FPN Deputy Editor's Blog

Money, money, money

Progress report - Project Buy in France (BIF)

5) Save money

Saving money is very much like losing weight – both are painful, slow and require supreme willpower. Unfortunately, my pain threshold is pitifully low; I’m impatient and I was definitely last in the queue when God was handing out willpower.

Much like dieting, saving money is a relatively simple concept with only two essential rules. When dieting, you have to eat less and exercise more; when saving money the key is to spend less and earn more. And, of course, it goes without saying that both dieting and saving money are far simpler in concept than practice.

But practice I must if I am to save enough to buy a house (ahem, jumped-up tent) in France. Unfortunately, earning more is out (the recession has put paid to any pay rises this year). And as for saving, well, I already live on a tight budget, and as we all know, when you shave nothing off nothing, you’re likely to end up with, well, nothing.

At this point, I need to make it clear that I don’t conform to the average 20-something, designer-bag toting, spendthrift stereotype that is regularly trundled out in the press (I can hear my mother snorting in my head, but bear with me). Granted I was a particularly hedonistic teenager and an even less responsible student, but I have reformed. I bought my first house when I was 24, after years of scrimping and saving and one particularly memorable month when I lived entirely on lentil soup. I renovated it from scratch, with my own now-not-so-fair hands, out of my own pocket. I do not have a credit card or any personal loans. I pay all my bills by direct debit. I do not have an overdraft. I do have a pension. By today’s standards that makes me either 60, or a model of financial restraint.

But what I do have (all of the three beans I get paid every month), I spend. I can hardly help it – after my mortgage, extortionate utility bills, mobile phone bill, life insurance, TV licence and pension contribution, I am left with approximately half a bean. I spend that on food, entertainment and, very occasionally, when I don’t have an engagement party/hen do/wedding/baby shower to attend (i.e. never), clothes.

Again sceptics hold your fire; Firstly, I use the word ‘entertainment’, but what I mean is the occasional dinner out, perhaps a trip to the cinema, a magazine, DVD or a glass of wine with the girls. Although I would dearly love to regularly be falling out of exclusive nightclubs tanked up on expensive drinks and falling into extortionate taxis, the reality is that most nights I can be found on the sofa scrolling through BBCiplayer with a hot chocolate.

And I drink hot chocolate because it’s cheaper than putting the heating on. I can make 462 different dishes out of one 500g pack of supermarket value mince. I cycle 10 miles to work and 10 miles back every day because I can’t afford the tube fare. I walk everywhere else. Sometimes, I ‘treat’ myself to the bus. I recently had my hair cut for the first time in 18 months.

So while I’m doing my level best to siphon off the odd penny into a savings account, it’s not proving easy. The classic money-saving tips just don’t apply to me – I already make my own lunch and there aren’t many more ways with mince! I will have to get creative (not with mince, with money!).

What I can do is to make sure that I make the most of the money I do save and spend. First stop, Martin Lewis’ excellent moneysavingexpert.com, which contains some excellent tips on switching utilities, bank accounts and the curiously-named practice of ‘stoozing’ (taking advantage of 0% interest rates) to bring in some extra cash.

First stop, the current account. I’ve been with the same bank all my life but, once I discover just how desperate some other banks are for my custom, I feel distinctly less loyal. There are banks so desperate, they are prepared to pay me £100, give me free travel insurance and a free overdraft facility if I sign up. I don’t need asking twice, especially as the bank promises to do all the leg work.

True to its word, the bank I select handles all of the paperwork and the transfer goes smoothly. Granted, I receive a ridiculous amount of letters detailing every action it takes but as none of it needs to be actioned, I can hardly complain – especially when the promised £100 appears in my account. £100 down, £4,900 to go!

Next, savings. When I opened my current ISA, it was the market leader but the rate has gradually fallen to virtually nothing and I’ve done nothing about it. Moneysavingexpert.com points to an account offering a 3% fixed interest rate until November 2010. It’s instant access and can be opened with a balance of just £1. Bingo.

All this generates quite enough paperwork to be going on with, and frankly I already have a full-time job, so the utilities can wait but a certain overpriced energy company had better start quaking in its boots.

Before I shut down my computer, I note with interest Martin’s tips on ‘stoozing’. My Christmas fund can stay nestled in its high interest account for a few months longer as I will use a 0% interest credit card to buy presents for my family this year. Even better, I could use a cashback card that actually pays me to spend money… something to mull over, preferably over a glass of mulled wine.

