The artist arrived late. His train was delayed, so Colin had to make a second trip to collect him from the station, while I entertained the other new creative residents.

When he got here, he declined the invitation to join us in the garden for a drink and an introduction to me and the two other women. It had been a long day; he was tired.

This was a first for us.

We always aim to make the arrival of our guests feel welcoming. It’s one of the most important moments of the residency. First impressions matter, and we want everyone to feel they’ve arrived somewhere homely and safe.

After all, they’ve taken the adventurous risk of travelling halfway around the world, alone, to spend two weeks in a stranger’s house for the sake of their art.

I cook a meal for us all to eat together and, over a glass of wine or three, we get to know each other a little. There’s usually plenty of chat and laughter and, by the end of the evening, we generally have a good sense of each other and the shape of the fortnight ahead.

Having this unknown guy in the house felt uncomfortable, and we were worried that the others would feel vulnerable in their beds that night with a stranger in the next room. But what could we do?

They had locks on their bedroom doors if they felt they needed them!

We were knackered too, what with having waved goodbye to three others that morning, done the changeover, the driving, cooked the meal, and welcomed the two others. We’d sleep well that night.

With one eye open.

When I went down for breakfast in the morning, he was sitting at the table in the garden.

‘I’d better go out and have a chat with him for a bit,’ I thought, ‘see if I can get a feel for his character to reassure myself that he’s alright.’

‘Morning! How did you sleep?’ I asked in my cheeriest, chipper tone.

‘Fine, thanks. Um, your dog has been to the toilet.’

‘Oh, ok, thanks for letting me know. I’ll clean it up. Where is it?’ I asked, already skipping off towards the pickle pot where we keep the dog pooh bags.

We have a large garden and it was a safe place for our two Labradors to wander freely, so we occasionally missed seeing them do their morning ablutions. Becca, the bitch, was private about doing her business and usually headed under the nearest bush (yay, no man’s land!), but Dougie (the dog) was more likely to plop his down nice and central on the grass.

‘It’s in my studio.’ the artist replied.

‘What? No! Never!’ I couldn’t believe my ears. Our dogs had never been to the toilet in the house since they were teeny wee puppies.

In his studio?

Don’t be mistaken in imagining a traditional artist’s studio, with paint-spattered concrete floors and whitewashed walls. Oh no. His studio was in the living room of this fine French townhouse.

We’d only made a start on redecorating it by stripping the wallpaper from the walls back to the lime plaster, but the room was still grand as far as studios go. Two large windows, a French door leading directly to the garden, highly polished dark wood floorboards and an ornate fireplace made from a deep red Pyrenees marble (as found in the Palace of Versailles, I’ll have you know).

And there it was, in all its glory. A towering logzilla!

Right in front of the fireplace. In the middle of the room. Staining the polished wood.

‘Oh my god. Oh my god! I can’t believe it. I’m so embarrassed!’

Colin could hear my outburst of horror from the room upstairs. He messaged me:

‘What’s happened? Why are you so embarrassed? Are you ok?’

‘There’s a GIANT toley in his studio!!!!!!’

‘Really? Dog? Damn! Becca or Dougie?’

‘No idea. Dougie, I think.’

‘He must have been really desperate!!!!’

There was no other logical explanation. It had to be so. But why he was so desperate was a mystery. He hadn’t eaten more than he should last night. He wasn’t unwell. The stool was firm. So bizarre.

Did he sense the discomfort in the house last night? Was it a dirty protest against the stranger in our midst?

I cleaned up the mess as best I could, but the light-coloured mark where the log pile had been would be visible for years to come.

I told my best friend the story over the phone that weekend. She loved our dogs and I was sure she’d be sympathetic and as surprised as we’d been by this disgusting, embarrassing tale of doggy disaster.

‘Are you sure it was the dog?’ she joked.

It did get me thinking. Artists have been creating installations out of all sorts of weird stuff for years.

In 1961, Italian artist Piero Manzoni famously made 90 small tin cans, each labelled as containing “30 grams of faeces, freshly preserved”. He called the works ‘Merda d’artista’ (‘Artist’s Shit’) and sold them for their equivalent weight in gold.

Manzoni’s shit now sells for an extraordinary amount of money, apparently.

Might we have missed a trick?

I’m happy to report that no resident ever did stand in doggy doo-doo in the garden, much to our relief. We really did do our best to clean up after them as quickly as we could. The older Dougie got, the more of a challenge this became.

The poor dog had elbow dysplasia and arthritis at the base of his spine, so staying in a crouched position for any length of time was increasingly painful.

Where once there was one big pile to pick up, now there were five or six little droppings to hunt for.

In his final year, the crouching became so painful, he’d hold off for as long as he could and sometimes, until it was too late. On occasion, we’d find surprise nuggets on the kitchen floor, heading in the direction of the back door.

This did add another element of stress to the situation of hosting residencies in our own home. We’d try to make light of a difficult situation when we warned our guests to watch where they were stepping.

‘NEVER walk in the kitchen in bare feet!’

But there was the rare occasion when an accident did take place, resulting in shit being walked through the house by an unobservant artist, too deep in creative thought.

When one such incident happened, the resident appeared revolted and disgruntled as she flung her shoes into the garden and marched off to her room. I felt so bad. Here we were trying to sell ‘the dream’ and make everything perfect for them, then this.

Poor woman.

I picked up her leather boots to inspect the damage. Only one of them had been impacted, thankfully.

It was bad.

I scraped the majority off with a stick, then took them to the garage sink to scrub the rest out with an old toothbrush. The boots had a small, hinged, flip-down metal ice cleat in the centre, which could be flipped over to help with walking on icy surfaces, and very deep treads. Cleaning them with a small brush, whilst endeavouring to protect the leather from water damage, was quite the mission.

Once I was satisfied that I’d removed all the offending matter, I texted her:

‘Hi, I’ve cleaned your shoe. Just letting it dry off outside. Sorry about that. Dougie doesn’t know it’s coming until it’s too late these days.’

‘Oh Julia, you didn’t have to do that! But thank you so much, and poor Dougie, it’s not his fault. I actually don’t like those boots, they’re a bit leaky and so old now. I’d already decided to chuck them away.

But thanks anyway!’

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I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I love to write and hope you enjoy the stories from my adventures.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

Within a year of my brother being born, we’d moved into what would turn out to be Mum’s forever home.

The three-bedroom flat had become too small for this growing family, and we’d managed to double the value of the property with all our renovating and decorating, raising it from £22,000 to £44,000.

This increase allowed us to move to the lower floor of a gorgeous Victorian terraced house, with a private garden to the rear, in a very desirable part of Edinburgh and just a short walk from the school where my Mum and stepdad worked. The downside? It was, indeed, much bigger than the flat but it only had two bedrooms.

Not to worry, Mum had a plan. She’d move the bathroom, currently at the back of the house (with a garden view), to the box room in the middle of the house. A bathroom didn’t need a window, right? But this would make for a lovely big bedroom, which would lead out into the garden through French doors. Perfect.

My stepdad adored Mum and trusted her to make the decisions about interior alterations; however unconventional they might seem to him at the time. He was confident she’d make a lovely, functional home for us all.

She got a loan and spared no expense on this new bathroom, adding underfloor heating and a bidet, as well as the other necessary sanitaryware. She was so proud of the result, she cleaned it every day!

My Mum was a big fan of a bidet. Extremely useful when you’ve just had a baby and all your bits are still sore.

What had once been used as a second kitchen for a tenant in the flat had since been transformed into a nappy changing room when my brother came along and my Mum and stepdad had moved into that bedroom. There was already a sink in there, so she added a baby changing table, shelves for storage and a porcelain bidet. She’d got used to having one around.

To bidet or not to bidet, that is the question.

Did you know a bidet is also the name of a small extinct French horse, which gave the washing furniture its name because of the straddling position required to use it?

(I learned that just now from Wikipedia, so thought I’d share in case anyone else is as fascinated by bathrooms as I am? Unlikely, but…).

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Mum decided that reusable cotton nappies were the way to go. They would save us money, reduce household waste, and could help the baby transition to potty training earlier, or so she’d read.

With these arguments in their favour, this seemed like a no-brainer to her. But for me, the person who was allocated the household chore of ‘The Laundry’, this was a major decision! What followed was about three laundry loads a day to wash, hang, and put away the real nappies scarred with streaks of neon yellow pooh, as well as all the other clothes, towels and bedding used by the household. A massive undertaking!

My teenage years would never be the same now that there was a baby in the house. Even with the workload split between the four of us, it was a lot.

(I wonder if this is why I never wanted a child? I know what’s involved in caring for these ‘innocent’ creatures!)

I’m sure they wouldn’t get away with it if they weren’t so bloody adorable.

Only days after my brother was born, my Mum burst into my bedroom and thrust him abruptly into my arms as I sat on the top of my bunk bed.

‘Can you look after him for a minute, please? I need the toilet and I need it now!’

I gazed down at his little face, with his soft bald head that smelt of talcum powder, his jaundice tan, crusty eyes, and turned-up button nose. I wondered in awe at just how tiny his nipples were. How could they be SO small? And those fingernails! Like the teenyest pink Apple Blossom Seashells you find on the beach.

In those few minutes, I fell in love with my new baby brother.

We packed up our things and said goodbye to this flat that had witnessed and experienced so many changes over the past four years.

My big sister decided not to come with us to the new house. She was nearly eighteen after all, headstrong, independent, and needing her own space away from this new domestic set-up. She’d get a place of her own. Not too far away, just far enough.

My stepdad’s book collection seemed to have grown during the move. There were now floor-to-ceiling books in the living room, as well as bookcases flanking the hall, creating an instant warm and homely feel on entry.

I helped decorate several of the rooms. I needed extra cash, and they did pay me. I was cheaper than a professional, but as I took longer, it worked out much the same financially. However, I was willing to work around the furniture, and they didn’t have to worry about letting me in and out, or constantly offering me cups of coffee, so it made a lot of sense, all in all.

I was also really neat at cutting in, so when Mum made the brave decision to paint the living room in a rich red with white panelling, cornicing, and ceiling, my skills were severely honed. The ceiling was three metres high, the rose and cornicing intricate, and the panelling embossed anaglypta. No wonder I was slow!

By the time all this renovating and decorating work was completed, my brother was toddling and ready to be moved into his own bedroom. We had three bedrooms now, one for them, one for me, and… one for my brother?

Not quite.

Under the stairs leading up to the flat above was a large cupboard.

‘It’s big enough for a single bed in there,’ Mum observed. ‘We’ll put in a raised platform for the bed, about three feet up, and he can have a play area and storage space underneath.’

So, this became my brother’s room, and if you’ve been reading my stories for a while, you’ll recall what an empty room meant to my mother?

Additional income!

The school where my Mum and stepdad worked, and where I was a pupil, was a Rudolf Steiner school. Unconventional for some, aspirational for others. There are a number of these schools in the UK; however, parents who were keen for their children to attend were often not able to move close to one, so several of the pupils found accommodation with other connected families.

This is what we did, and many a young person found home with us, for a short time at least. As my brother grew from a toddler to a child and I made my way through puberty, we shared our highs and lows with them, and they with us.

My Mum and stepdad were completely committed to this school and its philosophy, Anthroposophy. (They had to be believers as the pay was rubbish!) They were as committed to it as they were to our family, it was, indeed, their second home. They taught full-time and often attended meetings in the evenings, so I spent a great deal of time looking after my wee brother.

He was fun, though: smart and super cute.

In the school’s pedagogy, a child’s development is tracked in seven-year cycles, with the first cycle focused on building the physical body. Because of this, many families choose to wait to cut their child’s hair.

My brother had been growing his golden ringlets for a couple of years. They were stunning, but we did cause some confusion when we were out and about. We’d often be approached by an old lady, who would glance down at my ring finger with a judgemental pout and remark, ‘Your daughter is beautiful!’.

‘He’s my brother!’ I would correct through gritted teeth.

When I hit seventeen and my brother was two, my Mum asked if I might be willing to swap rooms with my brother.

‘He could really do with more space to play now.’

It was clear ‘no’ wasn’t an option.

I moved out.

It wasn’t such a big deal. My big sister had a spare room just up the road. I’d move in with her, and we’d all benefit. She could get a bit of rent from me, Mum would get the space, and I would be able to smoke in my room!

You may be surprised to learn that my brother stayed in the cupboard under the stairs for a further three years, while Mum let out the rooms to two kids from the school.

We nicknamed them ‘Lucy the Lodger’ and ‘Ben the Border’, their collective noun: ‘The Babysitters.’

My Mum and stepdad would need all the help they could get, because at the age of forty-four, she was pregnant again.

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I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. Turns out I’m also a decent storyteller. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I hope you enjoy my stories.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

Was he just giving me the good parts in the school plays because he had the hots for my ma?!

When the drama teacher started visiting us regularly and gazing at Mum with doe eyes, it was clear he’d fallen for her, big time.

He was in a relationship with another woman, though. A woman whom he’d been with for ten years. It was complicated, as his feelings for mum were deepening by the day and he simply couldn’t ignore them.

A tall, dark, and handsome man, with a large nose. He could pull off scruffy in denim dungarees, or be a dandy in a tweed three-piece suit, but he always elevated his attire with a silk scarf or bow tie, a peaked cap, or Theodora hat. A visibly eccentric thespian.

My mum welcomed his advances; the feelings were mutual, and as soon as he knew for certain, he packed his bags and walked away from his relationship, leaving behind the partner and his precious collections of books, instruments and vinyl.

It was a brave move to step into this all-female family of three. My sister, mum and I had been a team for so long, it was normal for us to talk openly about ‘female issues’, and we secretly revelled in his blushes as we discussed bodily fluids around the dining table.

He was thoughtful and considerate, though, and did a good job of stepping into our tight-knit group, cautiously, sensitively, never offering advice unless advice was requested, never trying to parent these teenagers with an attitude that had come as part of the package.

Living with my sister and me through our adolescence can’t have been a breeze, but perhaps the work he did as a psychiatric nurse before he took up teaching was helpful to him at this time? A calm understanding of our intensely emotional reactions to just about everything.

He was smart too. I mean, highly intelligent, with an IQ in the top 2% of the general population. A member of Mensa. And entertaining. A great storyteller. Through his nursing, he’d realised that the imagination has the power to heal. He took this clinical philosophy into his teaching, championing oral storytelling, not just as entertainment, but as a vital therapeutic tool for mental and emotional development.

He was obsessed with stories of every kind, and he’d gathered a wide variety over the years. They could be about the ‘Knights of the Round Table’, or a classic Celtic folklore, or even a psychiatric patient from his nursing days:

‘I used to clean a patient’s false teeth for her every night, and every night she’d say the same thing to me: “You brack ‘em, you pay for ‘em!”’

He told stories in English, French, even Scots Gaelic, which he learned just for fun and just so that he could be hailed as a Seanachaidh (a traditional Gaelic storyteller).

The guy was surely just showing off? He was from London, for god’s sake!

When I picture him in that house now, I see him sitting in the huge bay window, with the lovingly stripped and waxed wood. Usually reading a book and tapping on the tips of his moustache or twiddling his beard.

That bay was the meeting point for all family business: family meetings, birthday get-togethers, the location of the tree at Christmas. We’d all gather in that window to share secrets, air grievances, or open presents.

The drama teacher may well have been intelligent, but he didn’t have any common sense, it turned out!

