The tree surgeon, the container, and the Countess of Shortbuttocks

Our very first actual chantier (building activity) in Miramon. Just a little warm-up for what comes next. On the agenda for this Friday morning: meeting with an excavator at 8:30 am on site; caravan delivery around 9 am; then container delivery at 10:30 am. That's it! What could possibly go wrong?

Fortunately, everything is perfectly planned, timed and scheduled. The tree surgeon assured us that he would come by on Tuesday or Wednesday to cut three branches from the two large oak trees guarding the south-west corner of the site. The boss of the container company insisted that it would be impossible for the crane truck to unload if there were branches in the way. We confirm several times with the tree surgeon that he will carry out this ‘lift-up’ on time, no worries said he.

But for two days, we haven't heard from him. We call him, we leave him messages, no replies. Bad feeling. Leaving the house a little before dawn, we pack a ladder just in case.

Friday morning, 8 a.m. As the sky turns pink over the Pyrenees, we reach Miramon. The branches: not cut. Slight anxiety – but we tell ourselves we have two hours to find a solution. Except that the ladder is too short. Except that the tree surgeon still isn't answering his phone. Except that... "Hello, I've arrived at the start of your driveway. " The container delivery man, who is two hours early, with his huge truck. He confirms that the branches are a problem. Panic begins to set in: if we make him come back later, we'll have to pay for another delivery, which costs almost as much as the container. And he's in a hurry: he has a second delivery to make this morning.

A flurry of phone calls – but no one in the area with ropes, a chainsaw, and the know-how to climb 8 metres high and cut those branches for us. The digger arrives, finds us in the middle of an improvised crisis meeting, and leaves looking unhappy.

Finally, a glimmer of hope. The delivery man takes pity on us. Assessing the space between the two oak trees, he agrees to give it a try, but with no guarantee of success. He grabs his remote control, and off we go. What follows is a delicate crane choreography, avoiding the telephone wires and zigzagging between the trees. But soon, we hit a snag: one of the branches is too resistant, blocks the crane, and could damage it. Dorian volunteers to climb on top of the container, armed with a small pruning saw. After a good long struggle with the stubborn wood and two branches cut, unloading can resume. At the cost of two more broken branches on the neighbouring tree, the heavy container is finally placed on the breeze blocks that we arrange as best we can on the ground. And miracle of miracles: the door opens, rusty though it is, which means the whole thing is level! We can now start storing our building materials, furniture and all our boxes of stuff.

We barely have time to catch our breath before our caravan seller arrives. He's late - bless him. He parks it under one of the spared oak trees, shows us how to stabilise it, and disappears.

Dazed and a little exhausted, we take a breather. We apologise to the trees for mistreating them. And we enjoy our first apple in this caravan, which will become our new home while the work is being done.

In the space of a morning, Miramon is transformed. Two large boxes, each measuring approximately 6 x 2.4 metres, have just materialised on the site, embodying worlds not so far away: one, dark red metal, a little dented, which has undoubtedly travelled around the world several times on the sea lanes of globalised capitalism; and the other, white metal and plastic with fancy-tacky gold trim, which has also travelled extensively on the roads of the gipsy community. The latter has now been baptised with a name suiting its ruined aristocrat look (*): Madame la Comtesse de Courtefesse – after the charming name of the Courtefesse (Shortbuttocks) neighbourhood in the village of Ambarès-et-Lagrave, where we first met her.

(We're still undecided about the container. But at least we know its unmistakable initials: ‘GVC’ as in... Givenchy?)

Lessons of the day:

1. Even if it would suit someone, never agree to schedule more than one important appointment per morning.
2. Do not take someone at their word when they promise to do something if you do not know them yet, even if they seem sincere and friendly.
3. It's time to get some rope and learn how to climb trees like squirrels!

(*) Or, depending on your point of view, like an ageing go-go dancer, worn down by life, and who has smoked a few too many cigarettes.

POST-SCRIPT: A DIALOGUE

While Dorian was busy above us, cutting branches, the delivery man asked me, ‘What does your husband do?’ I replied that he was a researcher in sociology. ‘Ah, that explains everything,’ he said. ‘I thought he didn't look very handy. So he's a poet!’ " His joke made me realise that neither of us had much experience with manual labour, especially construction. The colossal machines needed for construction always seemed less reliable to me than human hands. Before this experience, I didn't understand how a two-tonne iron box could be lowered precisely to the right spot. Clearly, I had never visited a seaport or closely observed the construction of a skyscraper. I have spent my entire life avoiding any interaction with these gigantic machines, so it's no wonder I became a nursery gardener, one of the safest jobs in the world.

Dorian managed to cut the branch and the container resumed its descent. Below, we fumbled with the pre-prepared breeze blocks, trying to position them for a level landing. Inexperienced, we placed the blocks upside down. The delivery man sighed and gave us instructions: "You have to turn them the other way round so that they can support the weight, otherwise the container will crush them. "

Finally, with a thud, the container fell into place. We went to thank the delivery man, who then asked Dorian, ‘So you're a researcher? What are you researching?’
Dorian: ‘Sociology.’
Delivery man: ‘Sociology? I didn't go to university. What's that?’
Dorian: ‘It's the study of how society works.’
Delivery man: ‘So, does it work well?’
Dorian: ‘It has quite a few problems.’
Delivery man: ‘How about we start by getting rid of all the politicians?’
Dorian: ‘I don't know. I think some of them start out with good intentions, but the political system ends up corrupting them. Others are just psychopaths.’

The delivery man didn't reply, apparently satisfied with the answer. He got into his van, took off his shoes and placed them on the steps as if he were entering a living room. After asking us for directions to his next destination, he drove off.