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!)

A vide grenier and an unexpected auction.

Downstairs, Madame had set up the automatic coffee machine the night before, and left me a newspaper clipping next to the pots of home-made apricot and greengage jam: an auction of the contents of an antique shop was to be held that afternoon. Good news doesn’t come much better than that! I was en route before 6am to Sainte Marie du Mont for the morning’s Vide Grenier. The enormous square church tower of the town was visible on the horizon from a long way off, and the market was clustered around it on the dewy grass and in the nearby streets. This church was one of the first to be liberated by the US during WWII. The story goes that the then vicar, sweeping up after the night’s battles for the bell tower, heard a sneeze in the apparently empty church. He casually strolled outside and alerted US soldiers nearby, who discovered two German soldiers hiding inside.

One old chap was selling a couple of wood wormy garden chairs, covered in dust and droppings. Non! he would not negotiate on the price, even though they had been in his barn for years. And each time I made a circuit of the stallholders as they unloaded, one stall kept drawing my attention – the palette of faded duck egg blue upholstery braid, rusty metal, old papers brown with age and yellowed hemp sheets – was utterly beguiling. Love it, love it, love it!

The local bar cafe is open on the corner. I seek necessary refreshment, a coffee outside on the still night-damp terrace, before carrying on to unearth paintings, frames, jugs, books, linens etc from amongst records of 1970's French music idols, pink plastic tricycles and shell cases from the war.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, had walked a couple of miles to the Chateau de Crosville. This chateau has that kind of “wabi sabi”, used and worn and beautiful feel to it. We rendezvoused at the little café in the courtyard for lemon cake and coffee, black. The day’s milk had yet to arrive from the farm dairy. The chateau wasn’t open for visitors until the afternoon but they let us in. On the vast stone staircase were old newspaper cuttings spanning the last 30 years telling how the Lefol family had struggled to save this chateau. The family originally lived on the farm, and bought the chateau up as it fell into ruin. The enormous beams above us had the remains of XVIII century paintings on them; the crests on the chimney places had been hacked off during the Revolution; the clay floor tiles undulated and the walls were covered in flaking limewash. In one of the vast upstairs rooms there was no ceiling – just beams through which one looked up to see the roof slate. All in all, an unforgettable place.

Our first stop was an antiques fair at Briquebec.

Our first stop was an antiques fair at Briquebec, a pretty town with ruined castle and the quintessentially French, ivy covered hotel with red awnings nearby. Fairs offer not only the chance to browse all under one roof, but also to meet new dealers and those I had already visited. Madame Lannaud is a delightful dealer, a beaming woman, with an unquenchable enthusiasm for antiques. We adoringly cooed over and stroked an XVIII chest of drawers – the form! the quality! the colour! - but I resisted, the price tag was extremely high. Nevertheless I bought two elegantly legged walnut writing tables from a dealer I’d not met before. We chatted as Rene helped me load them in the van. He commented I’d probably be interested to visit his son. Two hours drive away he had barns piled up to the ceiling with pieces of furniture “dans leur jus”! A great contact that was to become a regular port of call for me.

Elizabeth meanwhile was either basking, in her little sun hat, or dozing in the van –thoroughly enjoying her French tour. The next morning I am completely awake at 4.30am. I realise I feel rather like a child on Christmas morning, waiting for it to be time to get up. Half an hour later I open the blind as the first bright rays of sunlight are pouring onto a landscape of white ground mist. There are strange lumps in the fields – these emerge from the mist as the cows. This spectacle must be captured! As I grab my camera, Elizabeth stirs in her bed. “Too much light, too much enthusiasm!!” is her only comment. I left her to slumber on.

Summer trips are easier in every way.

Summer trips are easier in every way. A calm late afternoon Channel crossing with broad horizons of palest greys, gentle clouds and shafts of creamy sun. My dear friend Elizabeth came with me early one July to stay at the lovely manor house near Valognes. The dainty purple and yellow violas were still bobbing amongst the cobbles, and we felt at home. Madame said she didn’t mind at all if we wanted to make our own supper and eat on the terrace.

In fact, the next evening, she brought out glasses of her home-made Pommeau – a Normandy aperitif made from apple juice and Calvados. She was insistent, in the way that French people can be over things that Must Be Done Correctly, that the apple juice should be freshly pressed before bottling and maturing with the 'Calva'. This Normandy spirit comes under the generic French heading of 'Eau de Vie' which is liberally used at all times of the day for all purposes – indeed a Café Calva is just the job for an early morning Vide Grenier in a field when one’s shoes and trouser bottoms are drenched with dew.

The French, of course, take their food and drink seriously. And when it comes to the local Vide Grenier, the food stand and bar are set out first thing, with rows of tables and benches under striped awnings, for later in the day when the spit roasts are cooked. I do enjoy a few minutes at the makeshift counter with a small plastic cup of fierce black coffee, picking up strands of local conversation between Michel and Serge, Patrique and Jean-Francois.

The Marche Paul Bert was more lively.

The Marche Paul Bert was more lively, with some beautifully presented stands opening onto the narrow lanes. At lunchtime the dealers, mostly in sheepskin hats, thick coats and scarves, pulled up eighteenth century tables and chairs and sat down to their hot lunches, baguettes, cheeses and bottles of wine. Not a plastic packed sandwich in sight.

As well as the small shops there are also the street dealers who set up on the pavement at the weekend and the whole place took on a different atmosphere. It was busy enough in January, and I was glad to avoid the heave of the summer months.

