Escape the Olympics in the French Pyrenees

This is one of those years when I'm very glad I don't live in the UK. First of all I'd have to put up with days of Jubilee hype and simpering sycophantic grovelling by the BBC's latest 'Royal correspondent' (shudder). And if as all that weren't enough, just a few weeks later there are the much-touted Olympics: more flag waving patriotic stuff .... and sport. Double shudder.

I know I'm being subtle here :-) but you may be picking up that I really can't be doing with all this nationalistic fervour. Maybe I have a gene missing but I just don't have any sort of patriotic sense of 'my country' or any of that stuff. It's bad enough having to carry a passport that makes me into a 'citizen of the United Kingdom' - why on earth (sic) can't I just be a citizen of the planet, full stop?

If you're as turned off by all this as I am, you might want to think about escaping for a few days. I can't do much about the Jubilee, I'm afraid - we've been full for that week within days of opening bookings and have been regularly turning people down since - but if you fancy escaping the Olympics in the French Pyrenees, we still have some space!

Here are just a few of the things you could be enjoying instead:

Poddling around on quiet roads.
Long peaceful walks in the mountains or foothills or valleys.
Picnics by cool streams up in the high summer pastures.
Some seriously good chamber music in a Romanesque cathedral at the St Lizier festival.
Swimming in the 28 degree water of the Lac de Mondély, then sipping a cold beer.
Watching marmots and chamois at Orlu.
Dancing with a partner who's wearing traditional costume and clogs at St Girons' huge folklore festival.
Eating a 'kebcam' under the stars, with jazz playing gently in the background, at Jean-Luc and José's duck buvette.
Dancing till the early hours to live African bands at Foix's 3 day African festival.
Watching vultures swoop over the crags while you eat lunch in the auberge overlooking the Etang d'Ayes.
Cooling off in some of the biggest prehistoric caves in Europe.
Spending a lazy afternoon in our garden listening to perfect, unbroken silence (home made cake or ice cream at tea time too!).
Chilling in the new spa at Ax les Thermes.
Enjoying a holistic massage or pulsing session in the garden at Maison Grillou, under the shade of one of our big trees.

Lying on a sun lounger at midnight with a glass of rosé, watching the Perseids meteor showers in Ariège's perfectly clear, dark, unpolluted skies.

We'd love to welcome others of like mind during the Olympic fortnight, so if you're tempted, go to Maison Grillou's Facebook page, 'like' it, book with us using the code you'll find there and we'll throw in a few extra treats for you when you arrive!

L'Atelier d'Artiste - upstairs

Upstairs there's a huge, triple aspect, cathedral ceilinged space for sitting and sleeping, plus a bathroom. This floor has the original ferme (triangular roof truss) plus huge sliding glass windows that have been made to measure to fit the original barn openings, which not only maintains the original 'sense' of the building but gives great views over the surrounding woodland and hillside, and allows a phenomenal amount of light into the space.

The sitting area has a sofa, a mini TV with French plus some English, Spanish, German, Dutch and Italian channels, and a combined hi-fi/DVD player/iPod dock.

The sleeping area has a king size (160cm by 200cm) bed and the usual storage for clothes and incidentals. All the walls have been rendered with fine hemp and lime; woodwork is reclaimed chestnut.

The bathroom was created from the former grenier (grain store) and has a tiled 180cm by 120cm (yes, you did read that right!) walk-in shower, a glass bowl sink on an acacia slab, a wall hung WC and space to sit and relax. The room is finished in a mixture of plaster, hemp and lime render, tadelakt and reclaimed chestnut.

L'Atelier d'Artiste - downstairs

L'Atelier d'Artiste is an 'appartement d'hôte', and also accommodates one couple. It's a huge space of, in total, 120 square metres (which usually equates to at least a three bedroomed gîte around here!) over two levels, originally converted by Grillou's previous owner from barns and a cowshed into an art restoration studio and workshop. We've renovated the whole area using natural materials, and furnished in a quirky and contemporary French country style with a mixture of new and reclaimed furniture. As in all our accommodation we've used natural paints and washes, home made using natural earth pigments.

