Brexit and the Death of the Dordogne Dream
Musings of a two decade expat in Europe...
"Heaven knows where I belong"
(Rod Stewart, Every Beat of my Heart, 1986)
They came in their hundreds, maybe thousands. At its height there were an estimated one million Brits in Spain. Since 1992 when the John Major government signed some treaties no-one really understands (Maastricht, Lisbon), scores of Brits left the rainy shores for new lives on "The Continent". most wanted the sun so went down to Spain, then those who pined for the old countryside of Britain cruised south to places like Dordogne and Provence. There they found an idyll which became the envy of those stuck in Rainland. Bent estate agents sold dreams to naïve incomers with their promises of cheap renovates on old barns. Many a family drove down excited to see a restored barn but to see a roof fallen through and nothing done, the estate agent gone to the next sucker. Many middle aged couples had no choice but to don some wellies and shove a wheelbarrow, emptying out barns of chicken droppings. most important was to get the fireplace useable, to at least sit next to some crackling logs, sip a French lager and listen to "This is London..." at 8pm on BBC World. Eventually the bravest families had a place worth renting and used it themselves in spring and autumn.
Something happened to them. Some of them totally rejected "Britain" and became French, Spanish or whatever. Small kids loved the early years, with the freedom to wander the local greenery with no "stranger danger". As they adapted to the new locales, they inevitably came across famous European Red Tape, way worse than the UK. Add to that everything must be done in a foreign language and the sense that stuff one was used to in one's own land didn't apply. "Autre pays, autre mores". The "pub" was traded in for the "cafe bar", a pint of bitter became a glass of lager, for the ladies a small glass of wine became "oh go on, a bottle". Days of wine and olives became days of wine as some dreams began to hit the rocks.
Some turned to writing as a way to support themselves. It may be said that the patron saint of expats is Peter. No, not the man who meets you at the heavenly gates with the book in hand, but Peter Mayle, who wrote a best seller about his new land, barn and five hectares of vineyards in Provence. Dozens of bored, cold, damp Brits bought the books, watched John Thaw act him on the telly, and a few made the move down.
The big problem as the years rolled on, was the Drive. That boat would leave Blighty (some even from the evocative White Cliffs of Dover), New haven, Portsmouth, or other ports, sail a few hours and soon you'd see funny yellow street lights, 2CVs and Renaults round your chosen port. Around this time some crazies dug a tunnel to make it also easier, but never was it so evocative as sailing across. Then the drive began, through Rouen, Le Mans, Tours and Poitiers, then at the end the town of Angouleme appeared and it was now the region of the second home. Familiar landmarks and signs evoked excitement at new good times.
Some mad ones actually made the 365 day move. They braved the red tape, registered at the local "Mairie" . "Rathaus" or whatever, and began new lives. Lessons began in the local lingo, be it Spanish, French, German or even Scandinavian tongues. Some had even moved to the Slavic lands. Local shops became sites of culinary adventure, local farms were investigated for their milk, apples, bees and stuff. The great thing about the entire experience most will agree on, is how awesome the weather is in the warmer times. This is not to say the cold times are great though. But the weather is one of the best aspects of the expat life. It is great in the sun!
Some of the richer crazies had way more land than they'd ever afford in the UK. Some planted apple trees, some even had big pools built. But one thing many chose to get done early, was to set up the Sky Dish. Many missed their dose of British football news, down in Spanish resorts there were signs advertising "Sky Sports, English Breakfasts" the heart chundering bacon eggs and the rest which sated many a homesick expat.
Then, abut 2012, something happened. For some weird reason, the satellite "footprint" changed. You couldn't watch your fave BBC shows for free anymore. No more Grand Designs, Jamie Oliver, River Cottage, BBC Breakfast, soaps, summer World Cup in English with Lineker and Shearer. The one thing which made life sweet, that small contact with the Motherland, familiar loved TV shows like Dad's Army, all ended, and to be honest life was not as nice after that.
The small thing you miss when you are a foreigner, are what experts call "cultural reference points" which the host nation has no clue about. If you are with a Brit, one of the fave subjects is last night's telly. my two fave comic actors on "Detectorists" routinely discuss Mastermind, University Challenge. None of it matters, but it is the social glue which holds a nation together. We lost that. Some of us joined forums to share hints and moans about expat things. Total France was the main one there, we had Toytown Germany. At their height, I think about 2006 when the World Cup was in Germany, there was a buzz here with newcomers arriving all the time, we helped them with red tape, which shops to buy expat stuff like tea bags, and soothed many newcomers nerves. We shared old TV clips like Dads Army, teased each other mercilessly, sometimes huge storms would erupt on forums for no reason, maybe it was just homesickness really.
In 2015, our idyll was smashed by the news that following the war in Libya. When a war erupts, it is your duty to help out refugees from that war, clothe them, feed them to get them on their feet. Some of us anticipated war torn families on our doorsteps and prepared by at least learning how they spoke which was Arabic in this case. imagine our surprise, when instead of women and children, huge tents were erected and hundreds of young men arrived in them for a year. No women, no kids. Those of us with teenage girls were naturally apprehensive. In the event, the chaps we had near us were harmless and quite nice. I would often see them in the local Aldi and say "Salaam Aleykwm" to gently surprise them that I knew some of their tongue.
In 2016 our highly ineffectual Prime Minister decided to hold a vote to leave or stay in the EU. From there began some of the nastiest discussions which tore families, expat communities apart. The problem with the vote, was that neither side really won. The "Remain" wished to stay in a very undemocratic, corrupt unelected and slowly dying administration called "Yurop" while the "Leave" camp really didn't get their way either. Whatever you wanted on either side, neither party was happy with the outcome. It caused more division that it healed. Does the reader wish to glean what I was in favour of? I shan't say, but my take on the event is that it ought never to have actually happened - the Referendum that is, and the whole EU would have slowly died in its own red tape over the years.
Travelling today across Europe, one of the funny things is what native foods you can still buy. Many expat families have returned to UK it seems, some marriages fell apart out here as this can be rough on families. When in Spain, in every supermarket you can buy Wagon Wheels, McVitie's Digestives, there are sometime4s whole shelves devoted to Brit stuff. One of my faves is Divonne near Switzerland, on my homeward bound route for Germany where I often stock up on PG Tips tea bags. I have adapted to most foreign stuff, but one thing I cannot give up is my decent British cup of tea. It soothes all nerves, it is a ritual which goes back to the British Empire in India in the 1850s, a taste of the old glory days.
In those days, finding a shop which sold this stuff was like finding gold. Today we have Amazon. Something of the thrill of the hunt has been sadly lost, it seems.
They still move out here I believe, some buy ruins in Italian villages and make Youtube videos about their renovate projects. It seems Portugal is the new destination for people to buy small town houses for a few thousand. Good luck to all them and their dreams. But the mass inflow is over, the buzz has subsided, everyone is a lot more wary, maybe less naïve. The satellite dishes have gone, the English only villages like Eymet in the Dordogne have less people, maybe gently ageing retired couples. The flow of new families has stemmed. A sense of an ending to a migration wave pervades things. Many dreams lie crashed on the rocks of reality. And in every French or Spanish shop, there lie unsold boxes of Typhoo on the shelves....