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.