Downstairs there's a very practical open plan kitchen with oak units and worktops, a four ring gas hob, full size electric oven, fridge with freezer compartment, washing machine and dishwasher. It's been designed by cooks for cooks and so you'll find plenty of good pans and utensils, sharp knives, gadgets, kettle, espresso machine, cook books plus simple but stylish white crockery and decent glasses. The kitchen is stocked with a supply of basic foodstuffs (herbs, spices, tea, coffee, flour, sugar, oil, vinegar, pasta, tinned tomatoes etc etc), kitchen roll, dishwasher tablets, washing liquid and environment friendly cleaning materials.

There's a dining area which seats four people in comfort; opposite is a sitting area with a squashy sofa and two armchairs plus an antique dresser full of table linen and other essentials

Large double glass doors give directly onto a gravelled terrace outside, where there is a small table and two chairs; a few steps away, under the shade of cherry and walnut trees, is a paved dining terrace with a table, four chairs and parasol.

To be continued ......

La P'tite Maison

La P'tite Maison is our chambre d'hote suite; created from a former farm worker's house, it now forms a completely self-contained suite for two people of around 65 square metres, over 3 levels and with access from the dining room/library in the main house.

Downstairs is a spacious private hall area leading into a salon with sofa and comfy chairs (pictures coming just as soon as the chairs have been delivered!), a mini-TV system with French plus some English, Spanish, German, Italian and Dutch channels as well as some good radio, and a combined hi-fi/DVD player/iPod dock. There's a small dining table with two chairs, a small silent fridge, some cutlery, crockery and glasses so that you have the means to put yourself together a picnic supper, and a kettle plus tray of ground coffee, tea and tisanes.

Upstairs is a landing leading to a double height bedroom with leather double bed; from the bedroom a flight of stairs leads to a mezzanine level chill out area with low chairs and floor cushions, candles, incense and music. The shower room has a tiled 90cm x 90cm thermostatic shower with glass door, a contemporary wash basin and oak shelving, and there's a separate WC.

On heat

It's hot. And that's official.

Like the rest of the country, we're in the midst of a heatwave: temperatures have hit 38 degrees in the shade over the last two days. A couple of cooler days forecast for Wednesday and Thursday, and then more hot and sunny weather; this will, we're told, be the pattern for the rest of the summer, with temperatures distinctly higher than average. Good news for the ratatouille bed in the potager which was planted so late: it's already showing signs of catching up.

A treat yesterday, when the sun was blazing down in the middle of the day and the thermometer was showing 52 degrees in the sun: quite by chance I watched our baby black redstart leave the nest. He (or she. Here we go again) fluttered down onto the grass, looked around, and then bowed several times. Redstarts, if you haven't seen them, bow all the time, like robins only more so; I just didn't expect them to start so young. They're also intensely curious birds: an hour or so later I found him sitting in the brico shed calling furiously for food.

You could say that the heat is slightly less good news for us as we continue to clear the rock garden, but hey - what's a bit of sweat when you're having fun? And it does mean that during the hottest part of the day we get to take refuge inside and get on with all the interminable finishing jobs, like framing pictures and hemming curtains and sorting out all the kitchen equipment for L'Atelier. (Never, dear renovator, ever underestimate just how long this stage will take you. Why is it that I could tile an entire shower in the time it takes to frame and hang just one picture? And that's without the arguments about whether there's a speck of dust under the glass or whether it's straight or not). But we are getting there (even if - sigh - the water still isn't connected: plumber has been, plumber has gone, plumber hasn't finished, plumber is coming back. Just don't ask when).

