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Each morning when I open the green shutters of our villa in SW France, my eyes follow the upward line of mountains until they rest on the highest, Canigou, and I say to myself, “This is why I am here.” As I stand in the shadowy garden, I turn and watch the delicate pink fingers of sunlight stretching out to touch the foothills of this great mountain, and I am filled with utter contentment. There was a time though, when I thought this would never happen.

Five years ago, my husband John and I stood on a plot of land in France close to the Spanish border, which had once been a field of apricot trees. An enthusiastic estate agent was showing us the marked out boundaries. Tucked down behind us and just visible, was the village of Espira, its presence declared by a soaring church spire; to our left and right, hills and escarpments rose. There was nothing to spoil our view, and directly in front of us was Canigou itself. The plot was a good size but my eyes were drawn to a similar one opposite. Swaying grasses seemed to beckon and I could not stop myself from walking towards it, sitting down amongst those tall grasses: “How much is this plot?” I asked, but I already knew that this was the one.

We went to a housing organisation, chose a design for the house and the build began. With it came a catalogue of unique experiences! Top of the list of course was the inevitable slow progress. Every stage took twice as long as promised and in between the frustration of goals not achieved, came the ceasing of all progress due to the French summer break. It made patience a difficult virtue. Studiously, we took our cue from the locals and practised the Gallic shrug. Other problems were soon to be revealed. Because this was an historic village dating back to the tenth century, civic rules abounded. Only certain colours were allowed for outside walls and shutters, the height of sheds and outdoor buildings mattered, the roof tiles had to be identical to other builds. If we made mistakes we paid the price of further delays: permission was denied or not given. Forests of paperwork changed hands.

At last, and more than a year since I had squatted on my plot, we moved in. At this stage the garden did not exist. It was an uneven jumble of builders’ equipment, cement, discarded tools and monstrous weeds. But there was space, and my long-nurtured dream of having a swimming pool was a definite possibility.

On a sunny Wednesday in late June 2007, an earth-mover trundled in, positioned itself at the back of our home and began the noisy process of removing soil and stones from the marked out pool area. Every so often I took a look and was surprised both by the size of some of the stones being removed and the rigid, light stone layers left in what would eventually be the side of the swimming pool. They looked as if they were part of a wall, it was certainly very puzzling. Meanwhile, the earth-mover went deeper and deeper.

John and I were in the house sticking kitchen tiles in place when there was a sudden silence. Perhaps it was a tea-break? Then there was a tap on the door. The excavator stood there gesticulating towards the pool. I was not sure if he was white from the dust or from shock. With a startled colleague cowering behind him, he pointed to the pool. “Il y a un mort!”

My first thought was that a murder had taken place, perhaps by some previous owner of the apricot field, some dreadful, gruesome find on which I certainly did not wish to look! In trepidation, John and I walked to the edge of the newly dug chasm and it was clear that we were looking at part of an uncovered tomb with an ivory shape inside. Quite clear also was the fact that we were looking at something that was neither of modern times nor recent violence. This uncovered grave was very old indeed and at least two and a half metres below the surface. The object the workers had found, the ivory, still resting inside the opening, was a thigh bone. We simply did not know what to do.

The first step, we decided, was to consult Valérie, a geography teacher and our neighbour as this was her day off. She came immediately, took one look at the slate tomb, and proclaimed, “Fifth century”. I saw my swimming pool diminish into the never-to-be realised realms of a pipe-dream!

We covered the gap in the slate grave as best we could and continued to panic. What would happen to our garden? Admittedly there was nothing much in it at that moment but the thought of an archaeological dig as the centerpiece of our ground was not exactly exhilarating. What would happen to us, to our new home? Would we be evicted in the name of historical heritage?

Another amazement was how quickly the word spread. In no time, the mayor and the village handyman arrived, asked to look and asked us to take photographs. A few days later a very excited Monsieur Odiot, an archaeologist, turned up with his team of young students. They carefully prepared the area then dug, sifted and brushed at the remains. In fascination, we watched as a very large man took shape, became reunited with his leg, then was gently removed from his resting place.

Very soon the phenomenon was beginning to attract local attention -a meeting was held in the Salle des Fêtes and was convened by the mayor. The ‘find’ needed to be explained. Monsieur Odiot took the floor and confirmed that our garden and beyond it, housed the graves of a Germanic people called Visigoths. A short history of these people followed and Valérie was right, they date from somewhere between the fifth and seventh centuries. Unfortunately our French was not good enough to understand all but later a quick look on the Internet enlightened us. The Visigothic kingdom formed when the Romans lost control of their empire. The evidence in our garden showed that the characteristic slate graves were stacked one on top of another in a criss-cross design typical of the time and of early Christian burial. M. Odiot reckoned there were twenty or more in our garden alone and perhaps two hundred overall. The meeting was then declared over and all present then walked back to the house to view the site. How unreal was that! All those people standing around the perimeter of our home and staring in amazement at the hole in the ground. At the end of the day Monsieur Odiot took some of the slate and the one complete skeleton with him for carbon-dating. He promised that in good time he would let us know the exact history of these people. In true French form, this has yet to arrive!

Before the archaeologist left I asked if we would have to leave our house, or at least have an archaeological dig in the garden. He smiled wanly and admitted that there were insufficient funds. We were advised to cover up the hole and finish the pool as quickly as possible as it would not take long for opportunist treasure hunters to hear of it! I immediately had visions of creeping figures wandering the garden in the night!

When M. Odiot, the slate and the skeleton were gone, all that remained were the memories of our unique experience plus a huge hole to fill! We heaved a sigh of relief. It would seem that our plans were still on course and this was good news. I was also glad for the Visigoths. I felt that it would have been wrong to unearth and remove these ancient people. This was their consecrated resting place and here they should stay.

However, I felt that something to mark the occasion was needed, some small ceremony perhaps. So we gathered together our friends and gave a small libation to show respect for those Visigoths who sleep beneath our feet. We asked their forgiveness for rudely interrupting their rest. Later, and as a memorial, we made a slate stool from the remnants found among the rubble. The swimming pool project went ahead.

Over the next three years the garden and pool took shape. Established lawns, trees and flowers now surround a swimming area we once thought would never happen. For the past four summers, and convinced that we have their approval, we have swum in the company of generous and benevolent predecessors. When I look out of my window and my eyes are drawn to the slate stool which marks a direct line towards ancient Canigou, I am in awe at the thought that once Visigoths may also have looked up in wonder at this great mountain.