Tony Hawks - A Piano in the Pyrenees: The Ups and Downs of an Englishman in the French Mountains

Tony Hawks

A Piano in The Pyrenees

2006

Inspired by breathtaking views and romantic dreams of finding love in the mountains, Tony Hawks impulsively buys a house in the French Pyrenees. Here, he plans to finally fulfil his childhood fantasy of mastering the piano, untroubled by the problems of the world. In reality, the chaotic story of Tonys hopelessly ill-conceived house purchase reads like the definitive guide to how not to buy a house overseas. It finds him flirting with the removal business in a disastrous attempt to transport his piano to France in a dodgy white van; foolishly electing to build a swimming pool himself; and expanding his relationship repertoire when he starts co-habiting, not with an exquisite French beauty, but with a middle-aged builder from West London. As Tony and his friends haplessly attempt to fit into village life, they learn more about themselves and each other than they ever imagined.

I would like to apologise for not having a Thanks section at the front of this book. Frankly, these are very dull to read unless you happen to be one of the people getting a mention, and, lets face it, you probably arent. However, if you do happen to be one of the people who have helped with this book in some way, then well done. Without you, this apology section wouldnt have been possible.

Not so Young, Free and Single

What do you mean youre not going to play any more? said Kevin.

The dressing room smelt, wed just been beaten 8-2, and I was close to exhaustion.

I mean exactly what I say, I replied. No more five-a-side football for me. Im forty-four years old and this is clearly a game for a younger man. Like you, for instanceyoure forty-three.

Dont be too hasty about this, said Brad, a mere forty-one.

Yes, are you sure you dont want to think this through? said Tim, forty-three.

Theres nothing to think through, I said firmly. My bodys hurting too much. I can still meet you guys in the pub after the game and do the boysy catch-up. I just wont bother with the football bit.

It wont be the same, said Kevin.

Of course it wouldnt be the same. Life changes. Its supposed to change. I wasnt going to make the mistake of trying to hang on to something that ought be allowed to become a pleasant memory. (Or, in this case, simply a memory.) Nothing stays the same. Our bodies get older, our children get bigger (or, in my case, godchildren), our pets die on us, our friends get jobs abroad and move overseas, our passions ebb and flow like the tides, governments rise and fall, and natural disasters destroy life with a callous contempt and an alarming regularity.

So why was giving up five-a-side football such a big deal?

What are you drinking,Tone? asked Tim from close to the bar.

Dave, the teams fifth player, had gone home to his wife and kids, so that left me sharing this smoky atmosphere with three of my oldest and closest friends.

The usual please, Tim, I replied before sitting down with the other two weary members of our heavily defeated team.

The pub opposite the sports centre was heaving, mostly with drinkers I recognised as being younger, if not healthier, than all of us. We watched the back of Tim as he fought for the barmans attention. He stood there: tall, good-lookingparticularly from the angle we were now surveying him. His gende, roguish sense of humour was something that had made him enormous fun in our younger days when, more likely than not, we would have been in a pub like this one with the sole purpose of trying to chat up women. Unlike me, Tim had settled down. Hed met Lucy when they were both jobbing actors specialising in poor quality adverts for German toothpaste, Belgian coffee or Norwegian shower gel. Shakespeare it hadnt been, but it had provided them enough money to get a nice house and the means to support their two boys, Archie and George.

Tony, whats the usual again? asked Tim, who had quickly popped back from the bar.

A pint of lager, I replied. Not one of the strong ones. Cooking lager please.

Righto.

Tims question revealed just how infrequently these vaguely sporting liaisons actually occurred. Many years ago, wed played weekly in a five-a-side league, but now our busy lives prevented such frivolous indulgences. We were lucky if we managed three games a year. All the more reason, I would have thought, for my retirement from the game to have been accepted more readily.

Well, I suppose you should listen to what your bodys telling you, said Brad, who was always the first to be conciliatory.

Brad looked younger than his forty-one years, boyish almost. I looked at him and remembered how much irritation his looks had caused me over the years. Too many girls thought he was cute, and it wasnt fair. Id always taken some comfort in the fact that he wasnt a very good footballer (thats why we put him in goal), although regrettably my retirement from the sport now made that consolation redundant.

Brads emotional life had always been much more complicated than mine. Wed met in 1985 as performers in a West End musical called Lennon, and at that stage Brad was already a father figure to Sarah, the daughter of Kate, the woman he lived with. He and Kate no longer lived together but they were great friends. In fact, Brad was now married to someone elseClairebut then he didnt live with her either. Instead, they too were great friends, who happened to be waiting on a divorce. A pattern was beginning to emerge in Brads love life, but this wasnt the time or the place to discuss it.

Tony, if it feels right to stop the football, then you should do what you want, continued Brad.

Yes, but what do you want? enquired Kevin.

What do you mean? I replied.

Well, said Kevin, somehow adopting the swagger of a courtroom barrister, if you had to pick two things you wantedif you had towhat would you pick?

I hesitated. This was a bigger question than was usually asked at these post-match debriefs. I resisted the temptation to opt for the easy way outthe humorous reply, so often the Englishmans refuge from confrontation with his true feelings.

I suppose the honest answer would be, I said, still accessing the last pieces of required data from a jumbled mind, the two things would be: meeting my soulmate, and finding an idyllic house abroad somewhere.

Where? asked Kevin.

Where what? If you mean where will I find my soulmate, then God knows.

No, where would you buy the house?

In France, I think. In the mountains somewhereso we could ski in the winter.

Kevin produced a satisfied smile of anticipation. Like me, he was a keen skier. Hed introduced me to the sport years ago in what now seemed like another lifetime. In 1982, hed worked in a school in the French Alps as part of his university degree, and when Id visited him hed insisted I join in with the pupils ski outing on Wednesday and Friday afternoons. Kevin had been my ski instructor, even though at the time he himself had no real idea how to ski. His tuition had taught me two things.

How to do an emergency stop when travelling at dangerously high speeds.

How to suspend all natural instincts for self-preservation or feel any concern for the safety of others who were foolish enough to be in the way.

Kevin had been married, but despite a promising start, matrimonial bliss had somehow disintegrated, and for the best part of a decade hed been adapting to the life of a divorced man. I guess, along with the rest of us, the five-a-side football had been one of the things that helped him through it all. Kevin is roughly the same height as Maradona, but despite his best efforts doesnt resemble him greatly in any footballing sense. Hes a nifty little player, however, and although I wouldnt go so far as to say he was the best in our team, he was definitely in the top five.