It's been a particularly frustrating couple of weeks in that I've been getting lots of contacts from some really interesting people - mostly readers of this blog, as it happens - who've wanted to come and stay this summer, and because of everything you already know about I'm still having to say no, which frankly is a bit upsetting. Not for the money, though that would indeed be quite nice, but because without exception they've all sounded like people I would enjoy having around, and because I just have a whole big feeling that Grillou is now ripe for people to be here. It's the first time I've felt that as an actuality rather than as a potential, which means I think that something has shifted on an energy level (look away now if you don't believe this stuff) and therefore that we're on course for all to be well.

Only a f***ing rental ......

So after my last post I haven't, in fact, been exiled to the far corner of Can't-Get-It-Together-Land; rather, I had probably more supportive emails than I deserve - including one from somebody whose booking I had to decline - and a (very welcome and much enjoyed) dinner invitation from a friend in the next village. This was a Very Good Thing, as a few weeks earlier I had endured a long, angry and bitter angry tirade about how wrongly we were doing everything, how over-perfectionist we were being, how ridiculous it was to make our own paints/spend days and weeks restoring bits of furniture/strip and re-finish floors/put in an oak kitchen, and .... well, you get the drift. We should, apparently, just be spending as little as possible, slapping white paint on all the walls, and furnishing the place in a day by taking a truck to IKEA, because (and I quote) after all it's only a f***ing rental, the punters won't be able to tell the difference and in any case they'll f***it all up within months. I'm not going to tell you where this came from, but suffice it to say that I was particularly shocked, and offended, precisely because it came from where it did.

I'm not, and never have been, interested in quick fixes to make money - and let's face it, anyone who goes into either property restoration or offering hospitality to make a fast buck is very quickly going to be disillusioned. There's a wonderful French phrase, mettre en valeur, which has no direct equivalent in the English language: to do what it takes to show something to its best advantage, to enhance, to bring out and develop the best in something. Well, that's what we're doing here: for ourselves, for sure, but also for those who were here before us, for those who'll come to share our home with us from time to time, and for those who'll eventually take over as Grillou's guardians some time in the (hopefully distant) future.

And that's why I'm happy to have spent the last three weeks on my hands and knees; first hand sanding, staining and waxing the wooden half of the floor in L'Atelier's grenier-turned-bathroom, and then laying a new floating floor in the living area downstairs. The area we're (well, I'm - John's role is to bring me things and take them away again, a bit like an operating theatre assistant, while I crawl around the floor pushing and shoving and teasing and measuring and wiggling and jigsawing and guillotining. And swearing.) laying is only 35 square metres altogether, but it has no less than 11 different bits of wall, all at different angles to each other. Let's just say it's not the easiest thing I've ever done, which (like tiling the showers) is partly by my own design .... ideas above my station, my mother would have said. 


She was probably right. After all, it's only a f***ing rental, non?

Ticking clock ...

Yesterday was a momentous day. I went out. As in: left the premises. And not to go to the builders' merchants (well, okay, I did go there. But only in passing ...), but to meet a friend for lunch, catch-up and general mooch.

It's ridiculous, but since January 1st I had (until yesterday) left Grillou just twice - on both occasions to gather building supplies and throw in a bit of food shopping at the same time. Friends didn't believe me when I told them. I don't blame them. I can barely believe it myself. But it's true. During the same period, sleep has been something of a rare commodity too. As, of course, has blogging.

The bottom line is that we've been working to a looming deadline. With the bulk of the building work in the guest accommodation finished, we've had a builder-free period of three months to get to grips with the finishing and decoration of the whole area - nearly 200 square metres - and that meant lots of making good of walls and woodwork, painting, colourwashing, limewashing, tadelakting, tiling, building shelving, sanding, staining and waxing the floors in two rooms, laying new floors in several other rooms, putting in skirting boards, fitting new lights .... It was a looming deadline, because The Perfectionist was due back last week to start major work in the last room - the dining-room-to-be, full from floor to (5m high) ceiling with assorted furniture, boxes of books, bedding, towels, a shower door and copious amounts of general toot of the why-on-earth-did-we-bring-this-to-France variety. All of which had to be Removed, so that The P - now without Pink Van Man, who has taken his pink van to pastures new - could make the sort of mess that only builders can. (Yes, I know, I'll pay heavily for that remark ...).

