A Davies Family Holiday - Part II

AFTER some considerable wrangling in broken French we finally managed to explain to the car hire lady at Bergerac Airport that we really didn’t need a Transit van for our ten day break and what my sister had intended to order was a large estate car…or at least something marginally larger that the sports coupé she’d managed to order on our previous trip over the Channel.

Finally after exiting the plane first and being first in line for passport control and baggage collection we left the deserted airport with only an unhappy looking cleaner to see us off.

Things brightened up considerably when we caught sight of the house which my sister - the family’s holiday guru - had managed to find for us.

Set in the middle of a vineyard in beautiful countryside it was exactly what we’d dreamed of.

“The owner was telling us that his husband designed the whole thing,” said The Mother as we enjoyed the first glass of wine of the evening.

“He’s a farmer and his husband drives a delivery van but lives in Paris most of the time,” she added.

“We also have to be very careful with the kitchen floor because it’s untreated stone and will mark easily,” warned my sister already beginning to panic.

Several days later the owner paid a visit as he walked his dogs through the gardens.

“Come and have a glass of wine with us,” said my sister warmly welcoming him to his own house and pouring an ample glass from our healthy stock of supermarket Chateau Cardboard.

“So you’re a farmer?” I asked. “Are the cows we passed on the way in yours?”

“No,” he replied. “But the vines you passed on the way in are mine. I mainly make wine,” he said.

“Oh that’s great,” I replied thinking of the two euro a litre rosé he was currently drinking.

“And your husband…what does he do,” I ventured, not quite trusting in the report from my sister and The Mother.

“He’s a designer,” he replied. “He designed this house.”

“And what about his day job,” I added thinking his talents were wasted driving a delivery van.

“He designs interiors…in Paris…and Japan, and London and New York.”

I sensed that something had been lost in translation.

“He is the main designer for all the Hermes stores across the world,” he added as the penny finally dropped.

Two days later we received a visit.

“Do you like the house?” asked the  obviously proud designer as my sister contorted herself trying to disguise the marks on the floor she adamantly refused to believe pre-dated our visit.

“Do you like the sinks in the bathrooms,” he asked. “I had them hand made in Italy,” he added pointing out the shelves full of books celebrating his work.

As he left the house, after giving us a five star review as guests, my sister wailed in horror.

“Hand made in Italy and I’ve just wiped them over with multi-surface cleaner!”

“I think he’d be more upset that you thought he drove a delivery truck,” I laughed thinking back in horror at the night we gave one of the top young winemakers in France a glass of supermarket plonk and sent him home sideways!