I was sitting in a town square in the heart of the French countryside some 12 miles from our house in The Tarn. It was warm and we were blessed with a blue-sky day. Our two dogs were snoozing in the shade, possibly bored by the day but one would like to think they had consulted with each other and decided it was better than being left at home.

My wife had taken advantage of the lunchtime lull to “use the facilities” as she tends to put it, while I took time to admire the strapping lime trees above me, which are the signature trees of most French villages.

When Ellie returned, I asked her if she recalled the 1960s and 70s when we were going to concerts, galleries and pubs, seemingly with a full and vibrant social life.

“Now look at us,” I said. “Sitting on hard wooden seats, wrangling over a few euros and probably lucky to finish 100 euros up on the day. I am a few days from my 74th birthday and you are a child bride still the right side of 70.”

We were taking part in a vide grenier, which is very much the thing over here. It is what we English call a car boot sale, while to the French, roughly translated, it is an empty attic.

When we moved down here to The Tarn, it was our intention to downsize. In the end we bought a six-bedroom house because it was such a bargain, it would have been crazy to resist. One side-effect was the purge on our belongings never took place and in fact we had to buy 1,000 euros worth of second-hand furniture from the owners to help stop the place echoing our footsteps. We are inordinately happy with our choice but we are concerned about the amount of stuff still in our possession.

We are not being maudlin but we are aware, increasingly, as is the nature of getting older, that one day there will be one of us and then he or she will head out of this world, and when we look at what we will leave behind, it will be quite a logistical nightmare for our five children. Not only will they have to travel down here to sort out the mess: three coming from the UK; one from Dubai and the other from near Barcelona; they will not have time to do so properly.

We have too much stuff from yesteryear. They will have to dump so much, in some cases unaware of its worth or significance.

I remember my Gran died in Rochester and we had to empty her house. She had, over the course of some 90 years, collected a whole variety of ornaments, most of which were old fashioned. To simplify things, my parents brought in someone to undertake house clearance and that was that. Did they regret it when they saw how much Victoriana and early 20th century items were to fetch?

When my father died, he had a lot of stuff, which I packed in secure boxes in his warm and damp-proof loft until I sold his flat some three years later. I emptied his loft and took the contents to a car boot sale in Chorleywood and got rid of most of it. I remember when one of the punters was searching through my Dad’s old videos and came across a couple of pornographic films. Was my face red? Like the autograph hunter who tells the star “it is for my daughter”, I was tempted to claim honestly that they had nothing to do with me, particularly as the particular punter was someone I knew from the South West Herts FA.

We were also selling up and cutting down on our belongings so I attended perhaps four car boot sales and made a fair return for the time spent. The remainder I took to the charity shops and, while they did not take it all, there was very little I took to the dump.

We have books on history coming out of our ears and while there is probably a market for them, I doubt if too many ex-pats want a series of books on the Kings and Queens of England. There were a lot of monarchs, which you realise when you survey a collection of books: one devoted to each of them.

Ellie used to collect boots. She had boots to match every colour but now she can no long wear heels and so they too have to go. I sorted out a collection of English and then English/French DVDs and after paying five euros for our pitch, we headed out at 6am on Sunday morning and set up our stall.

The DVDs we flagged up at 50 cents each; while Ellie offered her boots, some of which cost 100 euros, for prices ranging from 15 to eight; and a number of clothes items from one euro to eight. The idea was to clear as much as possible.

Initially things went well but we noticed those from Africa felt compelled to bargain. When seeing an item priced at 50 cents, they made an offer. One woman made an offer on two of Ellie’s tops and declined to go any higher. She left but returned two hours later as we were packing up. No, we told her, with some satisfaction, the items had been sold.

We sold more than we thought as we noted when we packed up the trailer some ten hours later. We could have taken it all down to the dump and doubtless a lot of books will head that way, but it is just the principle of the thing that gets me. I can remember being so pleased with each of my book purchases it seems terrible to consign them to oblivion.

Perhaps we will have to get used to it.

I would like to say we picked up roughly ten euros for each hour we sat there, but I would be lying. It was more like eight an hour but when we put the money to one side for a night out at a restaurant, we knew it had never been about money. I think there is an element of pride involved: not being able to accept that what you valued in your life, is junk to someone else and unwanted junk to many. The car boot sales are very popular in France but unlike Limousin, where stalls boasted an assortment of tractor seats and empty perfume bottles, The Tarn seems a little more wordly – although not worldly enough to our minds.

There was also another compensation as Ellie pointed out as we drove home. “You also have something to write about this week.”