Why am I here?

Look, I said to him, we’ve lived all our lives in just one place, one northerly, wet and bloody-minded city. Wandered the same streets, seen it change from a place with a shoe shop, a hardware store and one estate agent into another place with cafe-bars, charity shops and estate agents in double figures. Woman and girl, man and boy, kitten and cat, all spent beneath the same beloved but snot-coloured sky. Jobs ended. We’ve got small incomes, but more than enough. Time to cast off the mind-forged manacles. We need a shake-up. An adventure, I said.

So here we are. In France. Limousin. The Correze. In a big cold house which feels as though it’s wedged into a crack, a crevice above the valley on the hillside, my window looking out through black winter trees at old snow on village roofs.

All we have here is a foothold, a toehold really. The house is ours just for one year, rented from an English couple who live in Cornwall, and our place back in Manchester is let out to tenants for the same period. A year in France. Me, him and Cleo the cat. We’re not looking for an old barn of our own to do up. We’re not looking for a second home, we couldn’t afford it, and anyway, one house is bloody hard work to maintain, so why have two?

So what are we here for exactly? Good question. Anybody round here know the answer