Une étudiante à Londres

Progress report - Project Buy In France (BIF)

Step one: Become fluent in French

My failure to get anywhere with this specific step may well be a case of once burnt, twice shy. Last time I moved abroad (to Italy), I was convinced that I needed an extra helping hand with the language before I went – thinking that my A-level and degree course may not be enough to carry me through all the new and exciting situations I would no doubt encounter.

I signed up to a course of ‘advanced’ Italian lessons at vast expense and dutifully attended the first session, notebook in hand. The other ‘students’ in the class were all over 50 (I was 19 at the time), all owned houses in ‘bella Tuscany’ and wanted to be able to ‘converse with the locals’. After a torturous three hours on a Wednesday evening listening to Richard and Margaret stumble through a basic role play on ‘ordering in a restaurant’ in a fingernails-scraping-down-a-blackboard accent that in no way approximated Italian, I wanted to hack my own ears off with a pencil. Unfortunately for me, the course was non-refundable. I sat through one more session before I decided that the class was actually having a detrimental effect on my Italian. To this day, I am not sure what the 'advanced' stood for - perhaps 'advanced years'?

Fearful of making the same mistake twice, and mindful that paying through the nose for a course that in no way improves my language skills will be in direct contravention of step five of the BIF project, I’ve looked into several night schools. However, none of the course descriptions seem to correspond with my particular level of French. I don’t need any help with ordering in a restaurant or making travel arrangements, thank you very much; I’ve already taken the GCSE, I can read Le Monde with minimal recourse to the dictionary and get the gist of most conversations. My problem is purely one of practice, fluency and vocabulary. The conversation classes I’ve found all sound too advanced. Back to the drawing board it is.

Obviously, I’ll need to put in some work – luckily for me (and step five of BIF) I have access to numerous resources, thanks to my job. There’s the Chambers Guides to French Verbs, Grammar and Vocabulary that recently landed on my desk and the interactive Rosetta Stone computer programme that I have installed on my laptop – I just need to apply myself.

But even assuming I undergo a radical personality change and manage to hit the books, French cannot flourish on grammar and vocab alone. I’m going to need to speak to a real, live expert in the matter. I need to find a conversation partner.

To that end, I type ‘conversation exchange, French-English, London’ into Google. Immediately a dinky little website www.conversationexchange.com pops up. It’s perfect. There are hundreds of native French speakers registered in the London area begging to meet up with a real live Londoner. I sign up immediately. Immediately, I’m faced with creating a ‘profile’ – I feel slightly like my 12-year-old self composing a letter to a pen pal. Oh perhaps a cheesy contestant on blind date: “My name is Georgina, I’m 27 years old and I come from London, Cilla”. I persevere and eventually manage to compose a stilted, innocuous request to the effect that I’m looking to practice my French. And I call myself a writer!

It doesn’t get any better. I browse through those already registered and instantly reject at least three-quarters of them by virtue of their gender. I’m not sure my French could stretch to fending off unwelcome advances from randy Frenchmen and my overactive imagination can just see the headlines; it would be just my luck to get the serial killer masquerading as an exchange student. Next I cut out anyone under the age of 25. I don’t want to have to enthuse about the latest clubs or have the plot of High School Musical 3 explained to me in detail – I’m not sure that set of vocabulary would come in handy in rural France, anyway.

Two of the remaining three catch my eye. Both have mentioned meeting over a rather promising ‘verre’ and have written their profiles in French – presumably that means their English is so bad that I will get more than my fair share of practice. Now I have to email them via the site. Again, I feel about 12, and a particularly verbally-challenged 12-year-old at that. At the same time and, rather confusingly, I feel slightly grubby; propositioning girls over the internet is a sure way to dirty-old-man status, non?

I wait with baited breath and acute anxiety – how will I live with the rejection if they don’t reply – or even worse, reply but reject me on the basis of my pathetic messaging skills? To be continued…

Resolve

So, having promptly decided upon six-step programme to help me along the way to buying a house in France (hereby referred to as the BIF programme), I am proud to report that, like every resolution I have ever made (and probably, based on a less-than-scientific-survey of three people, any resolution ever made), thus far, I have failed spectacularly to stick to even one element of the programme, let alone all six.