He loved nougat and would often be gifted some for Christmas, so we shouldn’t have been surprised when he mistook the gift of a pink bath bomb as this sweet candy. We all watched as he sniffed it, our eyes widening and jaws dropping as he bit a huge chunk out of it. And we all waited with bated breath in anticipation of what would happen next. Effervescent explosion!

Surely, he wouldn’t fall for it a second time? Surely, he would suss us out if we gave him soap shaped like chocolate the following year? Surely?

Nope, he sniffed it, then bit off a huge chunk! What a total numpty!

F***ing hilarious!

Family celebrations would never be the same again. Now we were a family of four.

Four plus the two cats, Pinsky and Buff, who he was badly allergic to, but in my eyes, they were also part of the family. He would just have to live with them if he wanted to stay.

I was particularly attached to Pinsky, who had followed me for an entire paper round after I’d stopped to pet him. I went into the pet shop to ask if they knew who he belonged to.

‘He’s been sleeping under the hedge over the road for the past two nights, so we called the cat home to come and collect him. They’ll be picking him up in the morning. Would you be willing to give him a home for the night?’

I took him home and, right on cue, as I walked into the living room to ask Mum if he could stay over, he curled around my ankle.

‘Oh, pinskalina pussina!’ my mum cooed.

The cat home never did come to collect him.

I didn’t care that the cat’s presence was exacerbating this new lover’s asthma. He was here first and here to stay.

The poor guy had had a hellish history with his lungs. A severe asthma attack had caused one of his lungs to collapse when he was only nineteen years old. He’d had to suffer invasive surgery to fix it, only for the other to collapse a couple of years later. By now, he had an extremely fragile chest and a weak immune system. Coughs and colds were easily picked up, laying him out flat for days on end.

This fragility led to a sedentary lifestyle, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He was content to spend his time reading, playing musical instruments, learning languages, drawing comics, or writing poetry.

He soon realised that he couldn’t bear to give up his books, albums, and instruments. All the things he’d walked out on to be with mum. He’d have to bite the bullet and go back to collect them from his ex. Before I knew what was happening, our living room filled up with books from floor to ceiling, his mandolin and bodhrán drum adorned the walls, and his Ian Dury album ‘New Boots and Panties!!’ crackled on the turntable.

He and mum were deeply in love, and his feet were well under the table now.

I still had a slight niggle that he might be favouring me in the drama class because of this connection, but I didn’t care. At least I often got the best female roles. It was usually between me and this other talented girl, so when she got the lead in the next school play and I got a rubbish part, I was hugely disappointed.

Who could have predicted that just one week before the opening night, she’d be struck down with chickenpox? And who was there to save the day? Moi!

I glowed with pride at my next school report, which suggested that, with a little work, I ‘could go far in this sphere…’

He was a huge influence in my decision to study drama full-time when I left school, helping me prepare my audition pieces (one of which, an extract from this very play). With his direction and support, this once shy girl continued to gain confidence.

I was 14 years old, and he’d been living with us for nine months when the family meeting was called. ‘We have something to tell you both,’ mum said as she rallied us into the living room bay window.

It was the drama teacher who broke the news:

‘We’re going to get married.’

I felt a lump in my throat and my eyes filled with tears. Not sad, just taken aback. But what he said next stunned me so much more.

‘We’re also going to have a baby!’

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I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. These are my stories.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

‘Yeah, a student house with a daily cleaner!’ I muttered irritably under my breath, picking the remains of salad out of the plughole for the third time that day.

For us, the kitchen is one of the biggest challenges of hosting self-catered residencies in our home. We’re constantly trying to keep the place clean and free from ants, mice, or worse! All the while, residents are continuously leaving crumbs or allowing fruit to mould on surfaces.

Would they think to wipe the cooker down after spattering it with tomato sauce in their own home, I wonder?

It’s ok though. We realise that this is part of the job of a residency host. We accept it, with only the *occasional grumble, and know we can’t be too precious about anything in that room.

*Hi. ‘Dad’ here. Please don’t put unwashed yoghurt pots in the recycling bags. I need to handle them at the other end, so it’s not a pleasant experience for me nor the recycling gentlemen. Thanks, your lactose-intolerant friend, Colin

It’s a pretty crap kitchen to be honest. We always introduce it as ‘our retro kitchen’. ‘It was last updated in 1964, so if anything falls off in your hands, please don’t worry about it!’

As you could probably guess from the description, it’s incredibly brown! Brown wooden cupboards, brown hexagonal tiles (much of the grout now worn away, opening a channel for scraps to linger longer), a brown ceramic sink (that will smash the toughest glass with the slightest graze), and brown linoleum on the floor (now showing serious signs of wear and tear). It’s one saving grace: sweet little tiles interspersed between the brown ones on the walls, depicting lovely illustrations of herbs.

Unfortunately, we can’t afford to smash it out (despite a daily yearning), but we have given it a minor update by adding blackboard paint to some of the brown woodwork. We now welcome residents with a cupboard branded with a ‘Bonjour’ and their name, so they know where to keep their stuff.

The big table in the middle of the room has been a game changer as far as workspace is concerned, but it can get tight if multiple people are trying to cook at the same time. We’ve considered adding arrows to the blackboards to indicate that everyone should move in a clockwise direction!

‘It’s the people’s kitchen’ I often explain, if someone is feeling bad about being in my space. The dishes, glasses, pans, none of these are special to us.

We’ve relinquished all accoutrements.

Still, I can’t help grimacing when I see someone scrubbing frantically with a scourer on a non-stick pan.

Colin asked a guy four times to use a wooden spatula in the pan, rather than a sharp metal knife (I kid you not!). Four times! He gave up asking after that.

‘He doesn’t adult very well’ he grumbled reluctantly.

Are these people completely ignorant of the dangers of plastic particles I wonder? Don’t they understand that damaging the Teflon will release millions of teeny weeny bits of it directly into their food? Into everyone’s food! Arrrrrgh!!!!

It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s not mine. ‘It’s the people’s kitchen’.

You can tell a surprising amount about someone from how they behave in a shared kitchen.

We ask a lot of questions on our application form, and we’re highly selective, only accepting around one out of three applications, mostly because we’re uncertain about ‘character’. But you can only learn so much about a person by their answers; what professional experience they have, what they’re planning to work on, why they’d like to come. But a person’s character is only truly revealed when they get here.

I mean, pre-heating the electric oven for ten minutes, just to warm up a croissant, during a heatwave, that should be a criminal offence, should it not?

Colin can’t abide the smell of cooked butter (one of his stomach’s main enemies), so when we had a Chinese resident who baked a cake every single afternoon to have with her tea ceremony, he was close to packing his bags and walking out the door.

The smelliest challenge for me though came one morning when a vegan decided to beat the rush and cook a massive lentil stew at six in the morning. I can understand why she thought it was a good idea; she’d have time and space and wouldn’t feel as if she was in anyone’s way. However, the aroma of onions and garlic wafted up to our bedroom, waking me from my slumber. A little hard to stomach first thing, as you can imagine.

Some people love to cook for others, and occasionally groups get into cooking for each other. These groups tend to bond the best, getting into a daily routine of coming together around 6 p.m. to share a glass of wine and a meal. Others prefer to cook and eat alone, with a good book or iPad for company.

Some like to talk in the kitchen; some even like to talk too much and continue to talk to you even after you’ve left the room! Others can be silent, so silent that they don’t even lift their face from the chopping board to acknowledge your presence.

I’m not sure which of these I find more challenging.

Some people like ice and lots of it! I’m not bothered by it personally; it just gets in the way and bounces off your teeth, but we installed an American-style fridge freezer with an ice machine nonetheless, as we never seemed to have enough trays to satisfy our residents. There was only one place this gadget could live, which just so happened to be in the absolute opposite corner to the water source! The plumber did a lovely job of inserting a copper pipe all the way around the two walls to plumb it in. (He even hoovered the top of our cupboards while he was up there! What a star).

Despite our good intentions, some people expect too much ice from this machine. Americans especially seem to love the stuff! One American resident took a pint glass full of ice to his room, then was confused as to why he couldn’t have a further pint an hour later. Colin had to show him inside the freezer door before he understood that the machine had to make the ice in a small unit inside. He seemed genuinely astonished!

I’m wondering if some Americans grow up with limitless ice on demand?

Not only does this high-traffic room need to function for up to five humans at a time, it’s also where two cats eat and, up until four months ago, a Labrador also.

It’s like Piccadilly Circus in there at times.

Most residents see the cats as a bonus. A couple of cute little friends to rub against their ankles as they cook. Mewing and purring as they bend down to give their backs a little scratch. But the occasional person loses patience with them, not realising that a simple end could be put to this unwanted attention by adding a handful of kibbles to its bowl. That’s all it’s after really.

One resident really didn’t like Henri Quat’. I mean, he can be a little high-pitched and persistent, I admit. A good communicator, let’s say? Colin heard a calamity in the kitchen, so he checked the security camera to make sure all was well. She was caught in the act of ‘moving’ the cat out the back door with her foot, then frantically blocking the cat flap with a large bottle of washing-up liquid to ensure no re-entry. Grrrrr!

Oh, did I make an error saying ‘it’s the people’s kitchen’?

They live here too!

We’re constantly checking that the gas cooker has been turned off nowadays. Our imagination turning to a horrifying vision of a cat-shaped fire ball burning the house down.

We used to turn a blind eye if someone wanted to smoke a bit of hash whilst in residence. ‘No big deal’, we thought. But one resident changed all that when she put our pets and the house at risk.

She’d managed to get her hands on thirty euros worth of resin and was straight with us about it. ‘That’s fine,’ we said, ‘as long as you smoke in the garden’. Little did we know that she would smoke the entire amount in just four days! She floated around the house, completely spaced.

She stood and washed her hands slowly and meticulously at the kitchen sink one time, then turned around and just stood there, hands in the air, staring blankly.

‘Is it this you’re after?’ Colin asked, handing her a towel.

‘Oh yeah. Thanks. Ummm, I’ve run out of matches, would I be able to quickly light my smoke on the gas hob and go directly outside with it?’

‘Ok’, we answered reluctantly. Off she headed to the garden to smoke weed and watch weeds grow.

We all went out for a day trip on the Sunday, leaving Dougie the dog at home with the cats. A lovely afternoon was had, driving through the green, lush countryside and visiting some of our favourite old villages. We were away for about five hours altogether.

The stoner must have remembered while out. But she never confessed to her niggling concern.

On our return, she dashed through the door, pushing ahead of Colin, and ran into the kitchen. He was quick to follow her to find out what the hurry was. Quick enough to see her run over to the cooker hob and turn off the lit gas.

We don’t allow drug use here anymore.

We can set the rules and ask as many questions as we can think of before they arrive, but we’ve learned through experience that you only really discover what someone’s like when you start sharing a kitchen with them.

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I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency.

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Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

Who could have predicted that my big sister getting school phobia would have such an incredibly life-changing effect on me?

That it would rip me out of my comfort zone. Move me from the red-brick Victorian terrace in which I’d been born and had grown for eleven years, where my best friend lived right next door and everything was small, comfortable, and familiar, and land me in a strange city, a new school, and a crumbling flat.

My sister had been a big fish in a small pond at our primary school, which had only about three hundred pupils. She could stick up for herself with her sharp tongue or her fists if necessary. And she stuck up for me too, those few times I got bullied. I was grateful. But when she moved on to the secondary school, which was four times the size, she was out of her depth. A nobody, referred to only by her surname by the teachers.

She couldn’t handle the bullies, who were now so much bigger and nastier than her, nor the anonymity, and when she started playing truant daily, it was clear to my mum that a major change was necessary.

As a child, mum had attended the Rudolf Steiner School in Edinburgh. A school which aims to develop the whole child in a nurturing, low-pressure environment, rather than focusing primarily on academic achievement. Might it be worth a try for her?

My sister moved to Scotland and spent a year living with my grandparents to test the water. She was back in her small pond again, able to defend herself during conflict where necessary, and her classmates soon became her friends.

As she built her confidence, mine was severely challenged as we packed up our home and made the (terrifying) move to join her.

Mum had originally secured a mortgage using her and my dad’s incomes as teachers at the local Art College, plus a significant deposit donated by her parents. After my dad’s untimely death, she managed to keep up the payments herself to keep us in the house.

She got thirty grand for that house when she sold it, with only a small amount of mortgage still to pay off, and she managed to find a bargain three-bed flat in Scotland’s capital for just twenty-two thousand, leaving her a tiny bit of change for the necessary renovations. And there were many issues to be dealt with!

The front door was completely rotten, and the kitchen ceiling sagged so badly it touched the light bulb. There was a brown and cream swirling deep shag pile carpet running down the hall and polystyrene ceiling tiles in most of the rooms. 1970s hideousness!

Mum still needed to work, of course, so decided to continue as head of the Pottery Department at the Art College, whilst embarking on a Steiner Teacher Training. She would do this for a year, driving the two hours south, staying one night, then driving back the next evening to do the course two evenings a week and one full day at the weekend. In a year, she’d be able to stop the commute and start teaching, while she completed the second year of her training.

I’m not entirely sure when she slept, because in-between all of this, she’d renovate the flat.

My sister was thirteen and deemed mature enough to look after us both alone in the flat in Mum’s absence. This may have been overambitious.

Within a year, I was addicted to nicotine, drinking alcohol regularly, and had a criminal record.

Growing up, I’d been painfully shy and treated as a bit of a weirdo at that school (not surprising really as my Mum was atypical in the small town. A meditating vegetarian! She’d send me to school with a packed lunch of something bizarre like rice balls wrapped in seaweed, with a miso dressing. Oh, and a toothbrush for afters. Meanwhile, most kids were enjoying their school dinner of sausage and chips, finished off by a finger of fudge. Yearn.)

But at the Steiner School, I was immediately accepted! I’d found my tribe. Other kids with unconventional parents.

And everyone took a packed lunch!

This education style suited me well also. There was such a strong emphasis on creativity and imagination, as well as a focus on social and emotional development. This way of teaching brought me out of my shell, encouraged me to express my opinions verbally, and revel in the creative subjects. I excelled in handicrafts, often got given one of the lead roles in drama, sang my heart out in the choir, and shone in the art class.

I thrived on my newfound popularity. The girls wanted to be my friend, and the boys hoped for more!

“Hey, do you want to go halfers on a bastard?”

“Excuse me, can I break your hymen?”

Two of the most charming chat-up lines I received that I’ve never quite managed to forget.

I hung out on street corners smoking with my friend Tiffy. I’d make her scrounge fags of strangers because she was Swedish, so could always feign she couldn’t understand them if they came back with a negative response.

She asked a lorry driver who was passing by slowly with his window down. He said ‘sure!’ and passed her one down, smirking. ‘Do you want to smoke that in here with me?’ he asked. ‘Your friend can come up too!’, he winked.

‘F**k off!’ we both sniggered at him, walking off arm in arm to enjoy our smoke.

We were just stamping it out when the policeman appeared: ‘You’ve been reported for underage smoking.’

(That bastard lorry driver must have grassed us off!)

He pulled out his notepad. ‘Can I take your name and address, and where you got the cigarette from?’

We told him we’d just found it on the street, then Tiffy gave a false name and address, and I followed suit. We’d only recently got criminal records for shoplifting, and I was terrified about what would happen to me if they worked out who we were and told my mum.

