares me a little. My serving of food, funds and frustration over, I head out to the garden and busy myself with some weeding, wishing all the time that I had a partner who I could share all this with.

6. Village people

2007-06-13T13:53:00.000+01:00

Something's changed when I return to the village. During my very brief absence there has been a new arrival. Yes, it's another Brit. Now, as far as I am aware, I was the 'only gay in the village', but this is no longer the case. I can't quite believe it. Here! In this tiny little rural outback! Two of us! My hopes - and other parts - are raised. I wonder what he's like. I pray he's young, fit and has perfect teeth, and make plans to go round immediately and introduce myself. So, it's on with the cute, 'boy next door' shorts, muscle-fit white T-shirt and Prada sandals. Don't want to wear too much. I hop on the bike and head round, humming something very gay. Things are looking up!

Okay, so I was wrong. Riley is not in my age group. At 60 something, he is very definitely 'friend' material only. He is fairly fit for his age, although gorgeous teeth are no longer a priority for him, it seems. It was an odd, but interesting encounter, really. He was bollock naked when he answered the door, which caught me so offguard that I said hello to his nether regions rather than his face. He insisted I came in. I insisted he put on some clothes. When he didn't, I started babbling about his being a 'nudist' or 'naturist'. "I no," he replied. " Whatever gave you that idea?" Like, it wasn't obvious?

Riley explained that he had an aversion to clothes. "I don't like them. They're uncomfortable and just get in the way," he said. When he said he'd love to be able to just wander about the area au natural, all I could think of was the affect it might have on poor Madame Gilbert in the village store. To my surprise, and to make myself feel less uncomfortable, I said I would take my clothes off, too, and so I did. We both sat in his living room and chatted for about an hour or so, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be naked, which in a funny kind of way, I guess it is. Finally, I took my leave and, fully clothed again, headed back to my house.

What a strange and interesting place this is. I still wish it had been someone younger, closer to my generation, and with perfect teeth.

5. Summer city

2007-06-11T22:33:00.000+01:00

Finally got back to London after spending the day with a bunch of very decent bloggers in Paris. Despite the balmy weather in the UK capital, the wonderful colours in the gardens at Kennington Park (pictured), and being able to enjoy the sun in the garden of my little house, I'm already missing the French place.

I would've stayed, but there's work to be done. Aside from the freelance gig, writing the annual report for a large European institution, I'm doing a bit of 'extra' work on a new Keira Knightley film about the life of Dylan Thomas. The scenes are being shot in the Café de Paris in the West End, so I have to be here. They want us on set at 6.30 am, proof, if you wanted it, that show-biz is far from glamourous. Less so for a lowly paid extra.

There's a lot of sitting around waiting for directors and cameramen to get their bits sorted, so I usually take a pad and while away the time working out what jobs need to be done next on the house in France. Problem is, there are jobs - urgent ones - that need doing to the London place as well. The ever so chic Philippe Starcke designer, wall-hung toilet I bought six years ago, when renovating in London, is leaking all over the kitchen ceiling. Nasty. I've had various plumbers out, but to no avail. What they don't tell you when you're buying these fancy fittings in expensive showrooms like C.P. Hart in Waterloo, is that foreign bath suites just aren't designed for the great British plumbing system.

So, in between Oscar-winning background performances as crowd fodder, I'll be working out how best to sort out the problems of both houses. Of course, this brings me right back to the dilemma - wouldn't life just be so much easier if I sold up in London and moved to outback France?

4. Paris blog-nob

2007-06-10T23:46:00.001+01:00

I'd never been to a bloggers' picnic before. At some on-godly hour on Saturday morning - okay, about 7.30am - Rachel's alarm screams into action, awakening me in her guest-room. We have showers, breakfast and then jump into Rachel's trusty little Golf for the half hour drive to Poitiers train station. The picnic is taking place in Paris, only an hour and 40 minutes away by TGV. After a rather bizarre conversation with the SNCF booking clerk, which centred on our Escapades cards not having any points on them, we board the 09.46 to Paris.

Once there, Rachel casually suggests a 'little' walk around Le Marais. Directions are not really her strong point, though, and she ambles down the wrong end of an extremely long underground connecting tunnel at Chatelet, before realising we're heading in entirely the wrong direction. I'm usually patient about such errors of navigational judgment, but I'm carrying a rather heavy mini backpack containing my laptop, a bottle of Touraine, digital camera, toilet bag, cables, Camembert, Chorizo and an assortment other items, I struggle to see the funny side of running around these tunnels.

