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of living in such close proximity to large animals in a confined space is fairly revolting, but it was probably the norm in villages like this for centuries.
    The least attractive aspect of the house is the bathroom, added along the back wall probably thirty years ago. It is an ugly concrete-block corridor that has been rendered on the outside with stucco and badly tiled on the inside. It’s gloomy, damp and cold, and definitely needs rethinking if we are to make the house comfortable for long-term visits.
    In spite of its shortcomings, the house is quite livable in a basic way, and we were lucky enough to buy it with all the furniture and furnishings thrown in by its former English owners. Although we plan to gradually replace everything, it is handy not to have to go out and buy items like vacuum cleaners,clothes dryers and tables and chairs. When we first move in all we require is some basic linen. There is no central heating, which locals insist is essential if you plan to stay in France for a full year, but there is a fully functional cast-iron Godin slow-combustion stove in the fireplace, which I light almost immediately after we arrive.
    Ignoring the fine details and the work that has to be done some time in the future, the house has an innately charming atmosphere and an appeal that is very plain, very French and very rural. At home I would never contemplate buying a house on a main road, but somehow in this French village it feels perfect. All the houses that adjoin the main intersection and the square that surrounds the Romanesque Church are in the same position as us, right on the road, and it’s as though we share the same living situation. Our neighbours on the high side are M and Mme Thomas, an elderly couple with a house clad in drab grey crepi just like ours. Their daughter and son-in-law live in the adjoining house, with two teenage sons who travel each day into Prayssac by bus to the high school. The Thomases have a walled garden just up the road, overflowing with produce and flowers. There are fruiting trees and vines, neat rows of lettuce and various greens, and in summer enough tomatoes to feed the two families all year round. Climbing roses and clematis drip from the stone walls surrounding the garden, and hidden at the back of the house is a modern swimming pool for summer dipping.
    Within a day of my return my diary is filled with a series of catching-up lunches and dinners and I realise that I am bound to fall back into my bad old habits – lingering lunches at Mme Murat’s, hazy afternoon sleeps to recover, followed byequally filling evening meals in the company of friends. Not the healthiest of lifestyles, but one that I can’t help but enjoy. I wonder, if I were living here full-time would I be a little more circumspect? Cut back the socialising and lead a more balanced and sensible life? Jock doesn’t, and I fear that I would probably be just like him. Heaven help my waistline!
    I still can’t believe it’s ten months since I was last here. I am so excited to come back and renew my many good friendships, the connections that bound me during my first visit and helped convince me that I should make France a permanent part of my life. My first friend in the Lot was Jock, a retired journalist and larger-than-life character in every sense of the phrase. When I wrote about my adventures in rural France I described Jock as the ‘King of Grunge’ because of his dishevelled appearance and penchant for red wine, the dregs of which often decorate the front of his shirt. My picture of his appearance and lifestyle draws roars of recognition from all who know him, but Jock steadfastly refuses to acknowledge this unanimous public perception. An advance copy of the book arrives a few days after my return and, after reading it, he lets me off lightly.
    â€˜I told you that you could say whatever you wanted about me, as long as it wasn’t the truth. And because I am not