I couldn’t stop worrying about it over the next few days, so I pulled up my big girl pants and told her myself. Just in case. Ultimately, I was a good kid, with a conscience. It was not possible for me to lie. If I was put on the spot, I would immediately crumble into tears, and the truth would be out.

Fortunately, I had a brilliant relationship with my mum. We always got on well, and I told her everything. She trusted me to be honest, so always had my back. Even through these teenage years.

I worked hard at school, did my homework, learned my lines, practiced piano, helped with cleaning and cooking, oh yes, and the decorating.

By this point in the story, Mum had bought a new front door, fitted a new kitchen and repaired its ceiling, replaced the hideously swirly hall carpet with a tasteful flecked oatmeal, had all the doors dipped and stripped back to wood, and painted each room in neutral shades. Sunlight bounced off pale walls and honey-coloured wood and mum felt proud of the new home she’d built for us.

The living room had a classic Victorian-style bay window, flanked on either side by floor-to-ceiling paneling, four panels wide. A considerable amount of wood. She and I agreed it would look amazing, stripped back, and it became my labour of love for some considerable time.

After experimenting with various chemicals, I decided that the heat gun was the most successful approach. I spent hours, bubbling up the layers of old gloss paint and thick, dark brown varnish, with the smell of burning hanging in the air. A thorough sanding got rid of the final dark remnants and covered the room in a thin layer of dust. Then a final waxing to strengthen the colour of the wood and its grain.

‘It looks fabulous Julia. Good work! You should be proud of yourself.’

Praise of this kind was rare from mum. Only dished out when truly deserved. I took it and was, indeed, very proud.

The hall was massive in this flat, large enough for a table tennis table, so our house was naturally the party house, and we got up to all kinds of naughtiness while Mum worked and studied.

She was happy in her new life. Completely absorbed by the philosophy of Rudolf Steiner and all that came with it. The school became her second home, and she was committed from that moment on.

Unfortunately, the teaching at the school didn’t pay as well as the teaching at the college had, so Mum had to find additional income. ‘No problem,’ she declared, ‘we’ll rent a room out!’

Looking back, I realise now that we never had an empty bedroom in our house. Not once. If she had a spare room, she made additional income from it.

She moved out of her bedroom and into the living room (the room with the wood panels). Her room had a little alcove off it, so she popped a camping stove, microwave, fridge, and sink in it and ‘voilà, a second kitchen!’.

Apart from the tenant, who I only encountered on rare, awkward moments when we were both heading to the bathroom at the same time, it was mostly just the three of us women.

My Mum, my sister, and me.

We learned from mum how to be independent, strong-minded, wilful, and confident women. A resourceful, resilient and determined team.

‘All for one, and one for all’

A few boyfriends came and went from Mum’s life over those years. Some I liked more than others. Then there was one who came and stayed for good.

My drama teacher!

We didn’t know then quite how much he was about to change our lives.

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I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

It was Deborah’s first night, right at the end of our first year of running the residency. Winter is our quietest season, and she would be our only resident for the next fortnight, so we decided to head into town to see if we could find a vegetarian meal for her to enjoy.

The French seem confused by the concept of vegetarianism (‘We have the salmon?’ I’ve heard suggested when asked what vegetarian options there are), and you have to be very careful not to accidentally consume duck around here!

‘My friend is vegetarian,’ I told the waiter. ‘Are the fries cooked in duck fat?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he replied. ‘C’est pour le goût.’

Well, I know it’s for the flavour, ya fanny, that doesn’t make them vegetarian though!

If truth be told, Deborah wasn’t actually entirely vegetarian. Once a year, she would go hunting with her father in North America, and they would kill an elk. Do you know what an elk is? It’s one of the largest subspecies of red deer. E-nor-mous!

She told us that their meat is lean and higher in protein than beef or chicken, and you can get between five hundred and a thousand meals out of one animal. Wow! She’d freeze it, and it would feed her family for the entire year.

The only meat she’d eat was this animal, which she’d killed and processed herself. That’s pretty admirable if you ask me.

Ok, so where was I? Oh yes, we’d headed into town to a restaurant that had a pretty broad menu and found a decent meal for one and all. The wine was flowing, and so was the chat, and so, despite her jet lag, Deborah welcomed the suggestion of ‘just one more glass’ in the bar on the way home.

At the table next to us was a raucous group of drama students, out celebrating their Christmas break.

‘I’m going to ask them for a cigarette,’ she said as she headed confidently over to their table.

I’m not sure if it was the jet lag, the wine, the cigarette, or (most likely) the concoction of all three, but when we glanced over just a few minutes later…

Deborah was dancing on the table with one of the guys!

We called it a night, and I offered her my arm to steady her as she staggered back to the house.

She’d hired a car in order to bring lots of art materials with her. As Colin unlocked the front door, I turned to see her popping open the boot, then begin unloading the contents. First up, a huge roll of canvas that sent her reeling backwards into the gutter.

‘I think you should unload the car in the morning?’ I suggested as I helped her to her feet and into the house.

Deborah wasn’t the last resident to accidentally get sozzled though. There have been plenty since. Let me tell you about Lisa, who was completely destroyed!

One of the perks of our residencies is the offer of a professional headshot taken by my husband, Colin. A brilliant portrait photographer, in my opinion, and scarcely any have turned the opportunity down. We use these photos for our own marketing, but also many residents have used them on their own website, book sleeve, or social media, which makes us happy.

Colin had arranged to meet Lisa, plus the others in residence at the time, at 5pm for a photoshoot. We’d then get together for a potluck dinner and a little sharing of the work they’d created during their time with us.

At 5.30pm, Lisa staggered through the front door, wearing her shades and a sheepish expression.

She’d popped into the bar in town that’s owned by a Belgian guy and one beer had led to another (and maybe even another?). They have this Belgian beer on tap called Kwak, which is a deceptive 8.4%.

From what I’ve witnessed, Kwak sends you Kwakers!

My pal Frank came over from Scotland once and had two pints of the stuff on his last night. We went round the corner for a meal at the restaurant where a birthday party was taking place. A table full of women and one guy. Frank shouted over, ‘Hey, it’s your birthday? Happy Birthday!’ He went on to repeat this three or four more times over the evening, by which point we feared the guy might be about to come over and lamp him one!’

‘Ces putains d’Anglais’

In between shouting birthday greetings across the room, he cried and told us how much he loved us…

‘I really love you guys!... Sob… Happy Birthday!’

As Frank forced down a double espresso the next morning, he looked up at me bleary eyed to ask ‘Was it someone’s birthday last night?’

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Lisa had been attracted to the amber nectar by the distinctive koetsiersglas (coachman’s glass). The glass looks like something out of a laboratory, with a round bottom, and long fluted neck. Because you can’t sit the glass down, it comes with a wooden stand.

It’s such a weird glass that it puts me off drinking from it. Legend has it that it was designed so 18th-century coachmen could hang the holder from their carriage and rest their glass in it between sips. Turns out, it was more likely a smart marketing ploy by a brewery in 1980, but hey ho, there you go.

Whatever the truth, it worked on Lisa and a few glasses slipped down easily.

The photoshoot was a challenge for Colin, as Lisa insisted on keeping her sunglasses on to hide her drunken eyes. She couldn’t stop talking, pulling odd expressions as her eyes wandered everywhere except towards Colin’s camera.

‘Look down, now look at me… Boom! That’s the album cover.’
‘Now try not to talk during this one.’
I could hear Colin’s patience wearing thin.

The dinner and ‘sharing’ were a challenge too, as Lisa ate very little, but poured herself glass after glass of wine. Her words slurred as she read us her poetry and she interrupted others as they tried to read their carefully crafted words.

The other residents had a train to catch the following morning at 9.30am, so despite her train not being until midday, Lisa had offered a few days before to travel with them and spare Colin the extra trip. Great news for Colin as he was in the middle of a large design project for which he’d welcome the extra time.

As she held her hair back from her face, whilst bending over the toilet for the third time that night, the thought of her onward journey must have filled her with dread.

When the sun rose early the next morning, Colin couldn’t bring himself to put her through it.

I can imagine that when Lisa peeled one eye open to read the incoming message at half past seven, it was the best message she’d ever read in her life.

‘It’s ok. Go back to sleep. I’ll drive you at eleven.’

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I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I mostly write about people: creative people, eccentric people, generous people, difficult people, vulnerable people. These people come together at my place.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

We’d been living in France for half a year by this point. We’d moved here from our rental in Scotland, mainly because we’d noticed the low cost of housing in the Southwest, and with the sole purpose of buying a place we could run as a creative residency.

Our requirements were very specific:
We needed space for creative people to make work, enough bedrooms and bathrooms for three or four residents, and the ability to split the property, so we could have some private space.

Colin had helped set up a Scottish tech company I’ll call Lemonade, which he still worked freelance for and owned shares in that one day would be worth enough for a decent deposit. The problem was that no one knew exactly when it would sell. Soon, we hoped! But we couldn’t bear to put our plans on hold and wait. We were too old already! We had to keep moving forward and see just how far we could get.

So, we had his steady wage, my fluctuating income from freelance work as a web designer, and the ten grand raised through the crowdfunding campaign I told you about. We knew we could comfortably afford a mortgage of around €900 a month, so we decided to look at properties up to €220,000 and then see if a bank would give us a mortgage for that amount.

We’d have to be able to put down a 5% payment immediately for the compromis de vente (sales agreement), but that’s where the crowdfunding money came in. Virtually the exact amount we’d need! We would, of course, ensure we wouldn’t lose it in the process. It wouldn’t be right to gamble away the generous donations of our friends and family. But this was doable. We could make the payment with the terms of the agreement being, if we can’t get a mortgage, we’ll get it refunded.

Our wish list was so specific and our budget so tight, it would surely take us forever to find the right place, at the right price anyway. And maybe Lemonade would sell in that time. Just maybe it would work itself out if we believed, trusted, envisioned, …

I can see now that optimism was pretty much our only plan!

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When Caroline parked up outside this massive house, we were completely thrown. What the f*ck was she playing at?

Stepping through the front door into the spacious hall, with lofty ceilings and a view ahead to the garden, my eyes were drawn firstly to the huge living room to my left, with high skirting boards, a ceiling rose and ornate marble fireplace, then to my right, where the vast dining room boasted an even larger ceiling rose, a carved stone fireplace and rounded corner cabinets, topped in marble.

I felt irritated as I walked through room after room. The smell of floor polish emanating from the deep, dark wooden floors beneath my feet.

Why the hell was I here? It was gorgeous! Absolutely perfect. And we couldn’t have it.

Passing through the house was like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. A peaceful secret garden, abundant with fruit trees and singing birds. It surely would be an artist’s dream?

And outbuildings too. In need of renovation, yes, for sure, but so much potential in this place.

My frustration rose higher. Why show us this idyllic place if we can’t afford it?

Not only the outbuildings, but all the interior needed renovating. That wouldn’t be cheap either.

Caroline told us that the house had been built in 1832 and that the current owner was a 94-year-old man (‘that explains the stair lift and grab rails then, I guess?’, I thought). He had been brought up in this house with his brother. His wealthy parents also had a flat in Paris, and when they died, he and his brother basically drew straws as to who would have this one and who the Paris flat.

He won this house and, in 1964, moved in with his young family. My guess is that they decorated the entire house around that time, judging by the wallpaper choice and the sixty’s kitchen, which was only just still holding itself together.

He’d ended up here alone, and I guess decorating wasn’t his priority in those latter years. Especially once his knees were failing him. He’d moved in with his daughter five years ago and put the house on the market. That’s when the ivy started to take over the garden.

It was all perfectly habitable though. Just a hell of a lot of floral wallpaper to remove, on the walls, doors, and even ceilings! You could see where his furniture had masked the paper from the bright sunlight. Shapes where pictures and objects had once hung. Even the shadow of a gun on the chimney breast.

Oh, and massive cracks in the walls too.

‘If you can’t put your leg through it, it’s nothing to worry about.’ Caroline reassured us.

I wasn’t afraid of decorating. I’d never owned a house of my own (and was itching to paint one the way I wanted it to be), but had done a fair amount for my mum, so knew I enjoyed it and was ok at it. (My cutting-in is exemplary, I’ll have you know!)

But there was also plumbing and electrics to be modernised. Most certainly above my pay grade.

We moved on, and over the following weeks, I tried to put it to the back of my mind, but it kept creeping in. Those high, paned windows with wavy, ancient glass casting stunning shadows across the walls. Those beautiful cast-iron radiators, ready to warm every room in winter. The marble fireplaces, the wooden floors, and that garden!

The house and attached outbuilding formed a cocooning L-shape and complete privacy. A wall sectioned the nearest part off from the acre of fruit orchard beyond.

The rear view of the property offered up that picture postcard view I was dreaming of. A perfectly proportioned, elegant Maison de maître with a gently pitched red tiled roof. The bright orange trumpet flowers of the climbing Campsis tagliabuana ‘Madame Galen’ perfectly complementing the forest green shutters. Simply stunning.

And just a short walk to the town centre too. We wouldn’t have to drive every time our residents needed to shop. They could walk to restaurants, cafés, bars, … everything on hand for their convenience.

‘If you were to give that house a score out of ten, Colin, what would you give it?’

‘TEN!’

It was tugging on his heartstrings too.

‘Listen, the guy has not got long left on this earth, and the place has been on the market for five years. Maybe he just wants rid of it, so it won’t be a burden for his daughters?’ I suggested. ‘Maybe he’d consider any offer; it would give them some sort of inheritance and get it off their hands? Maybe even a crazy offer like ours? You never know? Shall we go for a second viewing and see if we can work something out to put forward with Caroline?’

Caroline had had a secret up her sleeve all along. As we stood by the gate in the garden, looking over the orchard beyond, she told us that the owner had been advised that he could sell that piece of land as three building plots. That he could get between thirty and forty grand for each.

‘Would you consider buying the property with the walled garden but not the park?’

Oh, but that vast green space, right in the middle of the town, just so special. And the privacy. You wouldn’t want three houses built right beside the wall. They could be anyone. Motorcycle fanatics, families with masses of young children, the tranquillity could be ruined!

What if we just kept a bit of it though? A buffer. We could put a veggie patch there or something, and it would give us that bit of distance. If we kept fourteen metres out from the wall, would he still be able to get enough for the plots? It would still be a decent chunk of land for him.

Let’s assume he can get forty for each and offer one hundred and twenty grand under the asking price to knock off the park but keep the buffer. If you don’t ask…

Caroline called the very next morning.
‘I’ve spoken to the owner and put your offer to him. He’s accepted it!’

My mind was a spin. The perfect place at the perfect price. Now to secure that perfect mortgage.

We headed into our first bank to see if they would take a risk on this unusual couple. We were full of optimism and felt we were in a good position. We had the steady self-employed income, plus the fluctuating one, the 5% down payment, and, just to offer a little sweetener, a great business idea for the creative residency and the promise of the payout from the start-up coming soon.

They laughed us out the door.

We were not deterred as we walked through the door of the second bank, still full of hope.

By the time the third bank had rejected our request, we were starting to panic, and after the fourth… it was a quiet drive home.

Our dreams crumbled around our ankles.

We had come such a long way down this path, now living and renting in France, having found this amazing property just bursting with potential to become a residency, that we knew we could afford to pay for. If only someone would take a risk on us.

