To get one up on the neighbours is impossible here

Once we had signed our commitment to buy, we had seven days, after which we had to either lose our deposit or go ahead with the purchase, so leaving stuff in the new house, which was not technically ours, was Ok.

Every time we came down, or passed en route to Spain or whatever, we had to pop in and ask neighbour Claude for the key and he not only did this with a smile but helped unload the car, the top-box and the trailer, and took the stuff uop their stairs despite the fact his age, girth and colour suggested he should take it easy.

After the house had become ours in January 2012, we dropped in with more items before heading off to Dubai from Barcelona. Claude was there when we got back, knocking on the door within an hour of our return to explain we had a power cut and so he had come in and restarted the boiler.

That was just as well as the temperature had dropped, as it did all over the world, to an usually low figure – minus 25 in our case.

The couple who owned the house before, tended to winter in England and then come out in April and stay until October. Claude kept an eye on the house every winter and fed the fish in the ponds in Spring and Autumn.

He volunteered to do this for us, together with watering the garden when we are away.

We gave him and his wife, Marie-Jeanne, a large box of English biscuits first time round but he came back within a day with fresh crepes, chuckling at the concept that my wife who had developed gluten-intolerance, could not partake. “They are all for you,” he said rubbing his ample belly.

They were superb but we seem to have been playing catch-up all the time. If we bring them a gift for keeping an eye on the house and feeding the fish, they come back with a reciprocal gift: fresh tomatoes or other garden produce.

Claude is diabetic so does not drink which rules out gifting him an expensive vintage of wine.

Last spring he called over the fence telling me it was time and he would be round within 30 minutes. He duly arrived with his wife and a rotovator and promptly set to work churning up the earth in the area sectioned off by the previous owners as a kitchen garden.

This was another favour which we needed to reciprocate and so, out of frustration, we took them both out for a meal at a local restaurant, which they enjoyed.

But the next day, he was knocking on the door with crepes, melon jam, quince “cake” and so it goes on.

While waiting for our runner beans to establish, he came round with a bundle of haricot beans and on it goes. He also imparted the fact he hates runner beans so we could not reciprocate with them.

He kept an eye on the house when we went back to England at Christmas and the other Sunday we invited them round for an English roast dinner. They were a little late as they had been to the local bingo session: something that occurs once every three months in the village.

The prizes are good, they say, and insist we accompany them to the next session. I recalled I once went to a bingo evening as part of someone’s farewell drink in Watford and found my head was hurting trying to concentrate. Not as easy as it would appear, so I dread to think how hard it would be in French, but we agreed to go.

They tried the onion sauce, the mint on the lamb, peas, carrots, cauliflower, stuffing and generally tucked in, doing it justice. Claude, who it transpires is nearly three years younger than I, had seconds of the roast potatoes and meat and tucked into the pudding of ice-cream, and a fruit jelly with raspberries which was as sugar-free as we could make it.

Claude seemed unfazed, had seconds of that as well and when it came to a range of English cheeses, he opted for half a glass of wine to go with it. He particularly liked double Gloucester but seemed to relish a few chunks of Stilton as well.

Obviously his sugar level readings were going to go up, but Claude was here for the party.

It went well: they were full of praise for a traditional English roast and we gained a little more knowledge of them, improved our French a mite and learnt some more things about the locality.

It was good and while Marie-Jeanne, who was born in the house in which she lives, is something of an expert on everyone in the two adjacent villages and has a reputation for curtain-rustling, we all get on well. We are extremely grateful for their help and support.

They left clearly happy with the evening and the meal and we felt we had reasserted ourselves and paid a few debts.

The next morning, the doorbell announced Claude was calling. He gave us another bottle of wine and a selection of French cheeses.

We were behind again.

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