Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Read online

  Our house is certainly not in Paris.

  The Third Year in Le Lot

  Pied de la Croix

  ‘Set wide the window. Let me drink the day.’

  — Edith Wharton

  At home – Pied de la Croix

  Prologue

  Bonjour Pied de la Croix

  This is our continuing story about renovating our petite maison in le Lot in south-west France. It traces the gentle unfolding of the days in the French countryside, for after the first two years on frenetic working vacances, when beaucoup travail – sheer hard work – was the order of the day, life has at last taken on a slightly slower rhythm in our petite village, Cuzance. We meet again our cast of French friends and make some new amis. Our efforts turn from restoring Pied de la Croix, to a sustained onslaught on the rambling, rustique jardin. Weeks are consumed by the madness of crazy paving while rare days of relaxation are overlaid by the somnolence of a French summer. The past and present merge as life in a rural village resonates with the braying of donkeys, the squealing of pigs and the daily promenade of villagers, some nearing a century, who have spent their entire life in Cuzance, witnesses to war and the rapid changes of the years.

  As our return to Cuzance rushes towards us, I always have a vivid picture in my mind of our much-anticipated arrival. Despite the weariness of travel, and eagerness to rush inside to embrace our petite maison, I always pause on the threshold, to prolong my reunion with our beloved French home. I glance up above the door, to see the date – 1882 – encased in a stone-carved heart. The simply etched heart is a symbol of all that our beloved French home means to us: our love of France, and this year, the eve of the celebration of our long ago wedding in Istanbul, twenty-one years ago. The little heart represents all that is warm and loving within the walls of Pied de la Croix. There is no way possible that the truffle farmers who once lived here, could have ever imagined that one day, Australians from afar, would reunite each year with their old farmhouse.

  Finally, after just a couple of years, our hearts changed from sinking to soaring, at our first sight of Pied de la Croix on our return. At last, the reunion with our little stone house was all that it should be. This year, there was no flapping tarpaulin covering the naked beams of the barn, no dead pigeon on the doorstep to greet us, and the grass was all beautifully mown. Inside, it was like a scene from a film; dust covers shrouding everything, ready to be whisked off and let life once again be breathed into our petite maison and begin another summer chapter in Cuzance. Once again too, despite the inherent history of living in one-hundred-year-old terraces in Sydney, this little house has a presence, a warmth – a strong beating heart that reaches out to enfold us.

  What I especially love about our petite maison, is that it never gives off an air of sad neglect when we arrive and unlock the door. It never feels reproachful or abandoned. Instead, it has just been simply hibernating, waiting to wake up and share our happiness at being in France again.

  Before we return for our third year, Gérard and Dominique Murat, the new friends we made last year from the village, again share the unfolding seasons with us. This time we are joyous when we open their email photos to see the soft pink blossoms of our orchard in bloom. Just like the enchanting photos of Pied de la Croix wrapped in sparkling white, pristine snow that they had sent the previous Christmas, it is a season that we will probably never see ourselves. This time, it is a season of renewal and to my astonishment and delight, the lush grass beneath the budding apricots and pears, is already starting to resemble a meadow. It is less than a year that it has started to be regularly mown and yet the transformation is already well underway. Another source of pleasure and relief. Jean-Claude Chanel, the first friend we made in our village, tells us in March, before their return to Cuzance, that it is getting warmer at last in Lyon. Nevertheless, a farmer friend in Cuzance, has told him that it still freezes there in the early morning. Finally though people are now taking off their coats and layers of clothes after a long, harsh winter, so now in the streets of Lyon you can see their heads and faces. I love the images that I share from afar of the changing seasons.

  While it is our third summer in Cuzance, it is in fact only the second year that we have gone directly to our petite maison and yet it feels much longer. There is definitely a sense of true homecoming. Once again, it feels extraordinary to feel such a strong tug on the heart and such a palpable connection with a place, which in fact, we have only known such a short time. I think a sense of place and belonging is in the heart, as well as the bricks and mortar of Pied de la Croix. Yet this sense of belonging is baffling at times, for I can still barely speak a word of French...

  I am determined at the outset of our third stay in our petite maison, that this time will not be a litany of lists. I am determined that our stay of a glorious two months will not be an endless account of days consumed by renovating. As I find myself getting older, I find myself slowing down. I find myself with an ever-growing desire not to spend my holiday working through the light-filled, long French summer days. I want to spend more time relaxing in the convivial company of our French friends; I want to explore the Lot more fully; I want to simply soak up the ambience and the pleasure of a summer spent in France. Time will tell.

