I don't think that the annual heat/no heat contest is solely connected to the high price of oil, gas, and electricity, at least not in the Cevennes. I think it's deeply embedded in the culture, where suffering is equated, consciously or not, to how good a person you are -- or are not. No suffer, no good, or not good enough. That interpretation may have its roots in a strict Protestantism dating back to the 1500s.
Wikipedia link about Protestantism in the Cevennes: http://enwikipedia.org/wiki/Camisard
I've recently moved to a quirky old house built in the early 1800s, with cold air easily making its way in through a Brazilian weak spots (homage to George oblige). The windows are all single-paned glass and there are three fireplaces, all of whose chimneys were wide open to the skies and none of which was functional. But the house is roomy, bursting with charm and the rent is low because the owners don't want to be bothered with fixing things up to charge more. That's just fine by me. Mr. Bricolage, the handyman's dream store, is just 45 minutes away -- and is now one of my favorite places in France.
The house is located smack in the middle of the village, whereas my former home (which I despised) was just on the outskirts. The distance between the two places is no more than a few hundred meters at most. However, I've experienced a distinct change in how the villagers interact with me now versus then. I am now a neighbor; I was then an outsider. I don't get it, but that's how it is.
To come into my new old house, you first open a hefty double wooden door at street level, then walk up a flight of stairs, open another thick wooden door and walk onto the floor where the kitchen and sitting room are located. Cross this space and open another sturdy wooden door to another flight of stairs that lead up to a landing, two bedrooms, and two fireplaces. Open two more heavy doors, with locks and huge keys (that work), go up three steps and you're in the bathroom. This house is not for the incontinent. I think that the bath used to be an outhouse, attached to the main house at some point in the not so distant past. It's been modernized into a more or less (less) conventional bathroom, depending on what your idea of conventional is, but there's no disguising those heavy, keyed doors that once led to somewhere outside the house.
There are two more doors near the bath, one leading back down a tiny staircase that eventually takes you back to my front door, the other leading up a narrow and somewhat frightening stairwell to the terrace on the roof. From there you can see the beautiful mountains surrounding the village, but no one can see you. In this tiny village, where everyone knows and sees everything you do, a private terrace is truly a piece of heaven.
Back to the cave, which, despite its name, is on street level: I always imagine them as below street level, underneath the house. In fact, this street level cave is indeed below the house, just not underground, so I suppose all is well in my world of images. At any rate, take two steps down from the street entrance into the cave and you're in a space that smells exactly like your grandmother's or great-grandmother's coal basement. Everyone who's come by to visit has made that comment. Everyone -- this house is instant nostalgia. Hidden back in a corner (of the cave) is a deep cupboard with some very old, very large bottles containing who knows what inside. I think it's some kind of Cevenol moonshine, stashed away to age at least a century ago -- something to check out one of these chilly winter nights if ever the courage comes to us. Perhaps some things are better left untapped?
The oil tank and controls for the old but central heating system are located in the cave, next to the mysterious bottles. The system seems to work, although it gives off quite a bit of heat even when set for hot water only. There's apparently no repairing that flaw, so we decided to focus on preventing the heat from escaping into the street through the huge gaps in the wood-planking of the door, as well as all around the door. Our hope was to force the heat upwards into the house.
And so, as of last Sunday, the door is no longer functional. The gaps are all blocked up thanks to high-pressure foam in a can from Mr. Bricolage. The stuff is not easy to manage, but it's cheap and efficient. More importantly, it's fun, like trying to smoosh melted marshmallows into cracks and crevasses. Admittedly, that may not be everyone's idea of fun, but when you live in a teeny, tiny village with a bike as your primary mode of transit, you modify your standards -- actually, they just gradually change all by themselves.
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