Although I have a first-class honours degree in concocting excuses, I’ve hitherto always believed that, ultimately, my failure to exercise even the tiniest degree of self-discipline when it comes to anything more strenuous than sitting zombified in front of the television and eating my own weight in Ben & Jerry’s, was purely due to a lack of will power of any kind.

However, perusing the supplements last weekend, I stumbled upon an article that shook me to the core. Apparently, there is no such thing as will power. According to the author of the Piece-I-Wish-I-Had-Never-Read, it takes just as much effort to learn bad habits as it does to learn good. All those jogging-at-six-am-never-touch-booze-always-do-my-homework-types, are (apparently) exactly the same as us layabouts, because it takes exactly the same amount of effort and dedication to be a sloth as it does to be a superhero. Both are learnt habits. If you usually get up at six, it requires no effort at all to continue to do so. Ha – stick that in your smug ethically-sourced pipe and smoke it.

While I remain delighted to learn that all those years that I’ve spent hitting the snooze button and lolling around on the sofa have been equivalent in effort (if not as productive) to the hours spent by more virtuous types leaping out of bed at the crack of dawn to go for a jog before finding a cure for cancer, I am gutted to learn that the one concept I have relied upon to justify my inertia to myself and the world is apparently non-existent. Yes, the keystone that I have been counting on all these years has crumbled, collapsing my whole belief system and (gasp), meaning that I now have absolutely no excuse.

It also means that, if I can break through the initial pain barrier, I should find it a cinch to change my lazy ways for good and become a super French-speaking, spanner-wielding, money-saving machine.

There’s no time like the present, so with that in mind, I hastily set about trying to achieve all of my goals at once (anyone else sensing a recipe for further disaster and impending doom?)…

A tall order?

To do:

1) Become fluent in French

2) Learn to drive

3) Persuade recalcitrant boyfriend of six years to marry me

4) Learn essential building skills

5) Save money

6) Buy house in France

That is my current, and quite frankly daunting to do list for the next year. August may not be the most obvious time to come up with a master plan – January being the more acceptable time to make unrealistic declarations of intent – but, despite having left the education system many moons ago, somehow the new-pencil-case-promise of September has never left me. And, as my work revolves around France, I am hereby adopting the great cultural phenomenon that is La Rentrée as the starting point for my mission to eventually own my own little piece of l’Hexagone.

What’s bought this on, I hear my readers ask (all three of them – hi mum)?

Last Friday, in the midst of researching potential properties to include in the Dordogne feature that I am currently writing for our October issue, I stumbled across a tiny shack with an equally tiny price tag on property portal France Property Shop (www.francepropertyshop.com). Now, here at FPN HQ, not a day goes by without a jealous-rage-inducing property popping into my inbox. But whether it’s a 12-bed château for €4m or a modest three-bed new-build for just €100,000, the one thing that all of these properties have in common is that I can’t afford them. But here was an, admittedly, tumbledown cottage with land going for a song even I could sing in tune. It must be a mistake, thought I, but just in case, I rapidly adjusted my search parameters to include the whole of France. To my amazement, a whole host of properties popped up, the lowest for just €5,950.

Now, although it is my job to know all about property prices and despite the fact that my mother bought her (glorified tent) property in France for under €20,000 in 1998, I didn’t realise that it was still possible to buy something habitable within a reasonable distance of an airport for such an affordable sum. Yes, some of the properties for sale for under €20,000 have mains electricity and water, drainage, reasonably-sound roofs and actual walls. These aren’t doomed renovation projects just waiting for a stupid Brit to come along and sink his life’s savings into them only to find he’s spent double what the property will eventually be worth, these are properties that, with a lick of paint, lashings of TLC, modest expenditure and a strongly-developed tolerance for squalor, could feasibly become decent holiday homes. Some of them looked like they were in better condition than our London flat was when we bought it almost three years ago. Some of them even had the same disgusting wallpaper.

Unfortunately, the fact that these houses are pitifully cheap doesn’t change the fact that I don’t actually have five grand – but let’s not split hairs – the point being that even I, on my pathetic scribe’s wage, could save that up given time. Whereas the chances of me saving £100,000 before I’m in my dotage and too frail to wield a paint brush are slim indeed.

So what if, thought I, I threw caution and all my cash to the wind and snapped up something similar? And there the floodgates opened.

