Scene from my books: Touvent, Charente Maritime, France

(Picture shows view from the terrace).

When we first arrived in this part of France is was called “les Charentes inferieures”.  There was Poitou-Charente and the Charentes Inferieures.  The only claim to fame it had was the ancient fortified port of La Rochelle, and the first time I visited it there were all sorts of utterly disgusting things floating down open drains, a smell of septic tanks, undrinkable tap water and an overall feeling of decay and neglect.

Then, sometime in the late 80s, the local authorities twigged that the climate here was exceptionally good, the area rich in history, and the name of Charentes Inferieures not very encouraging.

So it was re-named Charente Maritime.

We arrived along with the first trickle of tourists.  Compared to Sussex, where we had been living, the entire region was miserably backwards.  Telephone wires straggled the streets and what had once been fine merchant dwellings built in the 18th and 19th centuries were dowdy blackened stone monstrosities.  I had a little estate agency and saw a great many houses.  It was odd – even in our Victorian Britain our terraced houses had the casi down at the end of the garden … but this bit of basic modernity seemed to have slipped the average local French man by, and many houses had no toilet at all.  Others still had them in the garden. Many had them in the garage or in a barn attached to the house.  Wall tiles with imitation splashes on them were de rigeur, there were holes in the pavement (if there was a pavement) and the telephone directory enquiries closed for lunch.

It was extremely disheartening, and wefrequently wondered what idiot notion had made us move here.

But it has to be said that when France swung in to action, some time in the early 90s, they hit it hard and hit it good.  We virtually watched the restoration of hundreds of wonderful old buildings, the reparation of pavements and roads and the modernization of each and every little town, from beautiful La Rochelle and Saintes to the smallest little village.  The constant smell of septic tanks, at one time a characteristic of France, disappeared as mains drainage was installed and the new Charente Maritime sprang in to life.

As was the way with so many British I was later to sell houses to, we chose something far too big, needing far too much work, and far too isolated.

Catherine Broughton is a novelist, a poet and an artist.  Her books can be ordered as e-books from this site (£1.99), from Amazon/Kindle or from any leading book store or library.

http://www.amazon.com/Call-From-France-Catherine-Broughton/dp/1475116659/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1377285095&sr=8-2&keywords=catherine+broughton

 Saying Nothing (payhip): http://goo.gl/0gUzpi

TMWGF (payhip): http://goo.gl/coQGBb

French Sand (payhip): http://goo.gl/vC4t1l
CFF (payhip): http://goo.gl/Zjvrk4

Saying Nothing (amazon): http://goo.gl/XbkYVK

TMWGF (amazon): http://goo.gl/256rkg

French Sand (amazon): http://goo.gl/1RVEdr

CFF (amazon): http://goo.gl/LZG63T

Scene from one of my books: the Sierra Blanca, Costa del Sol, Spain

The foothills of the Sierra Blanca were dotted with outcrops of woodland, though mostly it was deserted and rocky – white rocks, hence its name.  Janie knew the area well. She had travelled up the road to Ronda several times, and had frequently picnicked amid the spring flowers in the hills beyond San Pedro.

Her unexpected journey, however, took her well beyond any of the ranges she had come to know and love over the years.  She had no idea where she was.  Only good sense told her that she could not be so very far from Ronda, or perhaps even somewhere off the road to Cordoba.  But that in itself covered many square miles …

She kept looking out for landmarks, but there were none.  Hills and rocks and trees and the endless dirt tracks.  It was amazing how the van stood up to the road which was, in parts, barely passable.  For a while she could tell she was travelling west, but as darkness fell and the tracks twisted this way and that, she rapidly lost any sense of direction.  Indeed, even her sense of time went.  And certainly all sense of reality …

Extract from Saying Nothing, a novel by Catherine Broughton set in Spain:-

Her book sat on the white wicker chair, a historical novel she’d bought from Amazon, where she had left it, the little piece of torn-off newspaper to mark her page.  He slammed the French doors shut and went back into the room.

With more paper he wrote another note:

“Janie, baby.  Can’t find you! Wait here – back in a sec. Paul xx”

He underlined the word ‘here’ several times, and added a few more kisses after his name.  He re-read the note times, wanting to add something special, but didn’t.

Back in the reception, he stood for some moments, trying to work it out.  There was quite clearly some obvious solution to this.  He looked around him constantly, half-expecting to see her at any moment and then, making up his mind, he strode systematically round the hotel grounds, down to the tennis courts, the lawns, the car park, round the pool and terraces, and then back into the hotel.  The slick young men assured him they hadn’t seen her.

He went out again, to the Irishman’s bar, to the bar where he’d last seen her – the smoky scene still hadn’t changed – round the pedestrianized shopping area and then back to their room.

Finally, sometime between midnight and three in the morning, Paul reported her missing.  The two young  men at reception were unhelpful and even slightly amused.  The guardia said that nothing could be done till morning and that anyway wives were always running off.  The man was short and fat and smelt strongly of unwashed body; he wrote down Paul’s name and the name of the hotel very slowly, using his best handwriting.

Back in his room, Paul lay down on the bed.  His head ached.  He felt afraid and he frowned into the darkness, wakeful and wary.  Dawn started to break, a grey-white mist to the east, and Paul at last dozed.

 cover for “Saying Nothing”

https://payhip.com/b/tEva    “A Call from France”

https://payhip.com/b/OTiQ    ”French Sand”

https://payhip.com/b/BLkF    “The Man with Green Fingers”

https://payhip.com/b/1Ghq    “Saying Nothing”

Buy Catherine Broughton’s books as e-books (click above) or order from Amazon/Kindle (click below).  They can also be ordered as e-books or paperbacks from most leading book stores and libraries.

http://www.amazon.com/Saying-Nothing-ebook/dp/B007X2K396/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1376472929&sr=8-3&keywords=catherine+broughton

- See more at: http://www.turquoisemoon.co.uk/blog/scene-from-one-of-my-books-the-sierra-blanca/#sthash.m8OEbgBx.dpuf