French workmen - a whole new ballgame.
In England looking in the yellow pages was always a risk. Cowboy hucksters everywhere. But here, everything's different. When we moved in, there was an unexplained space in our handsome stone fireplace. It was crying out for an antique cast-iron poelle or stove. You know the sort: one with a pipe that leads up through the chimney and through the roof. So, you find an artisan and say 'I've seen a stove at our local Brico that's really cheap....'. Response: a very loud Non. We've learnt that there's a highly-involved network with all artisans. The client (i.e. us) must go to the outlets they recommend where they have established contracts. And, of course, those outlets have the most expensive items imaginable. So, nothing for it but to find more funds and go along with the status quo. When in Rome...
Result? Good job we did. Our artisan discovered that the last owner had damaged the chimney and blocked it up. If we hadn't employed someone highly skilled, we'd have set the whole place on fire. French bureaucracy may be irritating, and difficult for small businesses to set up trade, but at least there's no room for cowboys.
Last night, toasting our toes in front of our new (expensive!) poelle, Him indoors mused it's like when he left his last job rather like he started it, fired with enthusiasm.
Showing posts with label wood-burning stove. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wood-burning stove. Show all posts
14th November 2008
I like a country with four definite seasons. Like the raging waters of our local river, the constantly moving seasons tell us that time is moving on and we must enjoy our lives.
It's now mid-November, time to use what I like best about the winter: our wood-burning insert stove. There's nothing like a real fire. It takes me back to my childhood, a time before central heating, when everyone had a coal-house outside and you learned how to light the fire using twists of newspaper and pyramids of wood-twigs, to allow the air to flow underneath.
In modern-day France, around 7 million homes use wood for heating (chauffage au bois) even though wood can be expensive. People generally order ready-sawn logs directly from wood merchants - if you can understand them. In my experience they speak French like nothing I've ever heard before....a sort of grunting dialect, that suddenly becomes transformed into something comprehensible the minute that money is discussed. They usually charge around 35 euros per cu.m. The trouble is, they won't deliver unless you order a lorry load - and we don't always need that much (because our insert supplements our already-expensive gas central heating). So, what to do? Yes, you've guessed. I send Him indoors out at dead of night to our local forest. He takes with him the wheelbarrow (after carefully oiling it to stop any creaking - the barrow, not him) and comes back with all the fallen branches he can fit into the load. He says he's branching out. It may not be entirely legal, but what the hell. It's free and nearby. After all, almost a quarter of France is covered by forest. And if he's stopped by the Mairie? The usual je ne comprends pas generally suffices.
It's now mid-November, time to use what I like best about the winter: our wood-burning insert stove. There's nothing like a real fire. It takes me back to my childhood, a time before central heating, when everyone had a coal-house outside and you learned how to light the fire using twists of newspaper and pyramids of wood-twigs, to allow the air to flow underneath.
In modern-day France, around 7 million homes use wood for heating (chauffage au bois) even though wood can be expensive. People generally order ready-sawn logs directly from wood merchants - if you can understand them. In my experience they speak French like nothing I've ever heard before....a sort of grunting dialect, that suddenly becomes transformed into something comprehensible the minute that money is discussed. They usually charge around 35 euros per cu.m. The trouble is, they won't deliver unless you order a lorry load - and we don't always need that much (because our insert supplements our already-expensive gas central heating). So, what to do? Yes, you've guessed. I send Him indoors out at dead of night to our local forest. He takes with him the wheelbarrow (after carefully oiling it to stop any creaking - the barrow, not him) and comes back with all the fallen branches he can fit into the load. He says he's branching out. It may not be entirely legal, but what the hell. It's free and nearby. After all, almost a quarter of France is covered by forest. And if he's stopped by the Mairie? The usual je ne comprends pas generally suffices.
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