Villa Nettie

You can find Nettie on quai Henri Chardon in Barfleur, a small working fishing port on the Cotentin peninsula of Northern France. Nettie was never meant to be a house - she was built around 1875 as an annexe - her function was a dry, enclosed space for local fishermen to dry their nets. She has a small courtyard, and faces south-east across the quay to the sheltered harbour and the open sea beyond

. Nettie has always been at the heart of things. While today she has a birds-eye view of the quayside comings and goings; the stalls that sell fish and seafood fresh from the boats, the weekly produce market, and the fireworks, flea markets and funfairs of the tourist season, in the past Barfleur was even busier - it was the most significant port in Normandy, a centre for boat building and home to a thriving fishing and farming community. Next door to Nettie, in a property that is now owned by a renowned London art dealer, was an inn that was the favourite of farmers, fishermen and chandlers alike. Cider barrels would roll up and down the passage running alongside night and day, and having hung their nets to dry, the fishermen would gather in Nettie's courtyard to drink a bowl or two and share their stories of the sea. The houses grand and not-so-grand that line the quay were mainly stores and shops - a railway, known locally as the Tue-Vaques (or cow-killer) ran just outside the gate to Cherbourg 20 miles away serving all the small communities along the way. Nettie doesn't get many visitors these days; although she's been in the same family for four generations, her current owners live in Caen, an hour and half hours drive away. However lovely Barfleur is, and however many memories of happy family holidays Nettie may hold, they know they don't have the time or energy it would take to turn her into the cosy home she could be. In her current state poor Nettie is not fit to be a 21st-century weekend retreat - her roof has seen better days, ferns wreath her chimneys, her rendered exterior is stained and mossy, her woodwork scorched and weatherbeaten. Inside, a loo, a sink, and a washbasin are the only concessions to habitation. Her floorboards are bare, and her cupboards are empty. The paintwork and lime plaster of her rooms and narrow staircases, covered with children's drawings and fishermen's graffiti, and as charming as any you'll find in a Rouen or Paris café, is chipped and scored. Her wiring and plumbing have, to be kind, seen better days. Yesterday, I sat in the local Notary's office while she solemnly read through thirty pages of formal French text and technical documents describing Nettie's history and her many deficiencies in brutal detail. We signed the necessary papers, page by long page. In a month, I'll pick up the keys. Nettie will be mine.