First, I’d have to persuade the boy that this was a GOOD THING. Blessed with an overactive imagination and a propensity for making momentous decisions on a whim (thanks mum!), I have learnt over time that, if the boy thinks it’s a good idea, it usually is. If he doesn’t, it’s another lead to be confined to the ‘not in this lifetime’ pile. The one exception to this is the big ‘M’ (whisper it: ‘marriage’), but that’s a tale for another time.

So when he came home that night, I made sure I was strategically placed at the table, the trusty laptop in front of me already lit up with the FPS homepage. A steaming cup of tea sat waiting for him and I bided my time while he drank it, gently enquiring after his day like any good wench-who-wants-something should.

It was a strategy that seemed to work; when I eventually steered the conversation round to my recent discovery, his eyes lit up with excitement to mirror mine as I showed him what we could get for our budget. Admittedly, it wasn’t a bolt out of the blue. We’ve been discussing such a move for a couple of years now, but it’s never been the right time. Now, it may well be. It may also solve some other problems that have emerged as he passes and I approach the big three-oh (whisper it: ‘thirty’): he hasn’t got a pension at all and my recent pension statement revealed that, based on my current contributions, I could expect to retire at 87 on the generous sum of approximately 12p a year – as long as the stock markets are kind to me, of course!

If we buy a property in France outright and do it up, any income it generates (from holidaymakers or tenants) would be pure profit and can be swiftly diverted directly into a savings account. Meanwhile, we won’t have to pay for accommodation when we want a break and we’ll always have somewhere to shelter if the worst comes to the worst. It’s a win:win.

Having agreed that buying a place in France is a distinct possibility, it now falls to us to make it a probability – or better, a done deal. And so to the list.

1) Become fluent in French – My French is good, but rusty and I’ll need to be able to hold my own in a conversation if we have any hope of pulling this off. Besides, if point three doesn’t come about, I may well need to chat up the local talent.

2) Learn to drive - Given that any properties within our budget will inevitably be in the country, I will need to be able to drive – something I’ve been avoiding all my adult life on account of living in central London and being plain terrified at the prospect of getting behind the wheel. I’m just going to have to get through it by thinking of all the brocantes I’ll be able to visit once I’ve got my licence.

3) Persuade recalcitrant boyfriend of six years to marry me – This has nothing to do with buying in France and everything to do with my fast-approaching Bridget Jones status. I don’t want to end up an on-the-shelf-mad-cat-lady-spinster, and plus, he’s not one of my three readers, so I can write what I want on this list! But, on a more practical note, French succession law does not smile upon co-habitees.

4) Learn essential building skills – As the purchase and fees will swallow our meagre budget immediately, we’ll have to find a way to do any work that will inevitably need to done as cheaply as possible. We’ve already mastered the basics by practising on our London flat, but we’ll need to step it up a gear if the current houses on the market are anything to go by – DIY-nightmare, enter stage right!

5) Save Money – While we have a few pennies stowed away already, these are our ‘just in case’ funds. We’ll need to save up frantically for about a year if we want to raise enough – cue meals of gruel and miserable winter evenings with the thermostat turned to low…

6) Buy house in France – See points 1-5...

Call off the search…

Two days ago, I once again found myself in the rather unfortunate position of having to board the Eurostar in Paris’ Gare du Nord, which whisked me back to London and reality far too quickly. Unfortunate, I might add, because I had absolutely no desire to leave France and not because there is anything untoward about the Eurostar, which is my preferred mode of transport for any distances my trusty bike can’t handle! Indeed, I have been known to wax lyrical to the point of trainspotter nerdiness about just how much I love the Eurostar, especially since it moved to its spectacular ‘norf’ London seat.

Anyway, I digress.

My recent trip, which, incidentally, was to the Loire Valley, has helped me to understand just how difficult it is for all you househunters out there. I say ‘you’ because, although I would truly love to join your ranks, unless the lottery gods shine down on me this weekend or my humble scribe’s pay packet is significantly boosted out of the blue (ahem! hint, hint), I fear I will not be joining your club for some time.

However, even if I were able to afford my very own place in France, I can’t imagine how I would narrow down the search. Each and every time I go to my beloved Hexagone, I fall in love with a different region. Last year I was lovesick for Bordeaux, then Dijon stole my heart and now I’m head over heals with Orléans.