In the Marais my mood lifts greatly. I feel on home ground. On a Saturday morning the beautiful streets of Paris are full of sexy-looking guys either saying au revoir or bonjour to each other; friends are meeting and greeting; even the old queens are smiling happy good-mornings to each other. 'Wouldn't you just love a pied-a-terre here,' Rachel enthuses. Oh yes, I would. We toddle into Mariage Freres, the exquisite Paris tea shop. The staff dressed in fabulous colonial style white linen suits, are the height of class and manners. This is what we want. I purchase some Marco Polo tea, one their best sellers. Rachel, is in high gear, buying no less than three amazing concoctions.

We agree to lunch at Le Cloude Fou, some little bistro Rachel had dined in with a loved one decades ago. She says it's quite cheap. Obviously, things have changed. After five minutes, and a glance at the over-priced and average menu, we plan our escape, with the excuse that it's too early for lunch and that we need to shop more. We dart into the funky little bar restaurant six doors along for a really hearty 'big breakfast'. "Who wants goats cheese at this time of day anyway?" Rachel asks.

The bloggers picnic is also fun. Around 70 people show up with blankets, beers, breads and other consumables. Organised by a small group of 'Uber-bloggers', the point is to meet new people, and what a cool way to do it. The sunshine puts everyone in good spirits. Rachel and I pop open the Veuve Clicquot and mingle with the other bloggers.

I didn't expect there to be other gay guys at the picnic, but there are quite a few. Everyone is very friendly and there isn't a single 'nerd' to be found. Overall, it looks like a gathering old college friends and their kids, just passing a day together in a lovely Paris park. When I leave to catch a Eurostar back to London (which I missed, by the way), I jokingly suggest that, next time, we should arrange an outing for gay bloggers and call it a 'gloggers picnic'. Now that would be fun.

3. Carbon cool

2007-06-08T16:43:00.002+01:00

The house is six miles from the nearest town and therefore the nearest supermarket, so you'd think a car was pretty important out here. Usually, I hire a vehicle in Poitiers on arrival, but these last few visits, I have simply gone without. This means I rely on neighbours and friends like Rachel to pick me up at the station, and they seem happy to do so. I usually pay them something for the effort. It's 100 Euros for a bleeding taxi, which is a just a complete rip-off.

There are drawbacks. Going without a car makes it much more difficult to have a spontaneous shag of course, but then, I could always entertain chez moi, if I feel the need - and assuming they're willing to make the journey.

I've been getting around locally thanks to pedal power and my trusty Giant mountain bike. It serves the triple purpose of saving the environment, burning calories and encouraging me to use the local shop for supplies, although Madame Gilbert never seems to have croissants any more. Her baguettes are good, but the pasta she stocks really sucks.

Keeping in mind the need for us all to reduce our individual carbon footprints, I am delighted to announce that I no longer intend to fly Ruinair, sorry, Ryanair, anymore. This time, I came from London by Eurostar and TGV, which is frankly a far more civilised way to travel to France in my view. I never liked Ryanair. Mainly because Mr O'Leary has stripped out practically everything that makes flying fun. I'm surprised he even still has seats on his planes and am convinced he'd rip them out for standing room only, if he thought he could get away with it. The free seating thing also frustrates me. Everyone ends up pushing and shoving to make sure they get a good spot onboard. Odd, really, as there actually aren't any.

I just got back from a 20 kilometre bike ride through the countryside. It's very hot, around 82 degrees. I called in on Kate and Jerome. They used to rent a house in my village but moved away two years ago when they bought a place of their own, ten kilometres west. They're renovating, but it's painfully slow and they're taking their time. They used to be quite hippy, but buying the house has changed all that somewhat. They have a convertible sports car now: a Mazda MX5; they've got wireless broadband and they're thinking about heading to Bordeaux for a big splash in Ikea.

Afterwards, I cycle home, past beautifully tended gardens containing flowers bursting with colour and scented odours; through tranquil little hamlets, deserted country lanes and well-seeded fields. I feel happy that I'm doing something about my carbon footprint. From this view it all seems really worth saving.