  In many ways, it is like returning to two homes. When we gather each year for the first time, on Jean-Claude and Françoise’s terrace for an apéritif, and gaze at their glorious jardin, there is also a real sense of homecoming. Both Jean-Claude and Françoise will soon turn seventy, so we toast their forthcoming anniversaire and celebrate serendipitous friendship. We soak up the warmth, both of the summer evening and renewed camaraderie. And so, we are back again in our beloved Cuzance.

  * * *

  Some of you may be just joining us on our French adventure, so here’s how it all started. For those of you continuing to share our Cuzance story, I hope you enjoy being reunited with our petite maison, Pied de la Croix, so named for the ‘foot of the cross’ in our village, and coincidentally, also the name of the previous owners of our French farmhouse.

  Not many people in Australia can say they live in a village. Nor are many fortunate enough to own une petite maison on the other side of the world. Owning a farmhouse in France is the stuff dreams are made of; well, most of the time.

  Stuart and I live in a small village, Wombarra – one in a string of tiny towns dotted along the coastline of southern NSW. It is perched between the escarpment and the sea, and every day we see the ocean in all its wild and varying moods.

  At night, there are often huge oil tankers on the horizon – their glistening lights like small islands – and trains flash across the bottom of the escarpment, their carriages shining like a string of jewels as they carry tired workers home from Sydney. We live in a coastal paradise.

  But despite the peace and rugged beauty that surrounds us, there is a lure that grows stronger every year, taking us across the ocean to a place far removed.

  For years, owning a house in France fell into the category of idle fantasy. But in 2010, the dream drew a little closer to reality when the Australian dollar suddenly soared. Suddenly, it became an affordable reality, and curious internet browsing, segued into booking a plane ticket.

  Renovating has been the pattern of our married life, and we felt ready to embark on a project to buy a French farmhouse and bring it back to life – even if it meant working every hour under the sun on our annual vacances; and keep in mind, French summers mean very long hours of daylight... Armed with a shortlist of properties and a strict set of criteria, Stuart left Sydney for France, determined to find our piece of paradise on the other side of the world. I went to school each day and remained anxiou
sly on standby, waiting for news of the unfolding adventure.

  Two of our main criteria were that the house was not to be a on a road or near a farm, largely to avoid the invasion of les mouches and also because peace and quiet are things we cherish. This was based in fact from my notebook for a future holiday house, after renting one in the Dordogne the previous year. There was no way we could have possibly imagined at the time, that it would become, a mere six months later, the template for buying our own petite maison.

  On our previous trip to France, we had stayed with a friend in the Pyrenees. But our hearts didn’t resonate with the harsh landscape and atypical architecture. We felt we were in a foreign land and longed to return to the département with which we had both instantly connected – the hamlets, golden stone, towering limestone cliffs and walnut orchards of the Lot.

  With just ten day’s leave and a real estate agent who couldn’t drive (surely the only one in the world!), Stuart traversed icy, treacherous roads to inspect ten houses in seven days. Many options were eliminated at a glance, and others just didn’t fit the bill: right in the middle of town, too grande, too petite, too isolated, too dilapidated. The decision was huge; the responsibility was huge; Stuart had to get it right.

  When he found Pied de la Croix in the village of Cuzance, it seemed just right – not too big, not too small, not too run down... It was utterly silent and looked absolutely enchanting, wrapped in a pristine quilt of snow, the pale golden sun of winter dancing on its ancient stone.

  So it was, that after a mere two phone conversations, we agreed that Stuart should go ahead and buy our little house. Six months later, I was able to see it for myself. Strangely, it seemed to me at first, despite now having our own petite maison, Stuart thought it made sense to rent a house nearby for the first fortnight. It was in fact a much-needed respite from now renovating on both sides of the world. We drove together from nearby Puymule for our first inspection together. The damp and gloomy day echoed my sense of misgiving. The picturesque photos in the snow had not quite captured the renovating reality. A few days later, we were back – to start the sheer hard work with a vengeance.

  On our very first morning at Pied de la Croix, we both had a further foreboding sense of, ‘What have we done?’ Within a few hours, we were discussing whether we should put the house straight back on the market. It was not the idyllic rural farmhouse of our dreams: the traffic was constant and the flies were in abundance. What had happened to our key criteria of peace and quiet?

  I was also totally overwhelmed by the amount of renovating required. A picturesque French maison it was not, and the land was so overgrown and neglected that we couldn’t even walk around the grounds. The reality was so overwhelming that Stuart suggested I should steer clear of venturing upstairs to the attic and seeing it in all its years of neglect.