But no one would, and we realised that we had no choice but to wait for Lemonade to sell. Maybe the property would still be on the market when that time came around? We would just have to be patient.

Gutted.

We’d reached the end of the road. Four banks had said no, and the dream of getting this property was over.

Or so we thought.

What followed was an unexpected turn of events. Honestly, I could never have predicted it.

But those are stories for another day.

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I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

Most people come to our artist residency looking for time to focus on their creative project, while meeting new people and absorbing the culture.

But many also come with romance on their mind!

Films, fiction, and poetry have all been painting France as the most romantic country in the world for many years, so it’s no surprise that our visitors romanticise what life will be like here as a result.

‘Will I be French kissing in France?’

‘Will the locals speak that soft, sexy, rhythmic French, like they do in ‘Amélie’?’

Do you know that film, by the way? It’s a gorgeous one about a shy waitress who decides to help people find happiness and, in the process, she finds a perfect love. If you haven’t seen it, make it your mission! You won’t be disappointed. It’s my go-to film if I’m feeling the need for a bit of love in my life. When I started learning French, I seriously considered learning the film off by heart. But all I would be able to talk about would be lovely things.

That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

So many of our residents dream of being ‘An American in Paris’ and strolling arm in arm with Pierre, but in the end, they decide that the little town where we live will suffice for their romantic retreat. ‘Paris can wait’.

After all, this is the town where Shakespeare’s ‘Love’s Labour’s Lost’ was set. The play, if you’re not familiar, follows the King of Navarre and his three pals as they attempt to swear off the company of women to focus on study. But, surprise, surprise, temptation gets the better of them pretty darn quickly!

Joanne Harris found inspiration here for ‘Chocolat’ would you believe? Not the wooing element. It was the artisanal chocolaterie where you can see into the kitchen. I regularly remind residents not to be disappointed when Juliette Binoche doesn’t appear from the kitchen to serve them.

Some residents feel the time pressure, so try to hurry the process by opening Grindr or Tinder the minute they arrive.

Both of these apps are indeed a quick way to find others in the area looking for lurve. However, they aren’t necessarily the best way, and while looking down at your phone, you may be missing out on something right before your eyes.

I couldn’t help but feel frustrated recently when we’d offered to take two residents out for a day trip. We were driving through lush green hills, past stunning châteaux, enveloped by sunflower fields, as far as the eye could see under the bluest of cloud-free skies, and I could see him in the rear-view mirror head down, staring at his phone.

The stunning scenery rolling by unnoticed. Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

France isn’t romantic because someone is waiting on Grindr twenty kilometres away hoping for a quick rendezvous. It’s romantic because you’re driving past vineyards, chatting to locals drinking espressos in cafés, discovering beautiful villages, and getting to know the other talented and fascinating people we have in residence.

Put the bloody phone down and look aboot ye!

Stop obsessing. Swiping. Pacing, head down, like some deranged flamingo hunting a crustacean.

I recall one resident, who was here for a couple of weeks, got to chatting with a guy who lived about half an hour away. They chatted back and forth by text for several days, and each day, he would send her a video of himself walking his dog.

Every evening she’d come and show me another dog-walking video, instead of telling me about her creative work or what she’d discovered that day.

They set a date to meet up in his town.

She’d worked out what buses to take there and back (no easy feat considering there are only four a day!), and started thinking about what to wear.

Then silence. No more replies to her texts. No more videos. No explanation.

Ghosted.

What had she done to change his mind? She got to thinking through all their chats and rewatching his videos to try to work out what had gone wrong.

Hold on a minute! Every time he sent her a video, he was out with the dog. He never sent videos from his home. Always out. Perhaps… just maybe, he did not live alone? Perhaps he was already in a relationship and had just been enjoying the naughty notion of playing away!

Another resident found someone rather too keen.

It was 11.30 at night when the text came down from upstairs to my husband’s phone.

‘Colin, I might need your help! I’ve been chatting to a guy on Tinder and I thought we were planning to meet for a date, so I told him where I was staying. He says he’ll be here in half an hour!!! I’ve told him not to come, but he might just turn up. I really am so sorry!’

After a nervous hour and a later bedtime than planned, we finally gave up waiting, relieved that he hadn’t just turned up for an awkward rejection.

I’m not saying I expect them all to behave like the King of Navarre and his companions and commit to celibacy for the duration. Of course, they can have some fun at the same time as they create new artworks or edit their novel. In fact, perhaps a quicky would be just the ticket if they’re here for inspiration for their love poems.

All I suggest is that they look closer to ‘home’.

Just off the top of my head, I can think of half a dozen residents who found ‘romance’ in this town without the need for Tinder or Grindr. Most were indeed a quick bunk up, but a couple lasted beyond the end of the residency. (I believe one of these is still going, four years later!)

And then there’s the story of the resident who crossed a line so badly I had to kick them out into the street one dark night.

But the story of ‘the worst resident’ is a romance tale for another Sunday.

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Photos: Colin Usher

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Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

In 2016, we persuaded 98 people to help us buy a French mansion. At the time, we were self-employed, living hand-to-mouth, had no savings, no property to sell, and no wealthy relatives waiting in the wings with a handout.

I know it’s hard to believe, but I assure you, it genuinely happened.

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On the surface, crowdfunding looks simple. You have an idea for a business, you choose one of the crowdfunding platforms and post it online, you tell people about it, tons of people donate small amounts to create a large amount, you hit your target, and your idea becomes a reality.

But if you’ve ever tried to run a campaign yourself, you’ll know that the platform is only the shop window. You need to get people to go to the shop and, more importantly, to ‘buy’ into your idea when they get there.

Why should they give us their hard-earned money to help us achieve our dream?

When we ran our campaign, we came across a fair few non-believers in the concept and a few that didn’t understand why we felt justified in asking for their help.

‘When I bought my first home, I’d saved for years and years, doing everything I could think of to have surplus money. I even used to walk to work to save my bus fare!’

We could understand why this friend wasn’t keen to help. She wasn’t being unkind. She simply thought we were asking people to buy us a house, but we weren’t. The fault was clearly in our communication of the idea.

We were aiming for something much greater than just a home. We wanted to set up something that loads of people would benefit from. A Creative Residency.

In order to get people on board with our crowdfunding campaign, we needed to become better storytellers. We had to get people to trust us and believe in our idea. To see its worth for the wider community.

The first thing we did get right was starting two years before we asked for a penny.

It was October 2014 when we had the idea for the creative residency. We chose ‘Studio Faire’ as the working title, bought the domain, and started blogging.

By the time we got in the van to drive the 1,300 miles from our wee rented cottage in Scotland to our rented ‘maison traditionnelle’ in South West France to start searching for the property we’d buy, it was two whole years later, and everyone knew of our plans, though none of them knew how we’d pull it off.

The truth is, neither did we! We just kept taking the next step, trusting we’d eventually work out the rest somehow.

We’d written down our objectives, developed thousands of relevant contacts through decades of work in the creative industries, spent the past two years telling everyone our idea whilst scouting out the best location in the South West of France that would offer the desired pace and space…

Now we just had to work out how to make it happen.

We developed a three-pronged plan: spend less and save, make more and save … ask for support and save!

By spending less and working harder to make more, we’d be able to raise a portion of the required deposit for the property, but we needed support to reach the target and bring Studio Faire to life.

We realised we had to be as honest and transparent as we could be about what we needed and how we’d use it.

Building trust was the only way to get support. People needed to believe in us! Believe that we could and would create the business and create it well. Trust that we wouldn’t just disappear once the campaign was over!

So, we had to be open about what we needed to buy the property (about 40,000€ upfront once the deposit, legal fees, and taxes were included, for a property of around 200,000€).

We were already great believers in the concept of crowdfunding. If I can spare just a couple of quid today to help someone get a step closer to their dream, I should do that. It’s nice to be nice! And if everyone does that, only when they feel able, of course, just think of all the dreams that can come true!

Then, one day, might it be ok for that dream to be mine?

We chose Indiegogo for our campaign, as there was an option to keep whatever you raised, so the plan was, we could save whatever donations we received and keep adding to them until we hit our goal.

Time was not on our side, however!

We were already in our mid-forties and not getting any younger! We needed to get a wriggle on if we were going to have the time and energy to get an affordable property in shape to make this new venture a success!

We’d already committed to the project by making the move to France… now was the time to make this dream a reality!

We tried to make it clear to others how it would benefit the wider community.

We would offer the kind of experience I’d had on my residency at Hospitalfield, a place where creative people could disappear for a while and come back revived and refreshed, with something they could never have created amidst the distractions of home.

Our close friends and family got it and were willing to help us spread our story and show they understood, trusted, and believed in us by creating short promotional videos for our marketing.

Here are two different examples of them, the first by the brilliant Hailey Beavis and the second by our fabulous friend, Angie Hahn:

As I write, we’ve now hosted 242 residencies, with feedback being constantly mind-blowing! Testimonials include:

‘…nothing short of life-changing.’

‘…one of the best experiences of my life.’

‘Maybe this is something that should be available on prescription…’

I sincerely hope that those of you who contributed to our campaign, either financially or by helping us spread the word, can see that you had a hand in creating these momentous experiences for our residents?

Because we had no product to sell, we had to get creative with ideas for ‘perks’ and trickled them out over the month.

We thought it was a numbers game. We expected lots of small contributions to reach our large goal.

We soon realised that we were mostly relying on people we knew personally for contributions. As Studio Faire didn’t exist yet, it would be too much of a gamble for a complete stranger. However, between us, we had 1,705 friends on Facebook, so we thought that if we could persuade 1,000 of these people to contribute 20€, we’d reach 20,000€, half of the amount we needed for the deposit.

Even with this expectation, the ‘perks’ we offered in return for donations ranged massively in value from 2€ - 2,400€ (we wanted to have all the options available at least).

We had no ‘product’ to sell, so really had to think outside the box to come up with ideas people might be willing to pay for. These included:

• Pre-booking (or paying a deposit) for a residency at Studio Faire

• A half-price website

• A French ‘chanson’ or ‘plat du jour’ recipe emailed to you for 20 days

• Your name written somewhere in France, photographed and emailed to you

(and the winner for originality…)

• A live drum solo, just for you via Skype!

We didn’t post all of our ideas at once. One mistake I see campaigners make time and again is to tell the world about their campaign at the start and then sit back and hope for the funds to roll in.

That doesn’t work. You have to keep talking about it again and again… and again! Trickling out our perks and having our friends’ promotional videos gave us the chance to keep bringing it up on social media and through campaign updates, without having to repeat ourselves.

It’s was a job for the full month. We had to make the time for it if we were going to give it our all.

We felt really awkward about having to keep talking about it, but it was essential!

It’s really tricky putting yourself out there like this and not very British to talk openly about money, or to admit you don’t have enough for what you need. We felt self-conscious about what some people might think of us, but we felt we had little choice but to try our best.

With the changes we’d made to our lifestyle (cheaper rent, smaller car, cheaper nights out, etc.) and the full-time work we were both doing in the digital world, we’d been able to put aside around 1,000€ per month. So, yes indeed, we could have attempted to do this alone… but it would have taken another three years to raise the money and, as I mentioned, time was not particularly on our side.

We didn’t manage to get 1,000 people to back our campaign; in fact, we only had 98 supporters.

But, together, these 98 amazingly generous people raised about 10,000€ between them!

They helped create a place where, now ten years later, hundreds of painters, textile artists, authors, ceramicists, dancers, filmmakers, photographers, poets, songwriters, jewellers, screenwriters and composers have come to Studio Faire and found time, confidence, friendships, and sometimes entirely new directions for their work.

Every residency we’ve hosted has a tiny piece of those 98 people in it. I hope they know what they made possible!

Through this crowdfunding campaign, we successfully raised €10,000, but it wasn’t enough for a full deposit for the property

Unbelievably though, it turned out to be exactly the amount we needed.

The rest of this story involves a French broker, an independent bank, a patient 93 year old seller, and a twist we could never have predicted.

As always, can I ask you to please like, subscribe, comment and share this story to help me grow my readership?

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Hi, I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I’m not a trained writer, but I love to write and hope you enjoy my stories, tips and ideas.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

Some place where I could nurse the permanent heartache caused by the breakdown of a relationship that had resulted in homelessness and exhaustion. Quiet time to work on rebuilding my confidence after his clever criticisms and regular punishments with ‘the silent treatment’ had left me broken.

I couldn’t believe my luck when I was offered an artist residency in the most stunning place in Arbroath, Scotland. Three months, fully funded, with very few strings attached and the opportunity to exhibit in the Royal Scottish Academy at the end!

Then, just days before I was due to leave, a doctor gave me some news that could jeopardise the opportunity.

The suspicious-looking mole on the sole of my foot would need to be removed. There would be three stitches, and I’d have to stay off my foot for two weeks, and this, right near the start of my residency dates.

If I couldn’t walk, then how could I make this a success? I was hoping to be exploring the architecture, furniture, and artefacts in the house and creating new pieces in response.

I know. I could start with research: read, sketch, write, … think!

All this could be done sitting down after all. And where better than in the stunning gardens of this house? What a luxury this would be!

Fortunately, the surgery was scheduled for a week into the residency, so I was able to get myself to the town by train and walk from there to Hospitalfield to meet the Director at 3 p.m. and kick this adventure off.

Walking up the drive, with my pull-along suitcase crunching the gravel behind me, I was overwhelmed by this enormous red sandstone mansion, with its crow-stepped gables, silver-topped turrets, and numerous chimneys rising above the roofline. My eyes darted from one feature to another on this complex fusion of architecture.

The reason for its original shape was that Hospitalfield began life as a medieval hospital before evolving, bit by bit, over centuries into the extraordinary Scottish baronial building I was now standing in front of.

In the nineteenth century, it became the home of artist Patrick Allan-Fraser and his wife Elizabeth, the last heir to the estate. Their bequest for it to become an art school eventually transformed it into the residency centre it was that day.

The front door was open, so I stepped onto the deep red carpet inside the entrance. A dusty, woody smell filled my nostrils as the clock in the hall struck three ‘Ting, ting, ting’.

Simultaneously, I heard the chime of the clock tower outside ‘Ting, ting, ting’ and in the distance, another clock upstairs confirmed my punctual arrival.

Oil-painted portraits looked down on me and nude sculptures adorned plinths around me. But there wasn’t a living human in sight.

I wandered through the corridors calling “Hello? Hello?”

The house was bursting with Victorian accoutrements, artworks and artefacts, as if Elizabeth and Patrick still lived here. I truly felt as if I’d been transported to a different time.

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‘Ting’ The clocks struck quarter past the hour, then again ‘ting’, for half past. I’d found my way to, what I assumed was the resident’s dining room by then, as the décor was functional and contemporary. I sat down to wait.

When the Director finally arrived, he was so welcoming, and any fears I’d had went out the window as he showed me to my room. The single bed and paired-back décor made it feel a little like a monastic cell. A complete contrast to the rest of the house, but a quiet, safe place for me to call my own for the duration.

After the operation, I settled into my recovery in the magical gardens. The garden was double walled, creating a warm, sheltered microclimate and a perfectly comfortable rehab space.

The book that became my bible during this period (and one I’ve returned to on multiple occasions since) was ‘Home: A Short History of an Idea’ by Witold Rybczynski (affiliate link)

“Walk through five centuries of homes both great and small…on a house tour like no other, one that delightfully explicates the very idea of “home.”

