FIDELMA COOK The day is dawning for many that in hard times ‘home’ is the place to be

THERE is restlessness about in my little corner of France – a swirling awareness of life changing for more than a few. On the grapevine I hear of houses for sale, of houses closed up or rented out as a straggle of Brits turn away from their lives here to return to the unknown.

I hear of a large party to say farewell to a well-liked couple who, for the best part of 20 years, controlled the expat social scene here with their readiness and willingness to host drinks and dinner parties.

Around 50 gathered to eat, drink and dance before waving them off to the Cotswolds, the wife’s childhood home and repository of most of her happy English memories.

Others I hear are “making inquiries” with the many agents, often Brits like themselves, as to the state of the housing market and what they could hope to get.

The answers are always vague. Houses are selling but, but….they have to be priced right, i.e. low, or they will linger and linger as buyers prowl like lions awaiting the wounded animal’s last burst of resistance.

Brexit, as far as I can tell, is not the cause, or if it is no one is willing to say so, particularly those who voted for the insanity of it all.

No, the culprit is time. Or rather, age with a measure of fear thrown in.

Those couples that arrived here in their vigorous early 60s – the average age – are now the unsteady shufflers in the marketplace.

Ladders can no longer be climbed, large gardens kept to a Home Counties trimmed perfection or visits home managed effortlessly.

And workers can no longer be afforded to do it all for them.

For the retirement pensions that bought so much in the beginning have shrunk in relation to both the £/€ and steadily rising shop prices. And increasingly living is pared back and, however beautiful the surroundings, however warm or hot the sun, the day dawns for many that in the hard times “home” is the place to be. Sons and daughters begin a relentless battle to bring them back, using every emotional tug, mainly grandchildren, to do so.

And these pioneering adventurers, as they once were, grow weary, become simply too tired, to bat away the objections any longer.

Although far from that stage in life, health problems have left me vulnerable to the pressures from my son who has been baffled from day one as to how I ended up here.

So the phone calls now always begin with: “When is the estate agent coming? How many have you phoned?”

And I lie and say: “The one I want won’t be available until after Christmas” or “Waiting to hear”.

Emails arrive from him showing a selection of properties in areas an hour, 90 minutes from London, close to motorways he could frequently zip up and down.

These are for rent, for even top price for LM would buy me little in such areas and frankly I know I’ll “run out” before the cash realised from any sale.

Some are quite stunning and I find myself imagining walking on oatmeal carpets again into a granite-topped kitchen with, oh the joys, mains drains.

I dream for a while of M&S, Waitrose, home deliveries from ethnic restaurants, proper hung beef, friends refound, lunches in “town” and all the other things I miss and have always missed.

And then I look out at Cesar, racing around his huge compound, barking at the world to keep away, and I wince at the idea of a garden confinement and the daily shock of strange sounds and other people.

I read with horror the stories of ambulance delays, postcode lotteries, six-minute slots with doctors, for these are the things that occupy me now, not the abstract.

The other day, the two sapeur-pompiers who arrive every year came with their calendar. As always I gave them a hefty cheque and we talked of yet another year when they had raced me to A&E.

Indeed the tall one was the one whose hands I’d held as he reassured me he would make sure I didn’t die in the back of the ambulance, gasping for breath.

I told them my son was applying pressure for my return and they could understand his concerns.

“But if you stay,” said the big man, “you know you have us.” I laughed to hide how moved I actually was by these words from a man, who, like all the others in the service, give their time voluntarily and unpaid.

Is such a service, plus the magnificent health service, reason enough to stay in a country? In my heart I think yes, in my head I know I need more, much more again, other than this constant solitude.

I need life itself and not just the surviving of it. Right, that’s it decided. I will phone the agents later today, or perhaps tomorrow for it’s the dog’s grooming day, or in fact maybe I’d better wait until after Christmas.

On the other hand, spring is the best time when the garden bursts forth. Or maybe….