Spring arrived here in France and with it the terrible news that our favourite neighbour had died suddenly, leaving his wife bereft.

Jean-Luc, a retired farmer, fireman and local councillor was 82 and just a few weeks away from celebrating his 60th wedding anniversary. Despite his advanced years, it came as a shock.

The hamlet will never be the same. No big cheery wave from Jean Luc working in his garden; no more aperitifs which he always insisted Jack stopped for: “Come down out of that tractor young man and join me for a wee apero!”

No more wealth of experience and advice to tap into and knowledge stretching back before the Second World War. When times have been tough for us, Jean Luc and his wife Brigitte were only a few strides away and always welcoming even in the early days when our French was more hand gestures than spoken and our kids refused to give the traditional ‘bisou’ kiss.

Fortunately, I had popped in to see the couple with our son just three days before Jean Luc died. Cormac had hopped up in the armchair next to him to watch the French equivalent of Countdown on telly whilst myself and Brigitte chatted at the kitchen table.

“Jean Luc is tired now,” she said. “We’ve been at the graveyard all afternoon tidying up the garden around the family tomb and giving the place a good spring clean.” After the funeral it was sad to see the work that Jean Luc had done to the grave not realising that he was about to be laid to rest there and that the whole community would turn out for his funeral.

Poor Brigitte is inconsolable. Herself and Jean Luc were two peas in a pod and did everything together. Tearfully, she insisted we plant Jean Luc’s garden with potatoes, which he had already prepared. But every now and again the old Brigitte resurfaces and a spark of humour lights up her face: “When we were very young, Jean Luc told me there are two great women in the parish who are very beautiful. ‘You’re one,’ he said and kept me on my toes guessing who the other one was!” They were married not long after.

We were first introduced to the couple when they were about to become our new landlords. They were keen to test our French as they wanted neighbours they could converse with. We were nervous meeting them and their 55-year-old son, Patrice, but needn’t have worried as they were welcoming and good humoured.

I explained that our son was a fussy eater and Patrice said he for one didn’t like milk which vexed his parents, being farmers. Brigitte then lifted her flowery housecoat and pointed to her bosom: “Eh, this milk was good enough for him when he was a baby!” with a great belly laugh.

Patrice shot her a dirty look and said “Aw mum, you’re so embarrassing!” Jean Luc chuckled in the background, enjoying the banter between his wife and son. And so began a very warm friendship.

Just before Jean Luc died I had my first meeting with the members of the mohair producer co-op in the beautiful foothills of the Pyrenees. Getting away for this meeting was a big deal: Jack was left on his own with three kids, plus the farm to run and no car, nor help! None the less we decided it was vital to learn about sorting and grading the wool and how the co-op functions. It sounded promising and the agenda posted out assured an especially warm welcome to all new members.

However, it felt more like a murder mystery as we ended up snowed into a large house for two days up in the mountains: me with a group of strange eccentrics all clamoring for attention and undermining anyone who dared contradict their opinions.

Except there was no murder – though I was tempted to do away with one lady with a silver mullet hair-do who had all the charm of a snake with BO.

Unfortunately, my room-mate was another unfriendly ‘mature’ woman, oddly dressed up like the mother of the bride who answered my polite questions with grunts. Curiously, she had brought two newborn Angora kids to bottlefeed with her.

The sight of an elegant lady in a dress bottle-feeding a smelly wee goat was unusual, but then so were the men in pink mohair sweaters clasping their ‘man-bags’ whilst their bearded wives gossiped and connived.

For the first time in the three years since coming to France I experienced a kind of underhand racism which involved incessant references to my being ‘English’, being excluded and then talked to as if I was very stupid.

These comfortably well-off folk could certainly learn some manners from the “paysans” back here in the Creuse where being courteous and hard working brings far more dividends than flashing your wallet or your baby Angora goat.

On a positive note, our first heifers born on the farm three years ago, have calved down which has been surprisingly good for morale.

And after a round of bruising meetings with the bank, we were finally cleared for a modest loan to purchase a secondhand chalet. It has arrived as a big jigsaw puzzle which is going to require a lot of ingenuity to put back together but we are chuffed to bits we will soon be able to move out of the mobilehome which is becoming increasingly irksome, particularly as the three children are going through a phase of beating each other up and slamming doors which then come off at the hinges.

Here’s hoping we have it all put together before hay-making starts! Well there’s hope and then there’s reality…