You’ll see how social and cultural changes influenced styles of decoration and furnishing, learn the connection between wall-hung religious tapestries and wall-to-wall carpeting, discover how some of our most welcome luxuries were born of architectural necessity, and much more. Most of all, Home opens a rare window into our private lives and how we really want to live.”

Being forced to be still under this big blue sky, to let my body and mind recover, was exactly what I needed right now.

Other residents came and went throughout the months. Sometimes I was there alone, at home in these grand rooms like some lady of the manor. At other times the house was filled with the chatter and laughter of classes of American students there for a research trip.

When the Americans were there, they brought huge perks, which I could also benefit from in the form of a chef called Charlie and a dishwasher called Jim, and my weight loss mission was put to the test.

“I can’t possibly eat your amazing three-course dinner every night. I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been having just spent months working hard at it, dieting and going to the gym!” I exclaimed to Charlie.

But the temptation was too much for me, so I enjoyed these short moments of luxury, making one small sacrifice. I’d share my dessert with Jim each day.

Slowly but surely, I could feel my confidence being restored as the days went by, surrounded by this supportive creative community or enjoying complete solitude, exploring the beauty of the house and the contents of it’s cupboards and drawers.

The freedom I was allowed in this house was so generous. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the first person to have rummaged through these possessions though and some things were showing serious signs of wear and tear.

Torn wallpaper, broken crockery, faded tapestries, and worn upholstery. All the lives lived within this house were taking their toll.

I found myself wanting to ‘heal’ these beloved objects through my artwork in this historic hospital. I made drawings of bandaged broken chair legs, a needlepoint of an upholstery pattern that revealed an X-ray of a broken femur beneath and screen-prints of plasters that would fix the Willow Patterned plates.

It’s only now, looking back, that I see the obvious connection my art had to that point in my life.

The clocks continued to remind me of the passing of time every quarter of an hour, ‘ting’, but the time was my own and I was in heaven! I hadn’t realised how stressed and tired I’d been until there was finally no pressure. Nothing urgent demanding my attention.

I returned to Edinburgh with a restored sense of self, a body of work I was proud to exhibit in the prestigious gallery in Scotland’s capital and great stories to tell at my lecture to the Friends of the RSA, who’d funded the residency.

Three months after leaving Hospitalfield, the scar on my foot had almost completely healed, and I met my husband.

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Hi, I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I’m not a trained writer, but I love to write and hope you enjoy my stories, tips and ideas.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

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In June 2004 I was on the tube in London with my boyfriend of 13 years, heading to the party of one of his work colleagues, when the straw finally broke this camel’s back.

He’d moved to London four months ahead of me, to take up a job with a company that would offer him the final training he needed to qualify as a chartered surveyor. I’d stayed behind in Scotland to continue in my job at Aberdeen Art Gallery, whilst looking for new work in London. It was a fabulous job with the fancy title: Exhibitions & Display Officer. I was loath to leave knowing I’d never be able to match it in London but had always fantasised about working in Theatre Costume or as a technician in an art college, so these became my focus for job applications.

There followed a few failed interviews in London and time kept passing on by. I could feel us drifting further apart, so I bit the bullet, said ‘goodbye’ to the gallery and my life in Aberdeen and joined him in London.

It was strained from the off. He was clearly angry with me for not having gone down with him in the first place (though he’d never even hinted at that before!) and his criticisms of me were relentless. Whenever I tried to defend myself or resolve a conflict, he would give me the silent treatment to punish and frustrate me further. He was clever, so could put me down with just a few words and could keep up the silence for days on end. Once he even managed a fortnight!

I was constantly on edge and miserable in the relationship, as well as unemployed with no friends.

The man I’d been in love with since my 21st birthday, who’d lived with me through my art college years, who’d supported me when I went for my first residency in Huntly and who’d moved with me for the entire year to Stranraer for my second residency there, and so many more critical life changes in between, was now sitting in a different room than me most evenings.

That day on the tube in June was no different. Once again, his cruel and cutting put-downs broke me and I hung my head to hide the tears that rolled down my cheeks, clinging to the yellow grab rail to steady myself. I didn’t even want to go to the party. I didn’t know the people there, I was shy, and I certainly didn’t feel I was heading there with a supportive friend.

The tube pulled into Camden Market station and, just as the doors started to close, I stepped off, leaving him alone in the carriage.

He didn’t come home that night. Nor did he text to let me know he was alright. It was unforgivable. I’d had enough.

Devastated

In the morning, I packed a bag and walked out the door.

I didn’t have a plan of action, I just knew I couldn’t live with him anymore. I had nowhere to go. No idea where I’d sleep that night.

I was homeless over the next couple of months, sleeping on six different friend’s sofas, whilst desperately seeking a room to rent. I finally found one, sharing with a couple I vaguely knew, and crammed my worldly possessions into this tiny room, no bigger than the bed, with no view of the sky, in a strange neighbourhood in East London.

By this point, I was working as an art technician in a school and running creative workshops in various places throughout London. I would commute for around three hours most days, head to the gym for a workout, then back to the flat to cook a low-carb dinner. I was really putting the effort in to lose some of the extra weight I’d gained through the stresses of the past year, to feel better about myself and ready for a new romance… maybe.

I’d get drunk most weekends, then repeat the intense weekly routine. Constantly running to keep up.

Exhausted and miserable.

What was I doing? Why was I still here? Was I being foolishly stubborn in trying to make a go of it in London?

Eventually, after fifteen months of trying to make London work for me, I admitted defeat and moved back ‘home’, to Edinburgh, where my mum lived.

A full year went by and, despite my family and several friends living nearby, I still felt completely broken, lost and lonely. I’d found a decent room in a flat, sharing with two women, and it had a view of the sky!

Desperate for money, I found quick work in a call centre, collecting opinion polls under a strip light in a booth. Utterly depressing and so far away from all the work I’d done as an artist.

“Stop the bus, I want to get off!”

I could feel I was a mess. I wasn’t just grieving the relationship. I was grieving the version of my future I’d been imagining for the past thirteen years.

I desperately needed a retreat, a withdrawal just for a moment. Some place where I could nurse my permanent heartache, have some quiet time to work on rebuilding my confidence and some focus on what I wanted from this unexpected new direction. A blink of a moment away from the pressures of ‘real life’.

But what was possible on this low wage? I’d had success applying for funded artist residencies before; perhaps I could try that again?

One of my freelance jobs was at the Royal Scottish Academy, and they were calling for applications for a residency, funded by the Friends of the RSA. It was a long shot; the competition would be extremely high, but what the hey?

I got it! Three months, full pay, so I could keep the flat, and in THE most amazing place. Hospitalfield!

Hospitalfield wasn’t just any old residency venue. It was an enormously grand, turreted building that had evolved from a 13th-century hospital into a mansion steeped in artistic history and filled with Victorian artefacts. It was unlike anywhere I’d ever worked before.

The residency would run from mid-May to mid-August, and, unlike the other funded residencies I’d done, I didn’t have to work with the local community in any way. The only requirement was to give a talk to the Friends of the RSA about the experience at the end. I’d also get to exhibit my work in Edinburgh’s Royal Scottish Academy.

Mind blown!

After two years of heartbreak, exhaustion, dead-end jobs and feeling as though I’d somehow lost myself, I’d finally been handed exactly what I needed: three months immersed in a remarkable artistic community, with the time and space to create new work and contemplate my future.

Then, just days before I was due to leave, a doctor gave me some news that threatened the whole thing.

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Hi, I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I’m not a trained writer, but I love to write and hope you enjoy my stories, tips and ideas.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

I furrowed my brows in confusion and replied quizzically, ‘Of course not, I’m going with Colin! You know Colin? EVERYONE knows Colin!’

It was true, it wasn’t possible to walk down a street in Edinburgh with him and make it all the way from one end to the other without meeting someone he knew. It was so common we used to make bets that he couldn’t. Why would it be any different in France?

I was right not to have concerns as now, ten years later, we have the same ‘problem’ here.

Before we moved, we’d popped over several times for a recce and been put up in the stunning bed and breakfast of a French chap called Lionel. He was the ‘ex-lover’ of a friend of mine in Edinburgh, and welcomed us so warmly, never allowing us to pay for our stay and encouraging us to help ourselves to anything we liked from his cupboards!

Lionel introduced us to loads of his friends, both French and English, including Boris Williams whose name might ring a bell as he was the drummer for The Cure in the 80s (This will honestly be the only name drop in this post!)(Oh, and remind me to tell you about the time that Colin found himself playing in a cover band in front of Boris, with ‘Love Cats’ being on the playlist. Awkward!).

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We found a rental in a little village that had a population of just 750 and we were soon the talk of the town, so when a letter arrived at the local post office addressed to: Colin Usher & Julia Douglas, Francescas, France, it found its way to us in no time.

Marie-Claire, the postie, asked Olivier who lived in the town centre if he knew who it might be for and he made an educated guess. There were two new foreigners who’d moved into the rental just past the village exit sign, perhaps it was for them?

The next day, following confirmation of his guess, Olivier came bounding up to our front door proclaiming that he spoke English, LOVED Scotland, and would be delighted if he could help us in any way. He was a gem of a man and made all those awkward phone calls, where fluent French is more than just an advantage, helping us set up our WiFi and electricity packages.

Before this, Colin had had to drive 15 minutes to a larger town where he could get on the WiFi at the local café bar to work remotely. He (naturally) made friends with a ton of people there, including Cockney Mike, who treated the place like his office, meeting clients about building work whilst drinking rosé and smoking roll-ups in the scorching sun (‘water is pour la douche mate, pour la douche’), and the eccentric Belgian owner of La Taverne who immediately recognised Colin from past visits. This guy seemed to be running the place for fun, as he was plenty rich, allegedly having inherited a small fortune from his father, who was one of the inventors of the mechanism that whips cream in an aerosol can using nitrous oxide (or skooshy cream, as we call it in Scotland).

It was so brilliant to have Olivier’s help in those early days as we got to grips with the language. We were only beginners then (neither of us had learned French in school, so were only a few months into our podcast lessons), but we threw ourselves bravely into all local events to make friends and show that we weren’t the sort of expats who just stick to what they know (the Daily Mail and Fish & Chip brigade!).

We attended a historical march for victims of the 2nd World War, shopped at the weekly farmer’s markets, and went to every festival and party going. Man, we would even have been spotted at the opening of an envelope had there been one!

The truth is it was Colin’s ability to say ‘yes’ to every invitation and his confidence to chat to new people that got us there. I’m actually rather shy and introverted (though I think I hide it well?). For me it was a massive challenge!

We arrived in April, and throughout May there seemed to be fête after fête after fête!

The ‘Fête de la fraise’ celebrated the best strawberries we’d ever eaten, so sweet and juicy, and included a five-course meal with strawberries in every dish (the strawberry jelly with pork pâté was a tad weird, mind you!). We got chatting to a lovely guy at the bar, ‘Steve the Gardener’. He became a massive part of our story.

Cockney Mike’s 60th birthday ‘fête’ threw us into the thick of around 100 people from all walks of life and nationalities, including Steve the Gardener, who turned up with his brand-new puppy, Micky.

And the ‘Fête des voisins’ (Neighbours Day) was such perfect timing for us. It’s a national annual event that goes back to 1999, when a man called Atanase Périfan heard the story of an elderly woman’s body being found in her Parisian flat four months after she died. He was so moved by this tragic story that he started a survey asking one simple question: ‘What makes an ideal neighbour?’ He was shocked and saddened to hear the most popular response: ‘A neighbour you never see’.

Deciding to change this lack of community spirit and mutual support among neighbours, he initiated the Fête des voisins, bringing people of all ages together for a potluck dinner in a public space in their town or village. It was an immediate success and is now supported each year by town halls across the country.

I put on my big girl pants, took a deep breath, and dived right in, taking dishes of smoked salmon and mackerel pâté on oatcakes to add a Scottish twist to the starters. Everyone seemed delighted to meet us, excited to find some new faces in the village, and inquisitive about what had brought us to the region.

We were so proud of our conversational French (most importantly, we were trying and seemed to be making ourselves understood… mostly), until the conversation moved on to politics.

Time to get our coats and take ‘French leave’, we agreed.

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What I’ve realised since coming here is that most stereotypes collapse when you meet real people. It’s true that the French do tend to be particularly direct when giving their opinion (‘Your dog is fat’, I was once told candidly), but overall, we’ve found them to be polite, generous, and helpful. We’re constantly surprised when teenagers step aside to let us past on the pavement with a ‘Bonjour messieurs-dames’ and strangers say ‘Bon appétit’ to you at midday, even if you are nowhere near any food! But how lovely is that?

The French around here in the southwest tend to value a slower pace of life and prioritise spending time with family and friends and meeting new people, whilst enjoying good food and wine around a table.

That suits me just fine!

I didn’t discover that the French are rude. I discovered that people, wherever you are in the world, usually welcome you into their community when you make the effort to become part of it.

Just show up and remember to say ‘Bonjour’ and ‘Bon appétit!’

Most photos by Colin Usher

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Thanks for stopping by. Incase you don’t know this I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I’m not a trained writer, but I love to write and hope you enjoy my stories, tips and ideas.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

This is post thirteen!

If you’re new here, some recent adventures include:

· Moving to France on what some might suggest was a reckless amount of optimism

· Trying to buy an artist residency while grieving the biggest loss of my life

· Searching for the best location in France to set up an Artist Residency

You’ll generally find me writing on three subjects:

1 - ON EMIGRATING TO FRANCE FROM SCOTLAND
Tips, observations and personal reflections on moving to France and developing a life here, including humorous language errors, surprising cultural differences and, purchasing and developing a mansion, as first time buyers, on an extremely tight budget.

2 - ON BEING AN ARTIST
– My experience of being a practicing artist, exhibiting and undertaking commissions and residencies, plus other related work. I’ll also share advice on applying for residencies, such as the different types of residency, what to include in an application (and what not!), what to expect, how to behave, and more - I’ll even throw in a few tales of residents behaving badly (See below example of un-flushed toilets and snotty hankies!).

3 - ON BEING A RESIDENCY HOST
– Practical ‘how-tos’ and inspiration to help you get the most out of your own creative residency, details about what residents might need from you, as well as what you yourself might need as a host. I could even offer administration and marketing suggestions to wannabe residency hosts, if you let me know you’re out there and would want to read this (or is this too niche?).

I also plan to start interviewing artists I’ve met through my own practice and through hosting residencies. I’m fascinated by how creative people actually structure their lives: how they balance making work, earning money and everything else life throws at them.

Is this the sort of thing you enjoy reading?

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I don’t want this newsletter to be pure navel-gazing. Every story I share is also an attempt to work out what it taught me and whether it might be useful, encouraging or entertaining for somebody else.

It’s a strange experience sending these personal stories out into the world each week, never knowing who they might be of interest to, who might read them, enjoy them, be inspired by them…

One of my dear friends says that reading my posts has become a Sunday morning ritual for her, where she’ll grab a big mug of coffee and settle down in her favourite armchair to see what nonsense I’m spouting this week (my words, not hers). One of my oldest friends often comments directly on the post, remembering the part she played in the memory. And my Auntie relayed how she read my post aloud to my uncle as he painted plein air on their camping holiday. That image made me happy.

