Storms and a leaking roof

... so, we arrived our first evening in St Denis and found our gite. Lovely farmland and meadows all around us. A heated outdoor swimming pool (which I proved unable to enjoy as swimming triggered an aggravation to my sciatica), but still ...

We got unpacked, admiring the view, glad that I'd brought some loo paper with me as the only roll provided was grey with age and had a dead spider and some other bug attached to it. Still, this was France! At least the loo had a seat!

The gite was one half of a converted barn, and our neighbours in the adjoining gite had already been staying there for two weeks - an escape to the country from their home near Paris.

We watched cloud roll along the valley and rise rapidly above the trees before a humdinger of a storm began - sheet and fork lightning and crashing thunder. And rain as if buckets were being poured by the hundred over the whole area. All was OK until I discovered the ceiling was dripping heavily, and a river was beginning to run along the landing and down the stairs.

Then I heard voices outside our door and spoke to our neighbours. Their gite was nice and dry. The lovely young woman suggested I rang the proprietor. Good idea. I explained that my French was good enough to explain the problem, but not to understand any response!

Long story short: kind Nathalie made the call for us. The landlord's son came round with two buckets and a mop and said his father would call in the morning. Well, that worked. The rain eventually eased, and we ended up taking a bottle of wine 'next door' chez Nathalie, Lionel, their 12-year-old daughter and their one year old, gorgeous dog. A potential dampener of spirits (we were tired having driven for three days to reach St Denis - between Toulouse and Carcasonne) turned into a delight as we chatted in French, English and Franglais, before going 'home' to our drying-out gite and, in fairness, a very comfy bed.

The next morning (cos you might be wondering!) we woke to find a ladder leaning against the wall and the landlord on the roof fixing tiles in place. More storms followed, but the roof no longer leaked.

(Between ourselves we nicknamed the farmer-landlord Paddy: he was short, beer-bellied and muscular, with very ginger hair and blue eyes. We decided he must have Irish blood in him; not typical French colouring.) So our holiday got off to a dramatic start and went uphill all the way.