The Owners

DordogneBreaks is run by me, Jim Fisher.

I live with my wife, Lucy, and our fifteen year old daughter, Jenny, who goes to the local catering and hotellery course at Souillac. We live in a converted barn in the rolling Dordogne countryside, and it is from here that we run our cooking and art courses.

We have worked hard to build our popular cookery course and art course business, but thoroughly enjoy the challenge and experience of providing relaxing and fun activity courses for our guests.

Here's how it all began...

Eight years ago I had a secure job, a modern house on a safe street in a nice provincial town, my eight year old daughter went to a progressive course, and I knew at least one of my neighbours.

In fact, I lived the quintessential nice suburban life. So nice was this life that I actually couldn't wait to get out because this wasn't really living at all - it was a dull existence.

So, I did what most men do at the approach of the big "four-0!" - I looked around for something new and challenging. Holding down a very secure and responsible job for the last seventeen years left me feeling somewhat exposed by the prospect of finding a new one, but I did have a couple of cards up my sleeve: I had become a self-taught chef and a competent artist, specialising mainly in pastels, pencil sketching and watercolour.

Restaurant or art gallery..?

So, I thought: "A restaurant or art gallery, then". But, scouting around for a suitable venue in the UK yielded disappointing results - all of the eminently suitable properties were way too expensive.

At a time when I was beginning to seriously question my belief in the adage: 'All good things come to those who wait', inspiration literally tore across my eyes: I was sitting in the doctor's waiting room leafing through some glossy magazine or other when I turned the last page and gaped in awe at what I found: a colour advert of properties for sale in rural France.

Drop-dead gorgeous...

The page was filled with pictures of drop-dead-gorgeous crumbly stone farm houses at a quarter the price of anything I could buy in the UK. I surreptitiously ripped out the page under cover of a distracting cough and stuffed it into my pocket. Dark insurgent thoughts were beginning to form.

A couple of days later, Lucy, my wife, was emptying my pockets and found the crumpled advert; "What's this!?" she demanded. I explained what had happened at the doctors' and my subsequent thoughts and found that Lucy was instantly enthused: the idea of moving lock stock and barrel to France to set up a cookery or art course was obviously one that appealed to her too.

A one-way ticket...

In April 2000, armed with a one-way ticket on the hovercraft, we left England, possibly for good. With no house and all our belongings in storage (bar what we could stuff into the caravan - which was mostly Lucy's shoes) we attacked France with huge energy and enthusiasm.

We must have seen fifty properties within the first month - all were described as 'habitable' in typically French over-optimistic style, so were simply not right for us.

Tired, irritable and despondent, we went to the last estate agent in south west France who we hadn't already pestered and cajoled.

"It's beyond your budget..."

It was raining. The agent took us to a derelict farm that he hadn't any photos of and, anyway, it was beyond our budget.  As we drove down the track and turned the corner on that grim June day our jaws dropped. It was achingly beautiful.

Crumbly, unsanitary and uninhabited for the past twenty five years it may have been but, with two massive barns in good condition and seven acres of land, the place was perfect for our plans.

We decided to buy it there and then. Our offer went in straight away, but we had to wait an eternity for the decision which, when it came, wasn't quite the standard 'yes' or 'no' response we were expecting: the owner, a local farmer, wanted us to meet his family for Sunday lunch before he would make any decision to sell to us. We were to be vetted!

Jenny in pony-tails...?!

Sunday came and, knowing the farmer's wife's penchant for Jenny (we had met earlier to discuss the parcel of land being sold with the property and she cooed all over her) we dressed our poor daughter in a pretty dress and made her wear pony-tails (she wasn't too happy about this and stomped around like the recalcitrant Scout in 'To Kill a Mockingbird', but she finally acquiesced for the common good).

In the end, despite being grilled (in the nicest possible way) by all ten members of the family, over a lunch which seamlessly continued through dinner, we staggered back to the caravan elated, secure in the knowledge that we were soon to be the proud owners of a little piece of France.

Cooking Christmas dinner at -15°C...

The day finally came, eighteen months after our arrival in France, when we moved into our centrally-heated barn. And about time too - winter was blowing in again and I for one did not ever want to spend another Christmas at -15°C cooking Christmas dinner wearing a ski-mask, wellies and a pair of Lucy's tights under my Damarts!).

A new life in France...

We have entered a whole new phase with the cookery course and art courses. It is unbelievably hard work and the hours are long, but we get to meet some really fantastic people: like fifteen year old Patrick who came here to cook with his Mum, while Dad and Sister did the tourist thing - Patrick left us positively brimming with cooking confidence and returned a year later to further his skills; and Ursula, an Australian out-back doctor who, although she needs a wheelchair to get about, amazed everyone with her determination and inner strength; and a couple in our seventies who were simply a hoot to be with!"