Time to move home...

Thank you for following my blog. It has moved to a new home as part of my decorative antiques website:

www.gillihanna-antiques.co.uk

There is a place on the site for you to sign up and receive occasional emails with details of my forthcoming trips to France.

I hope that you will enjoy looking and reading there.

Gilli.

From Brocante to Depot Vente

Sometimes I find nothing or little of interest as I drive from place to place, and then I chance upon the unexpected and delightful. In a small village, next to the worn stone church tower, I found a brocante in what had been the local theatre. Faded, painted canvas was still hanging over the proscenium. Gloom and dust prevailed. A huge bowl contained dozens of large wooden cotton reels; a box alongside was full of letters from before the war. Then in a Depot Vente nearby I grubbed around and found nothing but formica cabinets on chrome legs and the detritus of modern life. Then again in Rochepot, a gingerbread village well equipped for tourism, the antique shops were truly exquisite, with prices to match. I didn't stay long there.

Back in Basse Normandie, after a circuit via the Atlantic coast, I came to a Depot Vente that had just opened up in a disused railway yard. This looked promising!! The place still smelled of paint and the proprietor looked delighted to have a customer. Would I like a coffee? he asked. As I wandered round with my little white coffee cup, two hefty gilt wood and plaster frames propped against a wall caught my eye. And a big marble topped washstand. They come from the same large house, Monsieur told me. These items demanded to be purchased – and, of course, loaded. Between us we wheeled the extremely heavy marble top on a trolley down a ramp to the van. Go slowly, he said, marble doesn't like vibration, it can snap – comme une carrotte! A surge of anxiety – what did I just let myself in for? But all goes well, no mishaps on the potholed journey home.

White doves and sailor boys

Off again, direction Angers and beyond. In Le Lion d'Angers I stopped to visit the local antiquaire but regretfully only bought some 1940's postcards of the town. “Ah, but you have a photo of me!” he said. The little boy standing in front of the Vieille Eglise, he assured me, was him, several decades before, on the day the local photographer had been capturing the town's notable edifices.

I reached the village where Francois, the dealer lived. I had no actual address, so pulled up in front of the church and enquired of a man passing by.“Le Brocanteur? Il est la,” he said, and pointed directly across the street. Large metal gates opened and there was Francois and his charming wife. She had prepared some beautifully monogrammed linen sheets for me to see – I was not disappointed.

The sky was full of sunset as I headed across country to find Graham. In Vouille I spotted his motorbike through the huge gateway of what had been a coaching inn. The large courtyard had a dovecot, and the logis was pretty, with white shutters and pink roses climbing up the stone walls. From our room we could hear the occasional great beating of wings as fifty white doves migrated from one gently sloping terracotta tiled roof to another.

Mornings are darker in September though. At 5am I groped open the huge wooden doors of the gateway and made my way to market. At 6am I found myself on the far side of Poitiers in a long line of white vans being directed into a field. I leaned out the van and said to the chap with high-vis jacket that I wasn't wanting to set up a stand but to buy! “Oh vous etes anglaise! Well, well!!” came the reply, sounding very Sherlock Holmes. I’d forgotten my torch and had to content myself with buying things in the light of van headlights, or following other people with torches very closely. As the sky lightened I was relieved to see that what I’d bought were actually rather nice.

It doesn’t take much to put me in a good mood: as I bought a few lovely items from one stallholder – blue spotty coffee bowls, a set of skittles painted to look like sailor boys – he said, “I saw you here early this morning. You’re not a brocanteur from around here, are you. I know all the brocanteurs around here. I said to myself, she must be an antiquaire from Paris.” An antiquaire from Paris indeed!

Suits of armour, moustaches and woodworm.

The chambre d’hote in question, at Ruille Froid Fonds, was an ancient farm house, creeper clad, populated with suits of armour, beautiful furniture and an ancient wooden staircase that leaned. I asked Monsieur how long his family had lived in the house. “Only five generations,” he said from beneath his generous moustache.

My plan the following day was to continue south to the home of a dealer I'd met the previous year. En route, I stopped at Chateau Gontier. Like many small provincial towns, it was in full flower, on every bridge, at every street corner, with cobbled pedestrian zones and pretty water features. The ladies in the two Boulangeries gave me copious and confusing directions to find the local antiquaire. The man in the Pharmacy left his shop to stand at the junction with me and send me off on the right road. I found the place on the dot of 12.30 (lunch time usually being sacrosanct) but Madame said, do come in, we live here, look around . The fabulous house was creeper covered, set in a lot of ground. When I asked, is there a WC? Madame said, Ah non, pas possible – it is in the house, and it is personal. “Mais, allez dans la nature!” she said, gesturing to somewhere behind the sheds. So French.

There were stunning pieces on sale here, fragrant with warm beeswax polish. I quickly reached the pivotal moment of 'what I choose now determines the rest of the trip in terms of space left in the van'. I fell for an eighteenth century refectory table. I noted a little woodworm activity on one leg (a quick squirt of treatment was to hand immediately). Although Madame was not negotiating on price, she threw in a few other items. “Je ne suis pas si mechante!” she said – I am not so bad!

Everything already in the van had to come out, so Madame and her husband said come and find us when you are ready to load the table. In hot sun, I emptied and stacked, and then went as directed through their house (fabulous high ceilings, stunning Regence furniture) to where they were having lunch by the pool. Once our transactions were complete I was glad to find a leafy spot down on the Quay, lunching on an Emmental baguette and watching the sparkling river. So many lovely towns in France – not shabby or sad, but spruced and polished.