I must confess to knowing absolutely nothing about Orléans before my recent visit. So I was delighted to discover just how beautiful and vivacious it is. The architecture veers from medieval half-timbered houses to ornate neo-classical apartment buildings. There are shops galore; master craftsmen touching noses with top international brands, specialty delicatessens and tiny interior design boutiques selling gorgeous French trinkets. At night, tables full of jovial groups populate a series of charming squares and by day you can cycle along the river banks or wander through the fleamarket on Boulevard Alexandre Martin. I’m sold. See our facebook page for pictures of my favourite houses in the Centre region. http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=2071327&id=91376916913#/pages/French-Property-News/91376916913

It’s a common problem, so common, in fact, that here at FPN towers, we often get calls from distressed readers who are so overwhelmed by France’s magnificent bounty that they simply can’t decide where to begin their search for that dream home. Luckily for you, our August issue will help you narrow it down. There’s more on my trip to the Loire and tips from estate agent Penny Zoldan on how to narrow down your search.

Meanwhile, make sure you don’t miss our first subscriber club e-newsletter, containing fantastic special offers and discounts. If you are a current subscriber, update your email address at www.subscription.co.uk/help/archant or subscribe to the magazine today to ensure you don’t miss out at www.subscription.co.uk/fpn/W409

Health of the nation

Did anyone see this http://women.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/women/the_way_we_live/article6149246.ece in the Sunday Times this week?

If you’re constantly put off moving lock, stock and barrel to France by scare stories in the press, this story on the thriving British community in France, buoyed by the superior French economy – which has sustained many a Brit expat over the years and continues to do so even in the current financial climate – should fill you with cheer.

Yes, times are hard for all of us right now. But those expats who risked it all on the Spanish market are decidedly worse off than most and are returning to the UK penniless, with their tail between their legs. Meanwhile, Brits living it up in France are cutting back on the odd luxury but the suitcases are still safely stowed in the attic where they belong.

At the moment, I’m sub-editing a very informative article for our June issue, written by regular contributor Peter-Danton de Rouffignac, in which he examines the state of the French economy in detail. And the conclusion? Crisis, what crisis?

Indeed the French economy looks positively rosy compared to its sickly neighbours. Yes, France is suffering from the global downturn, but it’s built up a strong immune system over the years, and with one of the best healthcare systems in the world, it will bounce back to rude health in no time – no swine flu here...

On a budget?

Budget build up

I’m sure you’re all waiting on tenterhooks for the budget announcement tomorrow. With Darling set to announce a series of measures aimed at helping hard-pressed homeowners in the UK and boosting mortgage availability, perhaps you’ll finally be able to sell up and realise that long-held dream of moving to France.

French Property News has secured the services of Stephen Hughes, Director at Foreign Currency Direct, who will be breaking down all that budget jargon into plain English for us mere mortals following the announcement tomorrow. See our daily news section on the FPN home page for information on how the budget will affect the housing market both here and in France.

It might interest you to know that Sarkozy has already ushered in a series of measures aimed at stimulating the French housing market. Introduced in France’s 2009 budget in January, the Loi Scellier is the latest scheme offering tax-breaks to buy-to-let investors – joining the Robien, Borloo and leaseback schemes.

Buying a second home or investing in property might not seem prudent in the current market but with interest rates at an all time low in the UK and Eurozone, if you’re a saver, your money won’t be benefiting from a stint in the bank right now. You may be pleasantly surprised by the competitive rates of return that can be generated on French investment property – luckily for you, we’ve included a definitive guide to euro-busting investment purchases in the May issue (out 29 April).

Dispatches: Crash, bang, wallop

Cooking with half an eye on the television, as is my habit of an evening, I almost burnt my chilli con carne, so absorbed was I by Channel 4’s Dispatches; Crash – How the banks went bust yesterday evening.

It made me think. One of the main reasons that the French property market has fared considerably better than its sickly neighbours (will Spain and the UK please stand up!), is its strict approach to lending. The UK and US could certainly learn a thing or two about mortgages from L’Hexagone. France’s superior regulation has helped to keep the country’s financial system ticking over, despite the wider worldwide malaise. Yes the recession has hit home in France too, but later and to a lesser extent than elsewhere.

