At long last - and it's well overdue - we now own our house in France.

Our last trip over was a bit of a nightmare actually. The first day there was a Sunday and like England back in the deep recesses of the seventies, nothing was open. Fortunately we'd taken food and stuff with us and were looking forward to staying in our French home.

Things however, didn't turn out to be quite that simple...

We'd bought a second-hand pine bedstead a while ago so that we'd have something to sleep on and had an inflatable mattress, which okay, wasn't exactly what you'd term orthopaedic, but since it was only going to be used for just over a week, we didn't think that would be a problem. The bed itself was only a tenner, so the fact that the bolts and things that held it together were missing didn't bother me either as I'm well versed in carpentry or at least, perfectly capable of bunging a few screws in here and there.

While I was otherwise occupied, Pen was supposed to be cleaning and although I'd made sure the water was on, there was nothing but a slight trickle coming out of the taps. I went to the cellar to investigate and immediately cracked my head on a concrete lintel, which drew blood and elicited those cartoon tweeting birds and spinning stars before my eyes.

Good start.

I traced the piping and could find no reason for the lack of water coming out of the taps. To make matters worse, there were umpteen leaks, which were busily forming ever-widening puddles on the cellar floor. There was nothing else for it; we'd have to get buckets from the cellar taps - the only place where the water flowed freely and not just from the leaks. Plus it meant we could turn the water on and off as we needed it.

Scenes from Tom Hanks and Shelley Long's movie 'The Money Pit' began streaming into my sore head as I realised that this place was far from ideal. It was with a heavy heart that I trudged upstairs to begin the process of what Norm Abram (This Old House and The New Yankee Workshop) describes as assembelly of the bed, while Pen cleaned downstairs, doing her best with buckets of cold water.

Worse was yet to come as it dawned on us that the hot water hadn't heated up by then and with only buckets to fetch cold water up from the cellar, having a bath or shower after sweating cobs with the initial clean-up, bed building and other jobs we did in those first seven hours, we weren't going to be able to wash as we'd have liked. We'd also discovered why the water wasn't running properly upstairs as a tap in the top bedroom was seized fully open, chucking gallons of water down the sink whenever the water was turned on. As a result of this open tap, not only were the taps downstairs not working, but the toilet wasn't filling either, which meant every time we used it, we had to make sure we'd got a bucket of water to flush with. However, as luck would have it, I'd noticed that the bar/restaurant just five doors up from us was open and at ten to nine that evening, knowing that we were destined to go to bed with no more than a cat's lick for a wash up, we wandered round for the solace of a cold beer or several.

They were shut.

Yes folks. In the ten or fifteen minutes since I'd seen them with customers, they'd shut up, turned off the lights and retired for the night.

Needless to say, this wasn't the most auspicious of beginnings, but things were about to get better - which brings me to part of the reason for the title of this blog.

The next morning, feeling decidedly knackered from the previous day's exertions and sore from spending half the night on an under-inflated mattress, our spirits were buoyed with the discovery that we now had hot water. We rang our estate agent or immobilier and arranged to go and see her. Her husband is a builder and we hoped that since we had limited access to all things French - like the least idea of who the hell to call when the cellar's leaking in at least four places and we couldn't get water upstairs in the kitchen or bathroom, he might be able to help.

She arranged for him to come round the following day and sort out our plumbing issues. She had also a list of furniture that someone was selling she thought we would be interested in and showed us photos of a three-seater red leather Chesterfield with matching chair, a washing machine that had only been used about five times, together with a huge French oak armoir; all for just €200 including delivery. We almost bit her arm off as we snapped them up. Truth is, we probably would have whether we'd seen them or not. Taking our furniture over was going to be a huge expense, so the less we'd have to transport, the better it would be, especially if finding replacements was likely to be so inexpensive. We asked her to be on the lookout for a gas cooker and anything else she could find.

We told her about the restaurant/bar up the road and she explained that they were falling out of favour with everyone in the village - especially the Mairie (Mayor), as they only appeared to open when they felt like it. She said that one day she went to get coffee after taking clients to see a house and asked for Pizza - their speciality. She was told that they weren't cooking as the owners wife wanted to get away at 2:00 pm sharp.

Idiots! Way to integrate and ingratiate, eh?