I learn with each purchase made – building up a comparative knowledge, and getting a sense of what most appeals to me. There is something about walnut wood that gets to me, and I found a wonderful writing table, small, pleasingly made, fine cabriole legs, deep patina. And I like monogrammed linens, and leather bound books printed before the Revolution (with the approval of The King), hand made wine glasses, small and intimate oil paintings, I could go on - and on! Here I have to mention mirrors. An eighteenth century Italian wood carved mirror, partly gilded and partly painted in cream and a chalky blue also sang out to me. Perhaps buying a piece is like having a brief affair – you love it, hold it and then let it go. Advice given to me subsequently backs this up: “Never, ever, buy something just because you don’t want to come back with empty space in the van”/”If you don’t like it yourself, don’t buy it”/”Only buy what you’d want to have in your own home”. There seems to be a sound integrity in that.

The next trip however was made in mid-winter.

The next trip however was made in mid-winter, to the well known Paris markets at
St Ouen. Whilst I’d had no concerns about leaving a van parked up full of furniture in the countryside, I was less sure about Paris. So I’d booked a hotel with underground car parking. Arriving from Le Havre brought us in from the west with a panoramic view of the city directly ahead of us. Having negotiated the one way system (pre Sat- Nav days) to the hotel, I asked the concierge to confirm the height of the garage – he didn’t know, he shrugged, gestured helplessness, and said, well just try it. 50 metres down the road was the garage entrance – a large metal shutter that was supposed to open marvellously easily…. After several attempts eventually Moe entered the steep downward ramp. Graham drove slowly in while I watched the clearance. It was tight, the aerial scraped the roof, but it was ok, just! Not my favourite things underground car parks though.

The markets at St Ouen form a cluster of little “villages” each with their own identity – Paul Bert, Vernaison and so on. Although St Ouen grew from a Marche au Puces, it now offers everything from brocante to fine antiques.

Time for a coffee at the Café Paul Bert before the dealers opened up. As the morning got started the lanes surreally transformed. One minute a bare lane of galvanised metal shutters firmly padlocked - the next minute shutters are being pushed up and furniture, fabrics, chandelier pieces, porcelaine, paintings all brought out and deftly arranged with great Parisian panache – a colourful cascade of delights.

Later in the morning I headed to L’Usine, a grim old factory building, with “Professionals Only” painted in tall letters on one wall. I ventured in. The grey concrete space was stacked up with piles of everything, but was pretty low on activity except for a few perished dealers standing around, looking indifferent. It wasn’t a place that made me want to linger.

As I'd been buying pieces.....

As I had been buying pieces, I’d been decanting them into the old barn at the Preuilly house. The morning of our drive up to Cherbourg became a focused exercise: How To Get Everything Back into Moe. Another realisation: two people packing a van will probably have very different ideas of how everything will go in! Graham suggested an obligatory short training with a removal company. Over time, I’m relieved to report, packing has become easier – understanding what nests into what; thinking about the roof space just as much as the floor space; what is better upside down or on its side, and so on. A 20 cubic metre van is often mentioned in conversation as a good size and, as Moe is less than half this, space and choosing exactly what to fill it with are both critical.

We had booked a last night in France at a chambre d’hote about half an hour’s drive from Cherbourg, near Valognes. It was a fine manorial house that had been divided into two dwellings after the Revolution. A farming family had lived in one half for three generations, and latterly acquired the other half for guest accommodation. The ceilings were extremely high with enormous beams; the stone fireplaces had massive limestone thigh-height hearths with mantels you could just about reach up to; wide, worn stone stairs; a tower; cobbles leading to the front door with tiny purple and yellow violas peeping up between the stones. This was a place I would be returning to many times, and come to love.

A short drive of trees leads up to the house. In the summer frogs croak loudly in the small boggy lake. The fields around the house hold a few browsing sheep, two donkeys, a kid and chickens. Madame is a diminutive, welcoming woman of a certain age, who has furnished her house with handsome Normandy armoires, buffets and tables made from glowing cherry, walnut and oak woods. On this visit she told me of the man she made her furniture purchases from, and of an interesting depot vente that had recently opened nearby. I promised that I would be back the following year.

I've developed a sort of half trance way of looking at markets.

I’ve developed a sort of half trance way of looking at markets. Whilst oblivious to whatever else is going on around me, it is a sort of visual grazing. In order to stop and buy there has to be a positive internal reaction, a “must have it” urge. Over time I have learnt to temper this down a little, giving a thought to the “Return on Investment/Space in Van” ratio (though I dearly love those ornate metal garden chairs that don’t fold, they don’t pass the ROI/SV measure). Then come the “How much will it cost to refurbish”, or “How long will it take me to refurbish” considerations.

At Joue les Tours I learnt another lesson: when you buy something and leave it with the stall holder to pick up later, make very sure you know exactly where that stall is on the way back! Where had the woman with the old mirror with the red sticky backed plastic on the back gone? A little notebook became a necessary part of the kit. Graham ferried back and forth to the van, bless him, and I was surprised to find myself almost relieved when we reached the far end of the market.

Finding a loo can often be interesting. Much as I believe in drinking lots of water through the day, I tend not to when I am out buying. It often means that, as well as being sleep deprived from getting up at 4.30am, exhilarated from a day’s driving around, haggling, purchasing, packing the van, I am grimey, cobwebby and dehydrated.