It’s knowing these things that keeps me motivated to continue. Without this feedback I probably would also be giving up after just twelve posts.

I now have 190 subscribers. That’s not exactly internet superstardom I know, but it’s 190 people who have chosen to spend a little of their time reading my stories each week. To me, that’s pretty fabulous.

One of the things I hope to show you here is the reality behind what might look like “living the dream”.

In my second post, I wrote about one of the main challenges of hosting residencies: always having to answer the same questions over and over again!

Colin and I joke that we should develop Residency Bingo Cards. I’m wondering if some actions (or inactions) should also be added?

‘Does anyone ever leave you a disgusting toilet?’ was an unusual question that was put to me this week from the couple pictured above.

Well, I was happy to reply that I’ve never had to deal with anything too revolting, However, I can tell you that at least a dozen times, I’ve found the toilet un-flushed on the morning of their final day.

It’s hard to comprehend… WHY?!

I really don’t think it’s a ‘dirty protest’! At least, people say to our faces that they’ve had a wonderful time on the residency and that the house is lovely, clean, ‘magical’ in fact.

It must simply be they’re half asleep, in a daze, focusing on their next adventure.

It’s never more than a pee and a bit of toilet roll at least. Still a tad unpleasant though.

Someone else’s tissue paper is always disgusting, don’t you think? It doesn’t have to be in the toilet. It could be anywhere.

One resident left tissues under the bed (dirty I presume!). Another folded one into a bed throw, which went unnoticed into the laundry and cost me an hour to remove the residue. A third stuffed tissues into every crack in the room because she was worried about spiders. Again, another task for me to add to the list on a looong changeover day.

It’s not all coffees and jésuites in the sun

I’d love to know what you’d like more of: stories, practical advice, behind-the-scenes realities, artist interviews or something else? Leave a comment and let me know.

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And finally, THANK YOU! Whether you’ve been here since post one or just arrived today, I really appreciate every read, every share and every comment.

See you at post fourteen!

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Hi, I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I’m not a trained writer, but I love to write and hope you enjoy my stories, tips and ideas.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

My dad was from Dumfries, and Gracefield had three of his artworks in their permanent collection. This residency had my name all over it!

I’d finished my first residency in February 2000 and returned to the grey misery of Aberdeen, where I’d graduated at the end of the last year. A few months had passed now, and one thing was for sure: I didn’t want to live there any longer.

If my application was successful, I would be based in a school for an academic year and have full use of the printmaking facilities at the arts centre.

There were four residencies available, and I had to make one of them mine.

I feel a great connection to the Dumfries and Galloway region of Scotland, not only because my gran brought her kids up there and lived there until she died, but also because of a much greater history. It’s where the Douglas clan (my clan!) were one of Scotland’s most powerful and prominent families during the Late Middle Ages.

I am from the Black Douglas line and a direct descendant of Archibald Douglas or “Archibald the Grim” as he was known. He was, in fact, my 18th Great Grandfather (reader beware!).

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One of his homes was Threave Castle, just outside Dumfries. Legend has it he would hoist a corpse up the flagpole to let visitors know he was home.

I feel so proud of this heritage (ha ha ha!).

(More corpses to come…)

I was over the moon to be offered the residency, during which I would be based in Stranraer Academy.

Say what?!

Stranraer is 72 miles (116 km) west of Dumfries!

At the time, it was a ferry port, connecting Scotland with Belfast in Northern Ireland. Sadly, Scotland is known as the drug death capital of Europe, and Stranraer had more than its fair share of heroin addicts, and much of the population was classified as living in deprivation. It was rough!

I had a long-term boyfriend at that time. A supportive guy who’d said he’d be willing to come with me on this adventure. Would he agree to this though? Ten months in what I imagined would be sleepy backwater, miles away from any culture, with no car and minimal public transport?

We decided to see what rentals were on offer nearby and make our decision once we were clearer on how life could be.

6.5 miles north of Stranraer, up the double-headed peninsula, we found a tiny village called Kirkcolm, with a total population for the whole parish being about 750. In this village was the cutest two-up two-down, late 19th-century worker’s cottage, rendered white with black windows and door surrounds, a pitched slate roof, dormer windows inserted into the sloped attic bedrooms, and a coal-fuelled Rayburn range cooker in the kitchen.

The large back garden, just perfect for a veggie patch, and the price tag of £250 per month, sealed the deal. What a find!

We moved from the city to try our hand at living a country life for the first time.

My boyfriend secured a job in a care home for adults with special needs, and I got a bike so I could cycle to school each day, along the edge of Loch Ryan, with rainbows becoming a regular sighting. It wasn’t too bad at all!

My studio was an old toilet block. I kid you not! There were toilet cubicles down one side and sinks down the other, with space at the end for my workspace.

As with most funded residencies, I did have duties to fulfil to earn my fee; these were to work with the art teacher as an assistant for the two exam-level classes and to hold one open studio per week during lunch.

I soon got into the routine: weekdays for teaching and coming up with ideas in my studio and weekends, living ‘the good life’ and exploring the countryside.

It was early spring when this farming community’s worst nightmare stopped everyone in their tracks.

Foot-and-mouth

Foot-and-mouth disease was discovered in livestock in Northern England and spread rapidly, swiftly becoming an epidemic in south-west Scotland. Dumfries and Galloway became one of the worst-affected regions in Scotland, with 177 infected premises.

There followed a complete ban on the movement of livestock and animal products, plus extensive measures to prevent humans carrying the disease on their boots and clothing from one site to another. Burning piles with cow’s legs sticking out of them could now be seen (and smelt) from my cycle home, and country walks were impinged by disinfectant foot-baths and no-entry signs.

None of us could possibly have imagined we would witness something eerily similar two decades later, when we would be disinfecting our hands constantly and seeing bodies piling up once again, but this time those bodies would be human?

We had two artists at our own residency at the time of the coronavirus outbreak, and I remember vividly the four of us sitting, with hearts pumping and bated breath, waiting for President Emmanuel Macron to announce the news.

The lockdown would begin tomorrow, the 17th March 2020, at noon.

The Australian left two hours later for London to stay with friends, and the American left at 4 a.m. to fly back home.

The impact of Covid-19 on our business was major, but we were fortunate to survive the damage.

The impact on many farmers following the Foot-and-mouth epidemic was devastating, though.

4 Million Animals Slaughtered

To stop the spread of the disease, approximately 80,000 cattle, 564,000 sheep, 2,600 pigs, and 500 goats were slaughtered in Dumfries and Galloway and almost 4 million animals in all of the UK.

For farms that had spent years developing organic herds, rare breeds, or carefully selected bloodlines, the losses weren’t just financial. It was the destruction of generations of work and these people’s purpose in life.

I’m only realising this now, in writing this piece, the impact this region and this epidemic had on my artwork during that time. Obsessing over foot cleanliness and dairy farming!

I’m a huge fan of a mature cheddar cheese sandwich. The pattern of a cheese grater became a recurring theme, one that I created as a dressmaker’s pattern, in knit, whitework, felt, and paper. Its shape and connection to one of my home comforts kept me occupied for quite some time!

The entire experience certainly had a resounding impact on me and my artwork, and I was delighted to discover that I too had had an impact there.

Following the residency, I returned to Aberdeen to support my boyfriend in his next adventure, a return to the University (it seemed only fair).

I walked into a supermarket there one day and was stunned to see a boy I’d been teaching art to at the Academy. A lovely guy, but his ADHD had made sitting still and concentrating for any length of time a challenge! We’d hit it off though and often laughed together.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I got an A in my exam and was offered a place at Art College here in Aberdeen. I start in two weeks. I’m so excited and absolutely have you to thank for this. You were a huge influence on me and my work, and I wouldn’t be here without you!’

I choked back my tears of joy and brimmed with pride as I walked out that supermarket door.

Unlike Archibald the Grim, I didn’t leave behind a castle. But I did help one teenager believe he could become an artist. For me, that’s legacy enough.

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I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I’m a trained artist but have had no training as a writer. I hope you enjoy my stories, tips and ideas anyway!

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

So, with no idea how we’d pay the deposit, we decided to go to southwest France and start looking for a property to purchase anyway.

Step one, get over there!

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Colin and I got together in our mid-30s. We were both living in rented accommodation, and after a decade of house prices defying gravity in the UK, no family inheritance to give us a leg up, and both working as self-employed creatives, we had little hope of getting on the property ladder in Britain.

But we had a dream…

We wanted a home of our own, yes, as an investment for our future stability, but also, for a business we could build from the ground up into something truly special. Something we could really get our teeth stuck into, with a passion. Our baby!

We’d had the idea. We’d develop an artist residency. A place to offer creative people a change of pace, and the space to think, play, develop, and make new work.

We would rent a place while we searched and believed we’d be able to keep our freelance jobs for a little while, as we could work on these remotely most of the time, so our income would remain constant at least.

The only thing we’d change… the country. How hard could that be?

I was a web designer and the Administrator and Exhibition Co-ordinator for the Society of Scottish Artists (SSA), a large artist-led organisation in Scotland. I managed its membership and programme of exhibitions, residencies, and exchanges, particularly their Annual Exhibition at the Royal Scottish Academy (a huge undertaking!).

Colin was a digital designer with a tech start-up. The company was doing well, and Colin had shares in it, which were starting to look pretty juicy, so we were thinking that maybe, just maybe, the timing would work out and this would sell and payout soon, just when we needed it.

We knew this was a long shot though, so we put our thinking caps on to see what else we could try?

We weren’t only trying to buy our home. We wanted to create something bigger than ourselves — a place where creative people could slow down, experiment, make work, forge friendships, have adventures, … a magical place for many to enjoy.

Perhaps a crowdfunding campaign would be supported by friends and business contacts as a way of gathering part of what we needed?

We’re huge fans of the concept. I give you twenty quid towards your amazing idea today and you give twenty quid towards someone else’s amazing idea another day. It only costs you twenty quid (or whatever you can afford), but if enough people get on board, it helps someone’s dreams become a reality. Genius!

‘Well, Jesus ain’t gonna get you there!’ our dear friend Angie said to us, encouraging our ‘brave’ move.

She was right. Only we could make it happen.

We decided to play it safe and start our search in the town of Condom (sorry, bad dad joke there. I’ll not make any more puns about the name).

Rose, the estate agent, welcomed us warmly, speaking fluent English (which was a relief as we were very much beginners), but explained to us that there was very little on offer to rent in the region. She’d call over to their Nérac branch to see if they had anything going. They had three places to show us, so off we trotted.

The first was far too rural, the second was okay, but not great, but the third had a turret. Colin had always wanted a turret!

‘We’ll take it!’

Off we went to the pub for a celebratory drink and to dream about our future.

‘Cheers!’

Then came the call… the owner had changed his mind and decided he wanted to sell instead of lease.

‘Shit!’ It was Saturday night, everything would be closed on Sunday, and we had to leave on Tuesday, so we now only had Monday to find and secure a new place from the slim pickings.

I had a panic attack in my bed that night. I’ve never had one before or since, but I’m sure that’s what it was. I thought I might be having a heart attack as my heart was pounding in my ears. I felt like I was going to be sick, but I couldn’t get up to go to the bathroom. I just lay there, trying to calm myself with slow, deep breaths and hoping that it would pass.

We got to thinking over the Sunday… what about that second house we’d seen? It was a 1980s ‘maison traditionnelle’, with terracotta roof tiles and a north-facing covered terrace, practical for the mid-summer heat. It had a massive garden, ideal for the dogs, plenty of space inside for us to live and work, and was on the edge of a cute wee village, … actually, it could be ideal, right?!

We marched into the Nérac office first thing on Monday morning and asked if we could take that one. We still had to give notice in Scotland, so could we have it from 1st April? It was agreed; however, the landlady wanted us to start paying for it immediately. So we dug deep and managed the payment of two rents over the next month. Ouch! At least we had somewhere secured though.

It turned out to be a great place; we had room in the basement for a table tennis table, as well as an office and laundry. And the garden was brilliant. There were hibiscus shrubs and an apricot tree (which proved to be a total hassle actually as I had to run outside every morning to scoop up the fallen fruit before I could let the two labradors out!). We even found a ‘forest’ of asparagus growing at the bottom once we managed to get on top of the overgrowth. Woohoo!

The neighbours welcomed us warmly, often leaving a bag of melons hanging on the gate, the sunflowers accompanied us on our dog walks, and it felt like the sun was shining on us every day. We were happy in this place and if this was as far as we got, it had been worth it.

So, lovely reader, my advice is this: you don’t have to wait until you feel “ready”, or until all the resources are in place before you move towards something life-changing. Big changes rarely begin with certainty; they begin with deciding to try.

We didn’t have the perfect plan to reach our goal — just enough gumption to take a step in the right direction.

A note of caution from the experience though: if you happen to be looking to rent in France, if it’s not attached to the building, you won’t be getting it. Yes, I mean the fridge, the washing machine, the cooker, … the lightbulbs!

Please hit the ❤️ button if you liked this post and do share it with anyone dreaming of a new adventure.

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Hello! Incase you don’t know me, I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I’m not a trained writer, but I love to write and hope you enjoy my stories, tips and ideas.

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

‘Honestly? I thought you were completely deluded, but you’ve totally pulled it off. Well done!’

And loads of people still don’t understand what it is we offer:

‘So, you run workshops?’
‘You take people out sight-seeing?’
‘You cook for them?’

Nope!

I remember we went up town one day with a dancer who was one of our first residents. We met a couple at the café, and they were asking us what it was we did. Then the guy turned to our dancer and said: ‘But, who are you dancing with?’

She replied, ‘No one. I am choreographing a new dance piece for multiple dancers that I will teach them when I get back. I am just working out how I can tell my story through movement just now.’

He paused for a moment.

‘So, you’re just prancing around the room by yourself?!’

He just didn’t get it at all. How does he think art is created? That ideas just pop into our heads all perfectly formed? I can never understand it when people ask me, ‘How did you get the idea for this artwork?’ Oh, I just woke up one morning and there it was. Ha.

It’s a journey. A process. It takes time, inspiration, ideas, research, development, mistakes, play, thought, feedback, …

And this is what we provide. Suitable, calm and inspiring space for dedicated time to work on creative projects. Uninterrupted time to make mistakes and try again. To think and read and write and sketch and share ideas with the others in the house. A supportive group who understands that you’re not just prancing around the room by yourself!

How did we know our idea would work?

We didn’t. It was one enormous risk! We couldn’t test the idea first. But what I did know was the value of an artist residency and how I wanted people to feel when they were here. All we could do was set that up and see if people would come.

I knew this as I had spent 18 months of my own life as an artist-in-residence over four occasions.

How lucky was I to walk out of my master’s degree and straight into a fully funded three-month residency?

It was the end of 1999, and I was 28. I was to move to a small town in Scotland called Huntly, to be in residence for three months with an organisation called Deveron Projects. I would be based in the Local History Museum (ideal inspiration for me!) and, for the first two months, I was to create work that would form an exhibition, as well as work with the schools and local community (there’s almost always some community commitment with a funded residency), and in the second month, I was to create a permanent artwork for the Sustrans National Cycle Network.

What a score!

I’d been spotted by the Director, Claudia, at my degree show because I’d made a piece called ‘Highly Sprung’ (pictured above). It was a dress made of the metal springs from 12,500 cloth pegs with the wooden parts cast off on the floor. (Aside: It’s been my most successful work, winning an award in Visual Arts Scotland’s Annual Exhibition at the Royal Scottish Academy and is now in Aberdeen Art Gallery’s permanent collection. Yay!)