Why? Not only did French banks spread their risk more evenly (Incidentally, have those bankers never heard the phrase ‘don’t keep all your eggs in one basket’?), but those of you familiar with the French mortgage application process will already know that French banks impose strict lending criteria on mortgage applicants. French banks do not use salary multiples to calculate how much to lend, instead basing their decision on the proportion of income dedicated to the repayment of all loans and mortgages. If this figure exceeds a third of your total net income, a French bank will not lend you a single centime. It is illegal to bounce a check in France and credit cards as we know them in the UK do not exist. French people do not run up scary debts. This is not because they are more financially astute than the rest of us, but simply because they are not allowed to. I’m surprised that the ultimate nanny state (aka the UK) has yet to catch on to this new angle on its-for-your-own-good politics – surely there’s a whole host of public service announcements and educational pamphlets that could be cooked up at vast expense to the taxpayer? I hope Darling has saved a sous or two in his budget!

French Property News lands on Twitter

http://twitter.com/BuyinFrance

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Country living

Had you asked me last week, I would have described myself as one of those rare breeds that is equally comfortable in the country or in the city, having spent the first half of my life in various rural outposts and the latter half living slap, bang in the middle of assorted cities. I have always described myself as neither a country bumpkin nor a city slicker, but as a mysterious cross-breed, destined to sit on the fence and declare that both lifestyles have their merits.

However, a weekend in Shropshire – England’s most sparsely populated county – at my mother’s house has definitely forced my hand. I must choose and, what’s more, I am going to betray my roots (as the product of two farming families) and place my foot firmly into the urban camp. Being shacked up with a townie has clearly begun to rub off on me – it must be catching.

What has this got to do with France, I hear you ask? Patience, dear reader.

Back to my weekend and subsequent epiphany. On Fridays, I usually work from home. On this particular Friday, the laptop and I were ensconced in the ancestral home. Mother-dear was at work, the various siblings at work or college, so I was alone with Tom the cat. As lunchtime approached, I began to feel a little peckish. Mmmh, thought I – perhaps a warming bowl of soup, some hummus and pitta or a ciabatta with mozzarella, tomato and avocado would fit the bill. As I opened the fridge I heard the sound of winds blowing across an empty prairie – nothing. The cupboards revealed slim pickings. Nevermind, thought I, after I had spent a suitable amount of time cursing the gannets I have for siblings. I shall nip to the shop. Problem solved.

The problem was most definitely not solved. I cannot drive, it being a slightly redundant skill for those who live in central London and an extortionately expensive redundant skill to acquire, at that. A combination of hail and rain was doing its level best to take out the window panes, but hunger drove me on. I donned a full length waxed jacket belonging to my mother and a waxed hat adorned with a natty pheasant feather that was perched jauntily on the settle in the hall. Next I stepped into my younger sister’s wellingtons. At this juncture, so that you get the full mental picture, I should point out that my family are giants and, although my mother assures me that the milkman was nowhere to be seen at the time of my conception, the height gene seems to have passed me by. So there I was, swamped by a wax jacket that I could barely lift unaided, wearing wellingtons designed for Bigfoot and with hat obscuring my view, braced to go forth and hunt down my lunch.

As soon as I had navigated the driveway, I realised my first mistake. There are no pavements in the country – everyone drives everywhere, so why bother to cater for the automotively-challenged? Instead, I was forced to half-step, half-flop onto the verge whenever a passing vehicle approached.

The second I stepped into the village shop, a good mile uphill later, I recalled the second law of country life: food options are decidedly limited. Soup was Heinz cream of tomato or Heinz cream of tomato. The chances of buying a fresh tomato or avocado were slim and as for ciabatta, hummus and mozzarella – forget it!

It was on Saturday, however, that my romantic visions of moving to a rural idyll and living out my Good Life fantasy finally crumbled. My brother and I were sent into the garden to rake up an innocent-looking pile of leaves. Three back-braking hours of raking, scooping and ferrying said leaves to the compost pile later and I was ready to get on the next train, preferably to an area totally devoid of greenery of any kind.

The point I am making, albeit in a rather long-winded fashion, is that it’s all very well fancying yourself as the next Hugh Fernley Whittingstall, but the reality of country life is aeons away from scenes of rosy-cheeked children and baskets of fresh produce all ready to be turned into nutritious suppers. Countrylife can be intensely isolating – rarely of the splendid variety – the amenities limited and tending even a modest stretch of land involves relentless toil.