Anyway, knowing that we'd got hot water and buckets, we would at least be able to have a bath after work that evening, so with everything looking much more rosy, we cracked on with sorting the flat out. We also visited a Super U supermarket and bought in beers - amongst other things. We weren't going to put in a full day's work without the promise of a beer or two at the end of the day! By the end of Tuesday, our leaks had been fixed, the sink in the top bedroom had been removed and the pipes capped off, we had water in the kitchen and bathroom - hot water too. The bog even flushed and we were feeling much happier about things.

We took Wednesday off and spent the day trolling round shops looking at flooring, showers, and other things we could put into our new house, even though right then, we knew we couldn't afford any of it. I'm sorry to say, it seemed that the ranges of everything offered were so much more numerous than in England.

Thursday and Friday we pressed on, making good progress and before Joanne Barbarella says anything about being an old scrubber, I spent the better part of Saturday on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor in the flat. By 8:00 we were all in.

Saturday was the day we took our rubbish to the Déchetterie (or rubbish tip) and armed with a small waste bin full of empty beer cans (which I hasten to add, are much smaller than the cans they sell here), I looked around for somewhere to put them. A little old man with no teeth and a big grin under an equally big moustache pointed at a large bin marked 'plastique'.

I was more than a little puzzled and guessed that he thought the plastic bin I had the cans in was what I was throwing away.

"Non, monsieur," I replied. "Il n'est pas plastique."

"Si," he replied.

"Non!" I countered.

"Si!"

"Non, monsieur," I assured and took one of the cans, crushing it and holding the bent remains in my hand. "Regard. Ce n'est pas plastique."

"Non, monsieur," he replied, patiently. "Regardez la, sil vous plait."

He led me round the back of the bin where out of sight, several printed representations of various plastic bottles and other containers had been applied along with several beer and soft drink cans pictures too. Boy did I feel stupid. Pen was busting a gut laughing so hard and from that point forth, if one said "non," the other would immediately say "si". Still, we got rid of the garbage, which was the main thing.

Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest. Having spent all but one day of this trip slogging over hot paint brushes etc, we decided to take it easy, but that just didn't happen. I put some frosted film on the shop door to stop people being able to see in and we hung net curtains at the windows, which had the overall effect of making the place look like a bloody Chinese restaurant, what with the red glass frontage and everything!

It was during breakfast that things took a turn for the worse, as biting on a mouthful of bread, I nearly went into a low orbit when pain shot through my mouth. I took four pain killers and was able to continue, but after a while, they wore off, we had no more and were at a loss as to what to do about it.

Despite thinking that her phone would be off, Pen agreed to phone Lyn and thankfully, she did answer, preventing us from trundling round Normandy on a wild goose chase. We headed as per her instructions, to Garon and found the pharmacy, but unlike what she'd told us about knocking on the door, the man answering and serving us, no-one answered. While we were waiting in the rain, I spotted a couple in a house across the road and suggested we go ask whether there was anywhere else nearby.

They told us that no-one at the pharmacy would answer between 3:00 and 6:00 anyway and no, they didn't know of anywhere else short of going all the way to Mayenne, but when they discovered I was suffering from toothache, they disappeared and returned with a veritable apothecary in a plastic bag, took out a brand new, boxed pack of effervescent pain killers and wouldn't take anything in return. I don't think I have ever been so grateful as I was right then. They will definitely be getting a present when we next return as a thank you.

Whilst we spent about 80% of our trip locked away in the flat, on the odd occasions that we weren't, many people came to say hello and made us feel extremely welcome. One woman had even travelled down from Paris, which astonished us. I suspect she had other things to attend to and it wasn't just to say hi to us, but nevertheless.

The kindness of that couple in Goron and of our estate agent - who we know better now, so I guess she's not a total stranger - together with the other villagers that made the last visit so comfortable, has really sealed the deal for us and made us realise that we're doing the right thing by moving to France. We don't know quite when yet, but it's likely to be at the beginning of next year. We're really looking forward to it.

The people in England aren't like that at all. Whilst the neighbours here are just as curious - nosey even, in England, it seems that they won't actually speak to you, they'll just formulate an opinion and go with that - right or wrong. In France, if the neighbours are in the least bit curious, they'll come and see for themselves, then make their minds up. However, had it not been for the kindness of those strangers, our stay would have been fraught and far, far less enjoyable.

Bring on the move!