More dust, more cobwebs!

I like September trips to France, when the hubbub of summer is over but there are still plenty of markets happening. Graham and I set off on a bit of road trip – me in my van and he on his motorbike. 1,300 miles of hot and glorious days, getting grimey and cobwebby, and usually arriving at the chambre d’hote very late, with Graham already arrived, showered, and sampling our host’s home produced vin aux noix. There is something very exhilarating about being up and out when the sun rises, and then heading on to a destination at the end of the day as the clouds turn orange and dusky grey.

“Oui, oui”, said the long faced woman with a greasy fringe in the boulangerie, “you'll see the brocante on your right as you leave the village.” I crunched up a driveway and parked alongside rusty farm equipment and associated debris. An elderly woman in slippers and apron appeared at her kitchen door and acknowledged me with a nod. A dog barked furiously nearby. She slowly crossed the yard and heaved back a large, battered metal door to reveal a gloomy room brimming with dust covered brocante – she gestured me in. I didn't stay long - just buying a pretty painted platter and a small table. And managed a dramatic skid on the gravel as I left.

I was en route to meet up with Jean-Christophe, Rene’s son. I parked up at the side of an endlessly straight road with articulated lorries buffeting past. The frontage of the place looked promising – behind metal shutters extended a long, dark room full and enticing. An old man in a battered hat shuffled through the yard outside and set himself up with table and orange plastic chair near the road to read his paper. This was Papi, Jean-Christophe’s grandfather, and owner of the vast spread of barns and hangars at the back and also across the road. I spent a long time in the barns amongst dismantled stacks of armoires, sideboards, tables. As if thrown up to the surface of the pile by a subterranean heave, a small child’s piano, painted pink, an old cart wheel, a typewriter. Jean-Christophe had to leave to do a valuation, and left me with Papi. “Il est dur, tu sais!” he winked as he left, “A la prochaine. See you next time!”. Papi was indeed a tough negotiator, and by the time we had harangued and cajoled over my purchases it was early evening, and I still had an hour and a half to drive. Late for supper!

Sunny seaside marketing

Sunday morning, at a more reasonable hour, was the annual Vide Grenier at Barneville Carteret – two small seaside towns of great charm on either side of an estuary. Highly reminiscent of Jacques Tati’s “Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot” – what a dose of hilarious seaside nostalgia.

We parked up in a field and Elizabeth opted for a snooze before joining the fray. The market ran alongside the estuary and, although I was immediately in “trance mode”, I did lift my eyes from time to time to acknowledge the beautiful sky, the balmy breeze and sparkling sun on the water. I came across some heavy pharmacy jars, glass all bubbly and irregular, and left them with the dealer, along with the enormous round crusty loaf I’d just bought. Two hours later, I collected up my many finds from around the market and clanked back towards the van, laden with metal trays, sheets, candlesticks, jugs, jars – and bread. The smoke from the BBQ grille was catching in the breeze and the sun, giving an air of misty magic to the whole scene.

Elizabeth found me at a café, where I sat, rather flushed, with a stack of brocante next to me. “Oh have I missed it all?” she said in surprise. As recompense, we went for one of those long, perfect, luxurious lunches on the terrace of a well regarded fish restaurant, followed by time on the beach as, far on the horizon, sparkled Jersey and Guernsey, Les Iles Anglo-Normandes.

A flower pot, a spider and a bunch of plastic flowers.

Elizabeth and I arrived for the auction at 14h, held outside a large shed on Rue de l’Ancien Presbytere, a narrow stone walled lane down the side of the cemetery. A crowd was gathered and soon the spectacle began. The auctioneer, Le Commisseur Priseur, addressed as “Maitre”, took the stand. “Hands up those who didn’t come this morning for the viewing!” A good half of us put up our hands. “Bon, you have four minutes to see everything inside, starting now!” We surged into the shed and I felt like a virtual whale sifting for virtual plankton, scanning in a frenzy for any objects to catch my eye. A whistle blew (Maitre was obviously well experienced in crowd control) and we embarked on a five hour marathon, in the hot afternoon sun.

“Quinze euros s’il vous plait: vous avez ici deux vases, un Bambi en plastique, une Vierge, un cache pot, un pitcher, une araignee et des fleurs en plastique. Qui met 17? Adjuge 17! Plus, on vous mets une vase qui est collee avec un sparadrap!” (Fifteen euros please – here you have two vases, a plastic Bambi, a statue of the Virgin Mary, a flower pot, a spider and a bunch of plastic flowers. Who’ll give me 17? Sold for 17. And we’ll also add in another vase that’s held together with a sticking plaster!)

With great stamina Maitre kept us entertained – chivvying the bidders, arguing with them, chiding and even stopping the proceedings dramatically with a “ssssht!” to us all as someone's mobile rang, as if to give precedence to the phone call.

I gathered a collection of plastic bags around me and I wasn’t entirely sure what exactly I’d bought. I successfully bid for a large high backed baronial sort of chair – and it provided a comfortable seat for the rest of the auction. However, I’d missed the fact that I was actually bidding for two not one! I could see this trip was going to be spatially challenging. In fact, once I 'd put everything back in Moe, there was just no way the two chairs would fit. Madame said she would keep them in her Boiler House for my next visit. (The lesson is clearly to get the big things in first. But come the next visit I still wasn’t able to fit them in. So the two chairs continued to gather dust in the Boiler House for quite a few months more!)