So if you are thinking of relocating to rural France, make sure you know what you are letting yourself in for. If you currently live in suburban England, or in a town or city centre, you will be in for a rude awakening. Of course, there are those who adore country life – my mother is one of them – but for the rest of us mere mortals, it might be wise to seek out a compromise; living on the edge of a town, for example.

If you are determined that country life is for you, then make sure you read Mary Hall’s tips for living in rural France in the January issue of FPN – out December 31^st. And Bonne Chance!

The prodigal pounds

Well my intrepid, prodigal pounds have returned from their little trip to India but, thanks to the world’s economy, they are worth considerably less now than they were when they were stolen two weeks ago.

I’m currently hoping that the other pounds out there will turn out to be as reliable as my three and bounce back to their former glory in the near future.

Meanwhile, if Mohammed can’t come to the mountain as the saying goes… In lieu of actually being in France, I’ve been busy recreating France in my own corner of London. First stop, a trip to see the magnificent ‘I’ve loved you so long’ or ‘Il y a longtemps que je t’aime’ at the cinema. A wonderful film starring Kristen Scott Thomas – now there’s a Brit who has taken integration seriously, her French was impeccable, if accented and her performance as a mother, paroled after serving 15 years in jail for her son’s murder, impressive.

It’s not just Scott Thomas and her co-stars who shine in the film; Nancy, where the drama unfolds, looks magnificent. If you are considering a pick-me-up trip, Lorraine would be the perfect place for a pre-Christmas jaunt. There’s the Christmas markets with their dazzling light displays to visit, not to mention that French classic, quiche lorraine, with its crumbling buttery crust and goey, delicious filling of eggs, cheese and bacon – perfect as a winter warmer. Buy the December issue now for more information on Christmas markets throughout France.

But if, like me, you’re grounded for the time being, you should plan a trip to our own fair capital come January for the ultimate in surrogate France – The France Show. You’ve got just over a week to register for free tickets at www.thefranceshow.com – the offer ends on 31^st November – and if that’s not a credit crunch-beating proposition, I don’t know what is. Bon voyage.

Why are we waiting?

It’s been a strange week indeed. The clocks have gone back meaning that, by the time I leave FPN HQ, it’s already pitch black; we’ve had our first snowfall and the pound has taken a nosedive. What’s more, my personal pounds (all three of them) have disappeared into the ether as someone in India has been busy stealing my entire salary and savings via a cloned version of my debit card.

All this has contributed to my overriding belief that we all need to seize the day, live in the moment and stop letting the world and his dog dictate when it’s the ‘right time’ for us to fulfil our dreams. Personally, I’m bored to death of being prudent. Since I graduated, I’ve been sensible, sensible, sensible. First, I paid off my student debt, next I saved for a deposit on a house. Once I’d signed my future earnings away for a tiny postage-stamp’s worth of space in London, I started paying into a pension fund. I managed to enjoy the full benefit of my monthly salary for precisely three seconds (or one pair of shoes – depending how you look at it), before this credit crunch business had me scrimping and saving all over again ‘just in case’. Now I’m busy watching someone else enjoy the benefits of my hard-earned cash. Literally. Yes, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, wearing three jumpers and sleeveless gloves because I can’t afford to turn the heating on, drinking an infusion verveine made with a re-used tea-bag, gazing at this thieving spendthrift’s antics via the medium of internet banking. This fraudster has been living it up in Bangalore, buying jewellery, clothes and cinema tickets, eating at restaurants and generally enjoying themselves, leaving me to pick up the tab. And I’m taking it personally. Very personally. It’s my own, personal credit crunch.

For, if you think about it, there isn’t much difference between what is happening to me right now, courtesy of this small-scale thief, and what’s been happening to all of us thanks to the irresponsible bankers of this world (insert cockney rhyming slang at will). Okay, so they may have got us into this mess legally (unlike my fraudster), but there they are, eating gold-stuffed olives and caviar washed down with Cristal as they sit on their diamond-encrusted thrones, rubbing their hands together with glee and tossing fifty-pound notes onto the fire of greed. Meanwhile, we mortals sit here shivering in multiple layers, watching as they wipe thousands off the value of our homes, fritter away our savings and trample all over our modest dreams.

