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FOR MANY YEARS DAVID and I had contemplated the idea of taking a year off work and spending it living somewhere overseas. It’s the usual sort of dream for people who have travelled, especially if they fall in love with a particular country or region and yearn for a more leisurely stay. In our various travels over the years we have discussed spending more time in the Italian countryside, probably Umbria; in rural Ireland, possibly south of Dublin; and in the south of France, undoubtedly Provence.

I start by making plans for a break of six months—that’s all we can afford—from the end of May until December. David has been talking about spending at least part of the time travelling with me, but then two film projects he has been working on for years suddenly look like going ahead, which means that he will need to be in Queensland filming during that period. I am determined to go away regardless, and notify the ABC of my intentions. The television program I work on is popular and rates well with the audience, but in my opinion it has become rather stale over the last few years; my going away will give the producers an opportunity to try some new faces and perhaps shake up the format a little. In my heart of hearts I would like to move on. After nine years with the program I feel a bit lacking in inspiration (not to mention frustration after years of dealing with some of the mediocre executives at the ABC). But I know it’s not a good idea to shut the door completely as no doubt I’ll be desperate for some sort of regular income when I return.

Every year I lead a trek to the Himalayas in India during late May. My plan after this is to fly from Delhi to Paris then on to Nice. The Indian trek takes groups to look at the flora of the Harki Dun Valley in a glorious eight-day climb high into the mountains in the northern part of India. I am the group leader, but we also take a local botanist and one or two highly experienced local guides, as well as the ubiquitous porters. This trek has become one of the most enjoyable and exciting sidelines of my work, and I look forward to it every year with pleasure.

My original plan is to find a place to live near Grasse in Provence, a region we have visited several times after attending the Cannes Film Festival, and where we have come to love the atmosphere and the countryside. However my Grasse real estate agent contacts have been finding it difficult to get low-cost accommodation for six months—the summer period is always booked out and rentals are at a premium. All they can offer is a fifth floor apartment in a modern block on the outskirts of the township. This is far from the romantic garret in which I picture myself. I love the old stone houses and the narrow, winding back streets and would prefer to rent a simple room or two above a shop or in any old building. I want peeling shutters and creaky stairs and I don’t care if the bathroom and kitchen are basic, as long as I have a bed and table and chair. But organising such a modest wish list from the other side of the world is difficult, and I am beginning to think I will never find a place to stay.

Then my friend Gil Appleton suggests I contact an old boyfriend of hers from the seventies, Jock Veitch, a retired journalist now living in the tiny village of St Caprais in a little-known rural region in France called the Lot. It’s certainly a long way from my first choice of Provence, being close to the Spanish border in the southwest, a region which David and I have only ever driven through, but it might just be worth a try. I email Jock, introduce myself, and ask if he knows of any rental accommodation in his region. He says he’ll ask around and over the next few weeks I get a couple of tentative replies from him, but nothing definite. Then he writes and offers me a room in his house until I can find what I am looking for. This takes quite a weight off my shoulders and I happily accept his offer of a roof over my head. I really know very little about the region, but it’s rural, it’s remote and it’s French, and that’s good enough for me.

I haven’t really allocated a financial budget for this trip, but I will have to do it as cheaply as possible. Living overseas, it’s easy to spend hundreds, even thousands, of dollars a week on rent, and hundreds more to hire a car, not to mention living expenses. As I am without an income for six months I can’t justify spending up big time. This isn’t a junket and isn’t going to be a rich woman’s retreat. I don’t want to do it as rough and ready as a young backpacker, but neither do I want to drain the family coffers in the process. My needs are fairly simple and surely part of the enjoyment will come from living without all the clutter of modern life. I can cheerfully live without satellite TV as long as I have a radio and can find a local channel that plays good music. I don’t need a swimming pool or a sun deck as long as there are rivers to walk beside and sunny places to curl up with a book.

Knowing that I can land on Jock’s doorstep gives me confidence to proceed with my plans. I organise to borrow a car for the six months from our old friends Richard and Fabienne Barnes, who live in Nice; the mobility will be important for me. I spend a lot of time daydreaming about the trip, picturing myself in cafés and wandering down country lanes. But I am also feeling very pressured about organising the logistics, as well as tying up all the loose ends of my professional and private life so that I can actually get on the plane with some peace of mind.