I got to work, creating objects that I would exhibit intermingled with the museum artefacts. Below is one of the most time-consuming successful pieces I made, which also won an award and is now in the Deveron Arts collection. ‘Prayer Gloves’ is made of snap-fasteners, to imply the gesture of the palms snapping together, as if in prayer. They were inspired by a chainmail theatre costume for Richard the Lionheart for a production of ‘Pilgrims Progress’.

I hit the Huntly Express front page more times than I can count during the two-month period, and their write-up of my exhibition described my work as ‘…intelligent, accessible, thought-provoking, and witty.’ How fantastic is that?!

Now for the part of this story where I wasn’t successful!

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I imagined that the permanent artwork for the cycle route would be sited in the middle of nowhere, so I started developing an idea early on, but when the time came around to make the work, I found out it would be installed on the edge of Turriff, a small town nearby. Not to worry, my idea still worked.

I’d continue to make sculptural clothing after the success of the two works mentioned.

‘The idea that clothing holds a memory of its owner and their lifestyle inspires me to make sculptural garments and accessories, both wearable and unwearable,’ I was quoted as saying in the Huntly Express.

Agriculture is a major industry in this area, so I’d chosen to use materials linked to this and to create a piece of clothing to reflect the fertility of the local landscape. A Mother Earth.

I spent a month learning how to solder a metal framework at the Scottish Sculpture Workshop, around which I wove fencing wire into the shape of a maternity dress on a mannequin. I included steel wire tensioners down the centre of the back as a decorative fastener for the garment, et voilà.

Early one morning, I installed the sculpture on site, with specialist assistance to sink it into a concrete base. It was solid and would survive the ten years requested. Ivy was planted around its base, and I looked forward to seeing that soften the structure and allow it to settle into the landscape.

Job done.

The Turriff townsfolk awoke to find a stranger in town. Who was this headless being?

At first, the criticism was light-hearted. Someone placed a turnip on top of the framework for a head. The local newspaper picked up on the story, and before I knew it, I was infamous!

It was on the front page of the Turriff Advertiser, the story of how the town was up in arms about this bizarre sculpture that had materialised. What was it supposed to be?

The story spread like wildfire. It wasn’t only in all the local papers, but it was in The Metro, a free paper that people pick up in Scotland’s towns and cities, then the tabloid newspaper, The Sun. Soon enough, I had Radio Scotland on the phone asking for an interview.

I went along with it. ‘All publicity is good publicity,’ right? And overall, the criticisms were friendly and impersonal. I was interviewed in the home of the people whose house looked out at the sculpture. I was nervous, but they’d made scones, and we laughed a lot throughout.

It took me four weeks to make, and within four weeks, it was vandalised.

It looked like someone had driven a car into it. I was quietly proud that it likely did more damage to the car than the sculpture as it was so sturdy and well made. Pat on the back to me, however, it was badly dented.

It was decided it should be removed, fixed, and sited somewhere more rural on the cycle route. I’ve never seen it in its new home. I’ve seen it pictured though, and it certainly doesn’t look as good as it did. Not my best work.

Even though I value public art for more than its visual decoration, it transforms ordinary places into places of interest, creating a sense of identity and encouraging community engagement. I’m not sure I could face the humiliation again, so I won’t be making another one.

I did learn something through this experience, though. I learned that in a small town like this, I should most definitely have involved the community in the process, from concept to creation!

They needed to see it coming, to feel involved, to know the creator personally, in order to care about and care for the work. To feel that it’s been made for them and for their place. To understand it.

I certainly caught their attention, activated their imagination, and encouraged discussion, but perhaps not in the way I was hoping!

Works of art and new business ideas often seem bizarre, unrealistic, or confusing to outsiders while they’re still in development. But meaningful things are built through process, risk, experimentation, and persistence. So, if you believe in your idea, then see if you can take people along with you on the journey. They’ll be much more likely to support your vision in the end.

A huge thanks to the friends who did give us massive encouragement for our journey to France!

let me know if you’ve had any similar reactions to your original ideas or risky ventures?

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Hi, in case you don’t know me, I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency called Studio Faire. I’m not a trained writer, but I love writing and hope you enjoy my stories, tips and ideas.

Please feel free to chat to me if you have similar interests or stories.

Cheers!

Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

‘What? No way?’ – could this be the answer to our prayers? It had to be worth a try.

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We’d decided we wanted to buy a property in France for a creative residency, but we had no property to sell, no deposit, and fluctuating self-employed incomes as artist/designers, so how on earth could we pull it off?

Colin was scrolling through international mortgage information online, and he spotted a site called International Private Finance (IPF): ‘Use our award-winning French mortgage service to purchase in France’

We realised that, even if a 100% mortgage was possible, it would need to be a tiny mortgage for the massive house we needed, but it was possible to find amazing properties for under 100K in France, so maybe, just maybe…

Step one - Find a property that would work for us. The wish list:

1. Location – we’d already narrowed our search area down to the south of the Lot-et-Garonne or north of the Gers (I wrote about how we chose this location here).

2. Picturesque – we needed to be able to promote the residency to an international audience online.

3. Spacious – it would have to provide private rooms for us, plus at least a couple of bedrooms for residents, with the addition of artist studio space.

Step two – apply for the 100% mortgage and see what happens!

Searching the website of Leggett Immobilier one Sunday morning over coffee in our rented cottage in Scotland, as was now our habit, there it was: a three-story townhouse, with a small garden and garage (studio space?) and, the cherry on top, an amazing view over an enormous lake (32 acres/13 hectares), all for under 99,000€.

Just wow!

We had to see it, so I left a message for Caroline, the agent, to arrange a viewing. We remember so clearly when she called us back to chat it through. We were just pulling up to my mum’s house for dinner and, sitting in the car outside her house, we chatted to this lovely woman for half an hour or more, ending with an arrangement to visit the property in two weeks’ time.

We couldn’t wait to tell mum our news. She was so excited for us and supportive of our plans. She and my stepfather had recently considered moving to France themselves; they were serious Francophiles and the warmer climate would be great for my stepdad’s asthma. At least they would be able to visit easily and regularly if we were there.

She wasn’t well that night though, couldn’t get comfortable sitting or standing. Her back was extremely painful, and we could tell she wasn’t her usual self and certainly not able to get enthusiastic about our news, as we’d hoped. We decided to call NHS Direct (the National Health Service) for some advice on whether she should be going to Accident & Emergency to have a medical examination. They advised her to take a painkiller and go to bed. If she was still suffering in the morning, she should go for an investigation.

The next day, she drove herself to the hospital, walked through the door, and fell to the floor… she never walked again.

I was with her when they told her she had cancer.

I held her hand and we closed our eyes. I felt myself drift out of my body, as if in sleep; it was too much to bear. She really meant so much to me. She’d brought me and my sister up as a single mother and we’d always been close. I couldn’t imagine a life without her.

It had started in her liver, spread to her lungs, and now, had broken a bone in her spine.

They managed to move her from a place of agony and a desire to be put out of her misery, to a place where she was on top of her pain with medication and able to make her end-of-life plans.

She decided against having chemotherapy, with her mantra becoming ‘Quality of Life and Quality of Death’.

She couldn’t have it anyway it turned out, as you have to be able to sit upright and, with her back broken, this wasn’t an option. At least she’d decided against it before we found that out though.

How could I be considering leaving for France right now?

‘Go!’ it’s only a few days and I’ll be here when you come back. I want to hear all about it.’ she insisted.

We nervously packed our bags.

This house was a complete renovation project… I mean a COMPLETE wreck! It had ancient plumbing and electrics, no kitchen, an overgrown garden, and a disgusting bathroom with a toilet not far off the one in the film ‘Trainspotting’.

And the wallpaper… crazy! They must have bought a random batch of end of rolls. Most of the rooms had three different, clashing papers in them. It was hilarious! From 60s orange flowers, to 70’s cowboys, to 80’s unicorns with spaceships flying over them… (say what???). It’s true, I’ll show you.

But its potential was brilliant, and we could envisage the possibilities.

Stepping into the house from the narrow, quaint lane, you entered a spacious hallway with a winding wooden stairway. Wrought iron bannisters led up to a further two floors. A small private flat for me, Colin, and the dogs could be housed at the very top of the building, with the first floor given over to residents. There would be two bedrooms to the east and a huge bathroom and artist studio to the west, with an expansive view over the vast lake and beyond to the horizon (just imagine the sunsets).

From the entrance hall, your eye would be drawn through to the communal area where you would find a stunning kitchen diner (think rustic charm), a wood-burning stove for the cool winter evenings, and a glazed double door leading out onto the private walled garden with the perfect space for a table for those sunny evening meals (that was a non-negotiable necessity).

And, I haven’t even mentioned the potential for a bespoke photography studio over the lane in the old garage, or for a cinema in the basement… our imagination ran wild.

But how much would a renovation like this cost? We had no money, but were starting to wonder if we could get others on board with this vision?

Would we be able to get the 100% mortgage and also be able to raise money for the renovations through crowdfunding, while we camped out in the place and did the hard graft?

Was it a realistic notion or far too big a dream?

Back in Scotland, and after a priority visit to my dying mum to fill her in on our adventures, we arranged a chat with an agent at IPF.

We couldn’t believe it; we had our mortgage approved … in principle!

‘What? No way?’ – could this honestly be the answer?

Then the twist…

He told us two things that we hadn’t known before:

Firstly, if the property you wish to purchase needs renovation work done to it to make it habitable, the bank insisted they also lend you the money for these renovation costs.

So, before a mortgage could be agreed, we’d need to take estimates to the bank from French-registered builders for the renovation work; they would then approve the loan but only release the money for the renovation work after the work had been carried out and the builder had issued an invoice.

Thus, almost doubling the mortgage required for the property.

Secondly, the bank also insisted we have one year’s mortgage repayments in the bank.

SAY WHAT?!

In hindsight, and knowing what we know now, we’d been so naïve. Not only about the chances of this 100% mortgage being a realistic request without us having significant assets as backup, but also about the reality of renovating that house! It would have been an enormous mountain to climb, and, with such limited income, we’d most likely still be working on it to this day, ten years later.

We did later run a successful crowdfunding campaign, which helped us massively to buy a place, which did still require a huge amount of work, but with one key difference, it was immediately habitable.

It was only five weeks from diagnosis to death for my amazing mum. I always imagined she would be a massive part of this journey, visiting regularly and getting excited with me over paint colours and fresh salads from the local farmer’s market. I’m certain she’d be proud if she could see me now.

Please do keep following my story to find out how we made the most of a crowdfunding campaign and eventually succeeded in buying a small mansion with over an acre of land.

This story has twists and turns that no one could have predicted!

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Incase you don’t know me, I’m Julia, a mixed-media artist and web designer from Edinburgh, Scotland. I moved to France in 2016 with my husband, Colin, to buy a house and open an artist residency. I’m not a trained writer, but I love to write and hope you enjoy my stories, tips and ideas.

Find out more about me and my work at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
and on Instagram @juliadouglas or Facebook @JuliaDouglasArt

‘No, thanks. This ain’t my first rodeo,’ she replied, battering her enormous suitcase up the two-hundred-year-old wooden stairs.

(Sand and repaint stairs, I internally added to my infinite snagging list.)

I showed her to her room. The beautiful ‘Garden View Room’, just recently decorated by me in a soothing, subtle stony pink.

‘Where can I put my mosquito net? I need a hook over my bed for it. I’ve got Skeeter Syndrome. A severe allergy to mosquito bites.’

It was mid-summer in the South of France at a property with over an acre of land, and she would be in-residence for four weeks.

A f*ck-ton of mosquitoes was guaranteed!

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We have a two-stage application process for our artist residencies. The initial application form comes through our website, but we follow this up with a secondary one, which asks a few more personal questions to ensure that it will be a comfortable, supportive, and successful experience for all involved.

One of these questions is: Do you have any allergies?

Her answer: Bee stings. Some chemicals.

‘You didn’t think to mention your major allergy to f*cking mosquitoes?!?!’ I thought. ‘We would NEVER have agreed to let you come here in August had we known. Not a chance! We would have suggested Spring or Autumn. That would have been perfect for you. But this… no way!’

What could we do about it though? She was here now. My perfect paint job punctured, and, for her, a month effectively confined in this room.

The weather was fantastic for the duration, and evening gin & tonics were enjoyed in the garden with the other two residents, an author from Brooklyn and a theatre designer from Berlin. Two interesting and lovely people. Friendships were built, ideas were discussed, and we laughed at stories shared. All the while, she could only enjoy the garden from the windows of her room, and this golden opportunity to expand her creative community was lost.

If a question is asked on an application form, it is there for a reason. Don’t skip over it, leaving a blank for the reader to read into, potentially incorrectly. No matter which residency you’re applying to, be that funded or self-funded, prestigious or artist-run, the competition will be high, and a blank space may well result in an unsuccessful application.

We’ve hosted over two hundred residents now, but have turned down over three hundred.

To my surprise, not one single person has answered the question ‘Have you ever been convicted of a crime?’ in the affirmative!

I can’t be the only one, can I?

I was 12 years old, and she was called Tiffy.

‘Tiffy, Tiffy, give me a stiffy’ the boys would chant at this Swedish bombshell who’d arrived in my neighbourhood.

She went to my school for a couple of weeks but was soon ‘asked to leave’ due to her rebellious nature. I was smitten, and we were inseparable. We’d hang around on street corners, scrounging cigarettes from passersby (she’d always be the one who had to ask, with her strong foreign accent, so she could pretend she didn’t understand if they responded negatively).

She had a devil-may-care attitude, which thrilled me. We’d go around the shops in town, and she’d nonchalantly try on jewellery, then calmly walk out the door as if she’d forgotten she had it on. ‘Woops!’

She made it look easy.

We were in Boots the chemist on Princes Street, the main shopping street in Edinburgh. They sold an ‘extensive range of health and beauty products from leading brands, fragrances for her and him, and much more.’

I picked up a blusher, held it in my hand, and continued trying testers of makeup. The mascara slipped easily into my pocket, as did the lipstick. I walked on, blusher still in hand, to examine some hair products, accidentally forgetting to put them back. My hands, carefully disguising their fullness, as we reached for the door back out onto the street, my heart pounding in my ears.

Hand on shoulder.

‘Come with me, please.’ the security guard commanded firmly but quietly.

We were ushered through the shoppers to a room at the back, where they sat us down to show us their on-screen evidence:

‘You picked up a blusher here and kept it in your hand. Here we see you putting a mascara into your pocket and here a lipstick….’ They’d been onto us from the start.

As Tiffy sat stony-faced, seemingly indifferent to the impending consequences, the tears began to roll down my cheeks, and my stomach churned. I desperately needed the toilet all of a sudden. I was literally crapping myself!

A female security guard took me to the row of public toilets, but insisted I left the door open to ensure I didn’t flush any undetected contraband. I was emotionally damaged by that moment forever more, traumatised by having to pooh in front of a stranger.

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It was an important day for my mum, as the parents of her new boyfriend were coming for dinner. ‘Be home by six o’clock at the very latest tonight,’ she’d reminded me that morning. ‘No later!’

It was six o’clock when the call came from the police station on Rose Street, asking her to come and collect her daughter, who’d been arrested.