2. The house

2007-06-05T23:03:00.001+01:00

A mixture of excitement and dread fight for space in my gut whenever I arrive at the house. Excitement for how I would like to transform the place, and dread at how I am supposed to get there. I want a country pad with all the latest gadgets and gizmos, the pool, of course, and a fab garden that would shame Chelsea's annual event. Right now, it feels more like pikey put-up than poof's palace.

Despite the fact the gardener hasn't been looking after the garden again - even though I'm paying him, monthly, to do so - I am pleased to be here. It worries me, somewhat, that I'm so pleased to be here. Should a 'city boy' in his late thirties be feeling like this? Surely I ought to be chasing designer London pads to move into and making arrangements to nosh at top notch restaurants. Or propping up the pink pound by guzzling in the bars of Soho. And where's the bleeding gym? How am I expected to retain my 'identikit' gay physique out here? And where the hell am I supposed to go clubbing? No wonder I haven't sold up in London. And there's a George Michael concert in the new Wembley Stadium this month, you know.

I calm down with a bottle of Touraine, a crisp, dry white from just up the road in the Loire; get the fire going - yes, even though it's June, the nights can be a bit crisp - and get 'The schedule' out. Unfortunately, this is not the schedule of social events and potential sexual encounters for the days ahead. It's fixes, tasks to do, things to achieve during this short five day sojourn. I love DIY tools - Power drills, electric saws, 'workmate' benches, and so on. I guess it kind of dispels the myth about 'boys who do boys' being all sappy around 'men's stuff', but I've always been a bloke. I sit back and resign myself, once again, to the fact that I really need to move out here.

Even though I'm in deepest rural France, I have broadband, oh yes. I'm diligently trying to work on the freelance piece I'm doing. Believe me, it aint easy after three glasses of Touraine. I stray onto Gaydar, just to see who's around. Someone called Paul, from Cambridge messages me and suggests a camwank. Now, I realise it's probably the safest sex, but I kind of prefer the real thing, so I graciously declined and left 'Paul' to jism his way through cyberspace.

1. Gay Paree

2007-06-04T23:03:00.000+01:00

I'm crossing Paris in a taxi. I could've taken line 4 of the Metro from Gare du Nord, where I arrived on a Eurostar, to Montparnasse, for the TGV to Poitiers, but the taxi is far more civilised. And you get a bird's-eye view of the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre and the streets of Gay Paree into the bargain.

Just to give you some context - five years ago I bought myself a run-down country pad just south of Poitiers with the usual dream of doing it up with the big love of my life. Back then, I happily remortgaged the tiny little Wimpey home I have in London and paid cash for a much bigger house in the Poitou-Charentes. We were supposed to own it together. Trouble was, the boyf at the time didn't have the ready cash, yet insisted I put him on the deeds - which, of course, I did. Six months later, we broke up. Five years on, I'm still very much in love, with the house, that is, not the boy. His name's still on the deeds, but, luckily, we're the best of friends. Really must do something about those deeds, though.

It's been gorgeous weather this last week in London, and, though I've got some freelance writing projects on, I figured what the hell, get over to the French house and do it all from there. Beneath this apparent savoir faire there is in fact a dilemma brewing: I can't decide whether to go the whole hog and move to France lock, stock and entire Kylie collection. I love London, few gay guys don't, but I also love the rural appeal of the French house. I want to spend more time there, doing up the house, building a fab garden and hanging out with the locals, but I'm not sure how I'm going to manage it. There are pensions to think of, dental maintenance (very important) and an income to consider. Friends are split: Sell up and go for la vie Francais, some advise; others blanche at the notion and scream 'no way man'. The indecision alone is turning me grey. I'm only 39.

I really wish I knew what I'll eventually end up doing! Alex, gay-mate (which means we have never shagged each other, never wanted to and never will) and fellow journalist, delicately advised it will be much harder to find 'cock', out here. He is so, so wrong, in every way. Rural France is on permanent heat in that department, as far as I can make out.

The TGV is now hurtling towards Poitiers. Rachel is picking me up at the station. Another 'hack', Rachel has the air of a Bridget Jones in her early 40s about her. I think she's desperately looking for her Mr D'Arcy, but seems to end up with Mr Arsey instead. She's really attractive, but, like Bridget, still wants to be the perfect size, shape and all round great catch. Rachel's already made 'the move' and lives in our little corner of rural France pretty much full time now, which I envy her for. Although she still has her flat in Notting Hill, which she rents out. Lucky bitch!