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A few weeks later there was a message on the answering machine.
'Caro, it's Patrick Joseph. That vineyard is back on the market. The buyer couldn't get a
mortgage. You should move quickly, it will sell fast at this price.' Patrick was a Frenchman
living in Nottingham. He helped people like us, with limited French, manage their way
through the confusion of French property law.
I was thrilled and scared.
'Are we ready for this?' asked Sean when we spoke a few minutes later.
'I don't know, SF. It would be better if Ellie was older… but it seems so perfect.'
'We'll kick ourselves if we don't view it. I can't take another year in the rat race,' said Sean.
Sean left home before dawn and got back after dark. Investment management was stress-
ful and city traffic hell. They were taking their toll. Sophia, now two years old, missed him.
I did too, especially at 5 p.m. with a toddler and a newborn to placate. This vineyard was
the answer. We would pursue our passion and get away from the rat race... and the rain.
'You'll have to go on your own,' I said. 'We won't get a passport for Ellie fast enough for
me to go. Even if it doesn't work out it will be good for our research.'
Research was a good word to keep the property at arm's length. Sean booked his flight.
With absolutely no experience in vineyards and winemaking we needed someone to help
us assess the property. An Internet search offered up the agricultural organisation Société
d'Aménagement Foncier et d'Établissement Rural, or SAFER. They looked like the experts
we needed.
To call them I had to use my French, which, for all my lessons, was pitiful. I had done
a few years of basic French at school then a few years of night classes with the Alliance
Française. I wrote down what I wanted to say and made the call. A woman answered and
my brain froze. I stammered out the first sentence on the page in front of me.
'Je ne parle pas beaucoup français. Parlez très lentement s'il vous plait.'
After several repeats of words that made no sense to me I realised Madame was saying
someone would call me back. My investment in night classes was not delivering what I
hoped.
A Monsieur Dupont called at 7 a.m. the next morning from something called La Sa Furr.
I assumed he had the wrong number and was about to hang up when it dawned on me that
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