Baratzea: week 0

There’s a little patch of land in the centre of my quarter, le bas quartier, a triangle enclosed by three roads that is a beautiful and charming garden.  During the winter I noticed that half of it was completely neglected. It looked like nobody had paid it any attention for a long time.  I asked around the neighbourhood to try to find out who owns it and it if I might not be able to use it.   Two people said that they know the owner who lives in Bordeaux but comes back every so often as he has a house here and the former gardener who wanted to give up the plot for health reasons.  Weeks passed by and nothing happened.  

The week before Easter the previous user of   the garden cut back everything on the plot back ready for cultivating this season and then 'handed in his notice'.  Two days later Elizabeth who works in the épicerie that faces directly onto the plot gave me the number of Michel, the owner ,and suggested I call him.  I thought about how to ‘present’ myself before calling him the next day.  He was delighted to find someone interested in taking over the plot as he was planning to post a notice in the local shops to try to find somebody to take over the garden when he next came back to Hendaye. Even better Michel didn’t want rent – just someone who would keep the patch tidy and keep his good standing in the community.  Then he threw in the bonus, telling me that that I could have access to his garage, attached to the plot to keep my tools in – although he wants to retain access to it to park his car whenever he comes back to Hendaye.  He suggested that we meet next time he came down to Hendaye, probably in three to four weeks’ time.  I said that’s fine but it will be really late in the growing season by then.  Michel said he’ll see what he can do. As I put the phone down I felt a sense of joy that the angels had dropped this present into my lap and pride that I had been able to negotiate a ‘contract’ on a piece of land so easily in French. 

But better was yet to come. Two or three hours later I was passing Panxika’s house and she called me over.  ‘I spoke to Michel and he asked about you’.  Apparently my reputation had been preceded me: she had already spoken to Michel (an old, old, friend of hers) about the Englishman who had joined and was supporting the residents’ association.   Michel put two and two together and asked Panxika if we were one and the same person.  She said yes.  ‘So he’s going to let you have the garden.  But don’t tell him I told you so’.   Later that evening Michel called me saying that he heard about me from the neighbours, that he thought I was responsible and that I could pick up the keys to the garage from Panxika  tomorrow, so I could get on with the garden and we could meet when he came back to Hendaye in a few weeks’ time.    Game on!

Easter Saturday I went round to Panxika’s to pick up the keys to the garage.  We went to check out the garage.  Ample space for my tools and Michel’s car, with enough left over for me to store a bike (my last one got stolen when I left it chained to the same lamp-post for three months over the winter and ) and back up supply of wood for the winter months (I live on the third floor of a residence with no lift, so buying wood in bulk is problematic – whenever I explain the situation the price for a cubic metre of wood  doubles from around 50-60 Euro to more than 100 – not surprisingly given the extra work involved in hauling it all up three flights of stairs).  The only downer is that Jean Pierre, who worked the garden before me, has already sold all his tools. But I have the double benefit of a garden 100m away from my home and free storage space.  Having the tools on tap would be like the winning the roll-over ball on the lottery.   Opening and closing the garage doors is in itself a tactile experience – they are old style, concertina-design, wooden doors, the kind I associate with 1930s black and white movies.  I imagine these garages could have been built when people wealthy enough to run a car also had a uniformed chauffeur:  ‘We’ll need the Roller tonight, James’ .  It certainly feels like a new door has opened.