They’d marched us along to the station, a policeman in front and another behind, then placed us in a cell to await our parents. It was cold and bare and terrifying.

We sat in silence in the car. She could tell I was suffering, and I think she realised it had been a lot for me. Don’t get me wrong, I was grounded and didn’t get any pocket money for a good while, but ultimately, she was pretty gentle with my punishment. I was a good kid, and this situation was out of the norm.

Though the timing of it was mortifying for her!

I had to wait three long months before I found out the consequences of my actions at the police station. There was purposefully only one chair in the room. As I stood next to my mother, the policeman sternly outlined my crime and informed me that I now had a criminal record that would stay with me until I was 16 years of age. Also, that every shop on Princes Street had been provided with a photo of me.

The nightmare was over. Though I felt the need to avoid Princes Street for a very long time, I had a good story to tell. Don’t you think?

If you were a host, would you be more or less likely to offer me a residency if I answered ‘Have you ever been convicted of a crime?’ with ‘I got caught shoplifting at the age of 12 and had a criminal record until I was 16, but I regret it and have been a good girl ever since!’

Wouldn’t you prefer someone’s humour to come through in an application? Would it make you feel that you could trust them more? That they were telling you the truth!

What can we do if people withhold crucial information from us, though? How can we strive to provide them with a fabulous experience if we don’t know about their syndromes?

Why would she choose not to tell us about her mosquito allergy when directly asked about allergies? I can’t begin to comprehend it.

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I can honestly say, in hindsight, that I think they did a fabulous job on me back then, and I can only wish that they had the resources these days to take the time to scare the bejesus out of all little kids that commit minor crimes like they did to me.

As I said, they really did a number on me, and I’ve never committed a single crime since… oh, apart from paying half on the bus for two years longer than I was supposed to.

That day came to a sad end when I was 17 though and the bus driver looked me up and down and exclaimed,

‘Half? You must have had a hard life!’

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Find me at www.juliadouglas.co.uk
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‘… I was walking along the river path with the other artists, and we came upon a view of the bridge that was so gorgeous we all stopped in awe, and one of them said, “This is too perfect. It’s a cliché.” But there it is: a perfect bubble of time and space that belongs to you, a time to let go of everything else, a time to forget that there is any world outside this place and your own ideas. As I told Colin and Julia, only half in jest, “If you don’t love this, maybe you’re the problem.” ‘

- Julie Price Carpenter, Studio Faire Writer-in-Residence

I’m proud to tell you that very few haven’t liked it at Studio Faire. Out of over 230 artists-in-residence, I can count them on one hand and, as Julie suggested, the problem was theirs, not the properties. A couple were feeling physically unwell whilst here, and a couple clashed with others in residence, but, thankfully, the huge majority described the place as ‘magical’!

So, how did we go about finding the place for such a ‘perfect bubble’?

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It’ll be no surprise to those of you who know me that I’m a fan of all things related to houses, homes, and interiors.

My relaxation of choice is a scroll of Pinterest to fill my boards with projects I’ll (maybe) do. Channel 4 Homes is my go-to on YouTube at the end of most evenings, and my bedtime read is currently ‘At Home: A Short History of Private Life’ by Bill Bryson (affiliate link).

‘House & Home’ are the subject of the majority of my work too. My art and my artist residency both revolve around and rely on ‘home’ for their very existence.

It’s an obsession!

When decorating one of our (many) rooms about a year ago, I binged The Great Indoors podcast by Sophie Robinson and Kate Watson-Smyth.

It’s a great podcast, by the way, if that sort of thing tickles you, and it led me to discovering Kate Watson-Smyth on Substack. ‘Mad About The House’ was one of the first Substacks I started reading a couple of years ago.

Kate often talks about the six questions you should ask yourself before you attempt any room renovation:

Who, what, where, when, how and why?

Could these six questions not also be put to use to help choose the best location for a property and what type of building that should be?

• WHO will be using the property?

• WHAT will you be doing in there and at what times of day/year?

• WHERE will it be? In other words, where will you ‘shop’ for it? What is your budget and whereabouts will you find something within that budget? What other factors will affect where it needs to be, such as proximity to family, friends, public transport, schools, employment?

• HOW do you want to feel in there? What activities do you want this house to promote? Is it a private retreat to relax in at the end of a long day at work or is it the place of work also? Does it need to be a mixture of these things, i.e. a busy, energetic, shared space with corners to retreat and hide in?

• WHY are you looking for a new property in the first place? Why do you need to move? Why is your current place not working for you?

WHO?

For us, this was the most crucial question. We were looking for a new home for ourselves, but also for our new venture… an Artist Residency.

The residency would be for artists, writers, makers, musicians, dancers, and anybody else working professionally within the creative industries.

WHAT?

There would be at least three residents, for at least seven months of the year (maybe more) each requiring a space to work as well as a place to relax and sleep. And Colin and I would both need the same! An office space plus a creative space, each ideally. So, we needed a minimum of four bedrooms, plus multiple suitable workspaces for making mess, noise, or movement, as well as options for quiet contemplation.

Wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

WHERE?

We had pinpointed France as the place to buy our property. Honestly? Because of our complete lack of budget! House prices in parts of France were about a third of what they were in Edinburgh, so, rather than buying a studio flat, we might actually be able to work out how to buy a house.

We weren’t sure how we would do that at this stage, as we really were heading out with nothing, but we just had to trust that we would work it out somehow.

For us, it was crucial that it would be easy to reach for international visitors, by air and/or public transport, so we began our search from Bordeaux on the South West coast, because there are plenty of flights in and out of there from the UK and USA. We aimed to be within a two-hour drive to make it simple for us to collect guests directly if necessary; however, we didn’t want to have to collect all our residents from the airport, so also needed them to be able to get themselves closer to us by train.

You can also get one of the high-speed TGV trains to Bordeaux from Paris for a reasonable cost, so that was another attraction to this particular starting point.

It also had to be picturesque. Very ‘French’ looking! The unspoilt dream of France that we’ve all seen in films like Amélie and Chocolat. The location needed to look good on a website as well as in reality in order for us to draw visitors from the world over.

(We hadn’t expected to actually be living in the place with the artisanal chocolate factory, called La Cigale, that inspired the novel Chocolat by Joanne Harris, but we did!

I digress…)

We also really wanted to find a place active with cultural offerings, like a farmer’s market, bustling café/bar, art gallery, performance venue, regular festivals, ...

We were willing to compromise a little, but not much. Just to make this search a little bit harder!

‘I have an ex-lover that lives in southwest France,’ my friend told me. ‘He has a stunning Chambres d’Hôtes and he’s really sociable and loves entertaining. I’m sure he’d put you up if you’d like?’

It was further south than we’d been thinking, but what the hey, you can never know too many people when you’re moving somewhere new, can you? ‘Let’s go!’

He welcomed us not just once but three times! Letting us stay in his stunning place for free and relished the opportunity to show us the local scene. We used his place as a springboard for wider searches, heading up to the Dordogne and Limousin regions (where the house prices were the lowest), through the department of Charente and back down again to his place in the Lot-et-Garonne.

‘You should head off and see these other places,’ he advised ‘but I think you’ll find that this is the best place,’ he gestured to his view of rolling hills, which were glowing with bright yellow sunflowers bobbing in the breeze.

He was right.

Some of the other places we visited were choking with tourists. The French have even nicknamed the Dordogne as Dordogneshire because there are so many English there! But around where he lived, the locals seemed unaware of just how stunning it was and, therefore, they simply didn’t market the area heavily for tourism.

A secret, authentic gem!

HOW

Visiting a place in the flesh is an absolute must to see how it makes you feel.

As we were driving on our road trips, I kept a print-out of Google Maps on my knee and a pen in hand, so I could annotate the map with how I felt in each place we drove through. When we returned to Calignac at the end of each trip, it certainly helped to jog my memory of the experience and, as you can see, it was clear as day which place made me feel the happiest!

We’ve been living now in amongst all these smiley faces for ten years now, just near the word ‘Green!’

We wanted it to feel like a home from home for our residents: comfortable, relaxing, calm, and safe. We wanted to offer spaces for quiet reflection so people could hear themselves think, to write, read, draw,…

The property also needed to encourage social time for sharing ideas and stories, and we’ve found that the place for this is our large garden. The weather here is warm the majority of the time, and everyone tends to miraculously appear around the garden table at about 6pm for shared rosé, charcuterie, and laughter.

WHY

We loved our little cottage near the east coast of Scotland, but it didn’t belong to us. We longed for a place of our own, to renovate, decorate, improve, and take care of. We also weren’t getting any younger and had no pensions or savings, so we figured investing in a house would be a sensible thing to do too.

Our feet were itching for new work as well. We wanted a ‘baby’ we could build from the ground up into something amazing. Something that would have a long-lasting impact on others’ lives and nurture the growth of seedling creative ideas.

“The experience will resound in my life and work for years to come. I am certain of it.”

- Michelle Lewis, Studio Faire Writer-in-Residence

This property, this town, and this country were the outcome of the answers to these six questions for us. Perhaps they can help you (or someone you know) find the way to your next home? There’s a lot to think through.

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Drawing from my own experiences as an Artist-in-Residence over the years, plus a fair bit of reading and online research, we’d identified the following as the most crucial things to consider…

Top 5 things artists are looking for from an Artist Residency

#1 : Time and space to focus

#2 : Location and environment

#3 : Financial feasibility

#4 : Quality of accommodation and facilities

#5 : A balance between solitude and community

We felt that #1 would see to itself as long as the other elements were just right, so the first thing we had to do was completely nail #2.

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#2 : Location and environment

We were imagining an extremely photogenic property, large enough for us and our residents to live and work in, embedded in lush, rolling countryside; bright sunshine the majority of the year round for lunch al fresco; and a vibrant edge of village location, ideally with a weekly market and a welcoming bar/restaurant.

Was this too much to ask on our tiny budget?

Astounded by what we could find for under £100,000 in some parts of France, we enthusiastically started to add properties to our ‘wish list’. Through the winter months of 2014, the Sunday morning ritual became an hour of coffee drinking in bed with iPads focussed fully on estate agent websites and publications like ‘Living France’ and ‘French Property News’.

Then we spotted it… a fabulous place in a small village called Saint-Maurice-près-Pionsat in the department of Puy-de-Dôme in the Auvergne in central France. It was just over an hour’s drive from Clermont-Ferrand and two hours from Limoges.

The property consisted of a three-bedroom house with an adjacent two-bed cottage, plus a huge barn, just ripe for conversion into studio spaces, an exhibition space, or a small concert hall or cinema. It looked like this place encompassed all we were dreaming of, and our imaginations began to run wild, picturing how life could be there.

We could almost smell the clean air!

We booked our tickets, reserved a room at the ‘Hotel Combrailles’ in the town, and excitedly prepared for our first scouting trip to view this dream property.

It was only on the date of departure from Edinburgh Airport, a cold and dark September morning, when we learned that the status of the house we’d been coveting had changed to ‘Under Offer’.

‘NO!!!’

After the initial sinking feeling faded, we decided to stick to the plans and head there anyway. This way, we could test whether our instincts were right from what we were seeing online.

We made it to Saint-Maurice-près-Pionsat after a long drive up the country on the excellent toll roads. The scenery was stunning, but the distance and lack of time made for a stressful day. Lesson one – don’t try to pack too much sightseeing into a day in France… slow down… take your time… lentement!

We arrived a little late for the meal we’d requested from the hotel, but this didn’t seem to faze them in the slightest. We were the only guests after all, and they seemed almost surprised to be welcoming us.

It was my birthday, as it happens, so we didn’t hold back on enjoying the four courses with ample wine!

We started with Salade chaude aux gésiers – I withheld the desire to Google ‘gésiers’ until after I’d finished this warm salad. I did enjoy it, but haven’t had it since, even though I’ve often seen it on the menu and it is a speciality of this region. Not since I found out it was gizzards!

I don’t recall what we ended with, as I was stuffed after the lasagne and giant wheel of cheese that followed, but I do recall meeting their fabulous dog, who was taller than me when he stood on his hind legs!

The next morning, satiated by le petit-déjeuner, we headed out in search of the (sold) dream property.

As we wandered through this tiny village (population about 360!) we were met on the road by the most quintessentially French French Man we could ever have imagined, with obligatory beret at a jaunty angle and flanked by a couple of bovines as companions.

After introducing us to his cows, we continued to ‘chat’, though he knew no English and we still spoke very little French, but somehow, through a great deal of laughter, we surmised that there were actually five British families living in this village, two of whom were Scottish!

He reluctantly waved us on our way and turning a shallow corner, there it was, in the bright morning sunshine… the one that got away.

It really was cute, as we’d expected, and we certainly could have done something special with it, but was it perfect?

Meandering back to the hotel, our minds now buzzing, there he was again: Two Cows Tam! He’d seen us from a distance, and I could swear he pretended to tend to some flower boxes on the side of his house so that he would be poised right there for a second round with us.

Immediately, he asked: ‘Do you want to take my photo?’

‘What? Yes!’ we replied, of course!

This adorable wee man, the hotel owners, and every person we’d seen on the street had made us feel so welcomed that, if we had been in any way unsure before, we were now convinced that a move to France was exactly right for us.

A final handshake, a ‘bonne journée’ and we were on our way.

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Back in our home in Scotland, we had time to reflect on, what had been, a truly lovely experience. How would it be to actually live somewhere as remote as this? Might we get lonely? Was it too inaccessible for visitors?

It was true that many artists would be looking for a residency in a place that feels totally different from their homeland and a lifestyle completely other to their everyday life, and I’m sure this place would offer just that to most. They also may be seeking a rural idyll to retreat to for deep focus in a quiet, calm space surrounded by nature, and this place offered that in droves also … but was it too isolated?

The residents would be dependent on us driving them to shops for food. There were no bars, restaurants, or cafés for them to take a break at in the village and there would be little on offer in the way of cultural excursions or networking events nearby, that’s for sure!

Also, how would they get there? The nearest train station was a 50-minute drive away, and Paris was 5 hours by train. It wouldn’t be easy for them… or cheap.

This place hadn’t been perfect after all, but the journey had been, as we’d learned a huge amount about what we were looking for and what not. If you’re considering a move to a foreign land, perhaps to begin a business like we were, we hope there are a few things you can learn from our experience too?

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Feel free to ask questions, and here are a few for you…

Do think about how you yourself like to live. Do you like the idea of hiding away in a place off the beaten track, or do you need, at least occasionally, social interaction?

If you’re thinking of running a residency, retreat or tourist business, are you happy to be driving people often?

Would you enjoy or be frustrated by a slow pace of life? One in which you must be happy to give the time of day to the locals, to stop what you’re doing to help an elderly neighbour or listen to their gossip, to drive slowly along the narrow country roads… or would you soon get frustrated with the inconvenience of a sedate life?

We certainly recommend that you go and visit the sorts of places you are imagining and see, smell, and hear how they feel. Try before you buy!

In a nutshell, don’t get blown away by the romance of it all, think through the practicalities of your own daily lives and your visitors’ experience in detail before committing.

And, one final note… cows = flies! That’s something you won’t notice from an internet search.

I’ll talk a bit more in my next posts about the things I think artists are looking for in a residency, as well as how we fell in love with a bigger property in a much larger village and applied for a 100% mortgage for it from the UK.

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