We made it. Just. As he was unloading his van, we were moving boxes into one bit or other of the new guest accommodation. It's good to have him back (did I really say that?), but the deadlines continue: restoring furniture, yet more bathroom work, stripping and laying more floors, restoring staircases, decorating and finishing the chambre d'hôte hallway and landing, making curtains and throws, trying to restore order into the grounds, redesigning and rewriting our websites in two languages ...

I'm feeling pretty tired, to be honest. (And just possibly a bit grumpy. But you'd have to ask Them about that ...). I know, because I'm fantasising about beaches, and saunas, and hot tubs, and cold beers. But. I went out. The sun shone. And here's the proof: a photo I took from the end of our track.

I'd forgotten, quite how lovely it is.

Labels are for jam ...

I have an identity problem.

As the loose-bowelled Pigeon of Time swoops low over the unsuspecting Tourist of Destiny, and the flatulent Skunk of Fate wanders into the Air-Conditioning System of Eternity (anyone else a ISIHAC fan?), I notice that I can at last see the end of the renovation in my distant line of sight, and that means I have to get my act together to start describing and promoting what we're offering at Grillou to the world.

And that's not as simple as it could be. Because the world of guest accommodation seems to be rigidly divided into this or that: self-catering or serviced, gîte or chambre d'hôte. You book a gîte: you arrive on a Saturday, hand over your security deposit, get your keys, make up your beds, do your thing for a week; then a week later you clean up, hand back the keys and go home, possibly having seen nothing of your hosts, who may not even live on site. You book a chambre d'hôte: you spend time as a part of your hosts' household - you talk with them, get to know them, you may eat with them, effectively share their lifestyle for a night or several ... but although you may be invited to share their living area your own space is usually limited to a bedroom and bathroom.

In France, as indeed in England when we lived there, the entire culture of domestic scale tourism revolves around this distinction. I'm supposed to choose which side of the line I fall on and which particular mould I fit, following which it will be decreed what I offer (or not), how I describe what I offer, what I advertise as, how I legally frame and register my business, how I select my tax régime and what expenses I'm permitted to deduct. And therein lies my problem. I don't do labels, I don't do moulds, and I don't do either-or. And so neither I, nor Grillou, will ever sit happily in a one-of-two-sizes-fits-all system.

We've been here before, in our restaurant days. "Are you a vegetarian restaurant?". "Er - no". "But you don't serve meat or fish ...". "Er - no". "So you must be a vegetarian restaurant then ...". "Er - no". (Okay, I wasn't quite as obtuse as that, but you get my drift). And here in France, where things are as they are just because they are, I suspect it's going to be pretty hard to break the mould. It is, after all, no accident that one of the favourite expressions here is "c'est comme ça" (that's how it is), accompanied of course by the famous shrug of the shoulders.

So when you're offering a chambre d'hôte that actually isn't a chambre but a whole tiny house, with its own hallway and a proper salon and a bedroom with a mezzanine, along with a huge two level gîte-apartment where you can arrive any day you like, stay for three days or fourteen, take breakfast or not, and where your bed will be made up for your arrival and your accommodation cleaned every other day ... well, it's pretty hard here to find yourself a meaningful tag. And that's without throwing into the pot the fact that each unit is designed, in spite of its size, for one couple without children (or four adults, if both are booked together) - and that in itself is going to be challenging to many French people, who are happy to cram as many people/kids/dogs as they can find into the tiniest space when on holiday and seem never to travel without at least two blow up beds for just that eventuality ... not to mention the fact that dinner will indeed be an option two or three times a week, but not every day; smoking will never be an option; and we don't take dogs (or cats, or hamsters, or ferrets).

Oh dear. I think I've just pretty much written myself off.