So how did you get here?

While the christmas cake cooks and le Comte is watching Spiderman 3, let's take a couple of minutes to peer through the long lens of time, to flashback seven years to the summer of 2002. The scene comes gradually into focus. At first we are just spots in the distance but if we look carefully we can just make out le Comte and I, two boys - aged 11 and 12, two girls - aged 7 and 9, a dog aged 13 and a cat aged 14 standing on the deck of the cross channel ferry in the dawn of an August morning. We are leaning on the rail gazing at the receding cliffs, slightly nauseated by the diesel fumes and oily coffee, waving goodbye to dear old Angleterre.
Thirty-six hours and one stopover later we are visible once more; two cars driving down the hill and across the river to huge gates and a long alley of overgrown trees. We have arrived at Chateau Coldspot where the grass is as tall as me, the trees buzz with cicadas, snakes slither in the grass and ants the size of mice build small mountains in the dirt. We stand before an enormous house with forty-two keys that we will never, ever use. It is Sleeping Beauty’s castle. There are no kitchen units, no lightbulbs, no light fittings, no shelves, no loo seat, no shower curtain, no shower rail. There are crusts of cat poo all over the floors and brown splashes up the walls, panes of glass are missing from windows, paper and paint peels from the plasterboard. But there is, somehow, water and electricity. So we put the kettle on and le Comte and I sit bewildered on the front steps in the oppressive heat of late summer watching the insects clamber up the grass stems while the children paddle in the river. We have arrived in France at last.
This is the story the happy holiday makers want us to tell when they have unloaded their hire cars and opened the bottle of complimentary local wine.
'So, how did you get here?' they ask. 'I mean,' they say, settling themselves on the terrace in the dappled shade of the sweet chestnut trees. 'It's a nice spot. We've thought about doing this. So, how did you get here.'
'Well,' we reply, 'it all started in a kitchen in Suffolk. It happened like this:
Le Comte: 'Shall we get married and move to France?'
La Chatelaine: 'That's a good idea. I'm not really doing anything at the moment.'
Comte: 'Where shall we go?'
Chate: 'South, where the sun shines.'
Comt: 'Let's look for a house then.' switches on the computer. 'Look, there's one.'
Chat: 'No, I don't like that, it hasn't got a proper face.'
Com: 'How about this one then?'
Cha: 'Perfect.'
We stare at the screen. I see a beautiful house, faded from neglect, with a Parisien facade, shutters to fling open, wrought iron beneath the windows and tall doors looking out over the park . A place that needs a family to bring it to life. Le Comte sees an immense development project where he can dig, build, paint and cement for the rest of his life if he wishes.
Within six months we had got married and bought Chateau Coldspot. It was really that simple.'
'But what about...?' begin the happy holiday makers with puzzled frowns.
'Ah no,' we say, shaking our heads sagely. 'If you start asking questions, you'll never come.'