neighbours

We live in what was once countryside, and is now semi agricultural, semi commuter spill; our hamlet, "Passe Rivières", so-named because it is 5m from a bridge crossing a stream (see previous post). We look at a zillion trees blanketing slopes that rise to 2000m and beyond. A quiet spot. Until the local youth decide that our bridge is the ideal place to hang out, of a summer evening. Screeching brakes as they perform wheelies, revving mopeds, balls crashing against the construction panels surrounding the intrusive new build (that has disfigured the view diagonally from the house); loud whoops... I am kept awake night after night. But I don't dare say anything. They look a mean crowd and their animal noises suggest my middle-aged, foreign protest would be poorly received - at best.

When Juan returned last weekend I took the opportunity to sally out to the bridge - in my pyjamas - bolstered by his manly protection. Juan said afterwards that I sounded nervous - and I was, even though I have to admit that, close to, the kids' faces looked nothing like the twisted, evil masks I'd been imagining. "Hi, I'm Rebecca. I live just over there - and you are...?" Blah blah blah. I get to the point - realising as I do so that their voices were loud simply to hear themselves above the noise of the stream. "I'm not sure if you realise but your voices carry... and I can't sleep". Without me even having to suggest it, one of them volunteers, "Would you like us to move?". I can't believe it. Such is the difference between prejudice and reality.

man on bridge (with our house in background)

The houses have continued to bug us, though. The metal panels are unsightly, the mounds of weed-infested earth and rubble slow to be landscaped into the lawn and-laurel formula that is the garden of choice for most in the area. Excessive numbers of cars (why weren't adequate forecourts planned into the design?) mean people parking on our road, blocking larger vehicles from passing. The "30km" speed limit sign is ripped from its post by a combine harvester, unable to squeeze through. Clearly, our new neighbours are ignorant, tasteless urbanites.

Nevertheless, when Juan and I are on a round-the-block stroll, and I see one of the new occupants just outside her door, I cross the road to introduce myself. Within 10 minutes we have learned about the death of her brother-in-law this April - living with his wife in the adjacent (aforementioned) rubble-plagued house and how this has set back progress on finishing the house; her leg operation; hers and her husband's jobs; their disputes with the mairie (their fence is 20cm above regulations, vive la France); and - thrillingly, for me - her desire to host an apéro the next fête des voisins (the annual initiative to encourage neighbourly networking). Victor Meldrew-style I had been on the verge of going to the mairie myself, to complain about... I'm not quite sure what, but something needed to be done! Once again I am brought up short, the discrepancy between perception and reality utterly blatant. Will I ever learn?