What can we do? Take our fate into our own hands. Do now what we’ve been too cautious to do thus far. Because, if this thief and this credit crunch have taught me anything, it’s that being cautious doesn’t pay dividends. Forget the mortgage, savings and the pension, if I had travelled the world post-graduation, lived by the seat of my pants and saved worrying about the future for a rainy day, rather than saved money for a rainy day, I would be in exactly the same situation as I am now; broke - albeit with a far better tan. No, we need to rise up en masse, put up our umbrellas and follow our hearts.

So, if you’ve postponed your dream of moving to France, or buying that holiday home because of the current economic climate, I urge you to reconsider. After all, as the saying goes, you can’t take it with you, but as we’ve all seen this week, they can take it off you. When all is said and done, if we have to live on the breadline, I know whose baguettes I prefer.

Restoring hope?

It's easy to get caught up in all this doom and gloom, which is why, for the last month I’ve been busy reminding myself (and hopefully readers too) of just why France is such a magical place.

The first reminder came in an email from my mother with a link to an advertisement for our former French house, which is now being sold on by its current owners. Flicking through the picture gallery was an exercise in nostalgia. There was the beautiful oak staircase we’d fitted, my former bedroom, the terracotta floor tiles my mother sweated blood over, the wood burning stove that had kept us cosy at Christmas and the swimming pool where my siblings and I whiled away many baking summer afternoons. If I had a spare €200,000-odd, I would have snapped it up there and then. The memories we built up from our sojourn in France are irreplaceable and certainly enough to fuel my dream of returning one day.

However, three trips to France in quick succession have only served to confuse the issue of where I will live when I do take the plunge. My first stop was Picardy, which became a serious contender in seconds, being unbelievably easy to reach from London St Pancras via the Eurostar. I adore taking the train to France; no ridiculous security checks, no tiresome and over-priced airport transfers and no baggage restrictions – not to mention brownie points for the old carbon footprint.

On to Bordeaux barely two weeks later and it was love at first sight, not just because of the magnificent 18^th-century buildings that the city has been busy restoring, or the wide promenade and park which has been installed along the riverbank for residents to stroll, cycle or rollerblade along, or even because a chance to sample some of Bordeaux’s excellent wines meant I was permanently tipsy. No, I loved Bordeaux because, unlike many French cities and towns that I’ve visited, it is truly cosmopolitan. There were Indian, Turkish and Thai restaurants, shops of every description and – gasp – signs of nightlife, not to mention theatres, galleries and museums. I’m a confirmed Francophile, but I also know from experience that man cannot live on bread alone…

On a visit to Dijon later in the month, another love affair began. It was the start of a cycling tour around Burgundy’s vineyards and, being the third time in the space of a month that I’d mentally moved to France, it led me to consider what it is that is so charming about French cities and the French approach to town planning in general.

Seeing these beautifully restored town centres is uplifting, not just for the beautiful buildings revealed in all their glory or the charming café culture played out on every street corner, but for the thought that has gone into creating spaces that will directly enhance the life of the city’s residents. No expense has been spared, no consideration thought too trivial.

In Dijon, for example, what was once a tarmac-covered parking lot outside the town hall has been transformed into a marble-paved square, interlaced with fountains, created to ‘bring the community together’ of an evening and encourage social interaction. Meanwhile, free shuttle buses are on hand to help the less able navigate the shops. It’s a far cry from the prevailing attitude in the UK, where exclusion zones and ASBOs are the order of the day. Walking the streets of Dijon and Bordeaux, it was clear that the French approach to building community relations was infinitely more effective. No hoodies here.

Then, cycling down through Burgundy, I could hardly help but notice the incredible facilities laid on for cyclists there. It is not surprising that the country that plays host to the greatest cycle race of all time caters well for its cyclists but still, I was impressed. Some 400 miles of cycle paths built along old railway lines, canal banks and between the vineyards, all immaculately tended. Compare that to my daily commute to FPN HQ; it’s 10 miles by bike, just half a mile of which is via a designated cycle path. The rest of the time I’m at the mercy of London’s brutal drivers. What’s more, in Burgundy, every cyclist or pedestrian we encountered along the way called out a cheery ‘Bonjour’, while the occasional car we came across was content to wait and let us pass. I can’t print the word most commonly yelled at me by London drivers, but suffice to say, it isn’t friendly.

To plagiarise our very own George East on this one… those are reasons 3,003 and 3,004 for moving to France.