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private home at all. But how extraordinary that nobody told me. Apart from the photograph,
there was absolutely no hint of this at all in the estate agent's particulars.
I just stood there gawping at him in horror, my months of meticulous planning flashing
before my eyes,
ruined
. I carefully avoided Jack's inevitable expression and, in the absence
of Pierre (who by now had departed) I shot a vicious look at our young apprentice, who
seemed equally bemused. The truth is I couldn't blame Nicole. She couldn't possibly be
held responsible for any of this and anyway she was far too sweet to berate.
The owner, completely oblivious to the effects of this latest revelation, explained that
the
domaine
was used primarily as a commercial sporting estate. Participants hunted on the
land and lodged in the hunt house, but did most of their dining in the local village. It was
the French version of a B&B.
After listening to this explanation I was convinced that Jack would explode and I
couldn't blame him if he did. After all, a swing from the original intention to buy a house
with a maximum of four bedrooms and ending up with a hotel was rather extreme, even for
me. But, to his credit, he remained totally calm (which can, however, be a dangerous sign
in itself, especially when his skin tone takes on a strange beetroot flush).
Following a speed tour of the bedroom area, which was very much in-keeping with
the ground floor, Jack, to my surprise, asked to see the private residence. He later told me
that if the estate had been otherwise suitable, he would have knocked down the
maison
de chasse
(hunt house). This might have sounded a little drastic, but would probably have
been an inexpensive undertaking, one hefty shove with a shoulder being sufficient to do the
job.
Armed with this latest information we soldiered on to the private residence previously
described as 'the bothy'. I concluded that the hunt house must have been the original dwell-
ing and the second property built later when the decision to go commercial was taken. Sud-
denly things started to look up.
The house was a perfect size for us; a nice big kitchen to spread myself and assorted
equipment in and a cosy sitting room that didn't require a busload of people to fill it. Up-
stairs, the four bedrooms were well appointed and there was a pleasant balcony off the mas-
ter suite overlooking the only level part of the estate. There was even a risk of seeing the
sun from this vantage point.
But, and of course there had to be a
but
, it had only taken a moment to work out that
we were standing in a completely prefabricated building, like a static caravan. In fact the
structure was so insubstantial that I was surprised it had withstood the storm. I glanced at
Jack who was muttering to himself.
“They're see-through, bloody
see-through.
”
He was talking about the walls. What a complete
disaster
.
We left our estate agent to explain the various specification cock-ups with the owner
and went to check on the dogs and decide what to do next. By this stage I was ready to