  But we had no choice other than to accept our decision and push on. We had already spent a small fortune and were fully committed to at least turning it around and putting it back on the market in a renovated, desirable state.

  Anyone who has ever renovated, knows that the sheer hard work involved, means however, that an indelible bond is created. So despite the despair and desperation we felt at times, and the punishing hours of intense hard work, we did fall in love with our now, much-loved Pied de la Croix.

  For me, it was the act of stripping the wallpaper and discovering the ancient wooden beams that became a feature of our beautiful new cuisine. I felt a palpable sense of bonding with our French farmhouse – it seemed to emanate a sense of happiness to have life breathed back into it.

  And then there was the joyous discovery that the huge volume of traffic was simply due to a temporary diversion from the autoroute to Paris. It was this that cemented our decision to stay.

  I often look back and laugh about our first renovating trip. What was I thinking? I seemed to have packed for Parisian soirees. Fortunately, a new friend, Marie-France, gave me some blue overalls more suited to the task than anything in my suitcase.

  Without a mirror in the house, it wasn’t until I saw the photos upon our return to Australia, that I realised the extent of the rips in rather delicate places. No wonder I drew the attention of the parade of artisans we had coming through the property.

  And then there were the roofers. I sent a postcard to the senior girls at my school, to let them know they hadn’t lived until they saw the young French roofers, perched high on the barn, shirtless in the searing summer heat and dancing to music blaring from their radios. As for our elderly neighbours, I observed them each day, their devotion to each other palpable.

  People are fascinated by the fact we have a house in the Lot, and often ask about the difficulties or challenges involved. Apart from the fact we can’t simply go for a weekend, the only drawback for me is the interminable flight each year. There is, of course, also the matter of my very limited French (where is the time to learn?), but my tendency for the dramatic – and my ability to mime – seems to carry me through.

  Bureaucratic matters such as setting up a French bank account have their difficulties, as does finding a gardener that is not très cher. But our friends in the village are always willing to help us out, and we have learned to manage things from afar – all via email – such as buying a Renault, installing a pool and arranging for the planting of lavender and shrubs in our jardin.

  Each time we leave Cuzance, our petite maison sleeps quietly behind its wooden shutters. Our French dream is, at times, about questioning the sheer magnitude of such an undertaking. Yet it is more than balanced by the joy of creating another life in France – one we slip into seamlessly each time we return. And so, the adventure, and our other French life, continues.

  French roses in full bloom.

  1

  Ooh La, La, Technology and Renovating

  Eight weeks before leaving, we book our train tickets from Gare d’Austerlitz to Brive-la-Gaillarde. It is always a source of amazement to me that we can print our tickets at home, all the way across the other side of the world. It is at this point each year that the countdown starts to become very real. I triumphantly email Jean-Claude to let him know our arrival time and hope that he will be able to pick us up. Meanwhile, Stuart has also been emailing him to sort out a better mobile phone deal. The year before, as we had not used our mobile throughout the previous twelve-month period, the number had lapsed. This caused huge dramas and dilemmas immediately upon our arrival, when we missed the train by a matter of a few minutes. With the disconnection of our number, we had no way of contacting Jean-Claude to let him know of our late arrival. As with many other French matters, we are determined to make our journey and arrival as smooth as they can possibly be this time.

  It is only through the serendipity of our friendships and email communications that we are able to find out many things that would otherwise be virtually impossible. So it is that Jean-Claude had told us about a new portable phone deal that he had organised for Françoise rather than the outrageously très cher plan she had been on. He and Stuart exchange emails to sort a new Sim card and subsequent new number that will now be our permanent French contact. Voila, another piece of the jigsaw puzzle that is our French life, will soon be in place. Once again, it is merci beaucoup to Jean-Claude. However, things do not quite go to plan...

  As seems to be inevitable, when it comes to us and mobiles, whichever country we are in, our attempts to set up a new plan, are not only complex but we seem to be thwarted at every turn...

  It all started with Jean-Claude letting us know that he had found a fabulous deal with Free. Like Stuart, he too loves to shop around and get the best value for his euro. We could only agree that two euro a month was an extremely attractive option. All we had to do was let him know our bank account details and he would go ahead and sort it out for us. This way, he would send us a new SIM card, and voila, we would be able to contact everyone immediately on arrival. If this time something went awry and we missed a connection – like the train literally
disappearing along the tracks before our very eyes like last year – we would at least be able to call him. Many emails later, we did get a new Sim but it was a very convoluted and protracted procedure. It involved Brigitte and Eric, friends from our first trip to France, entering the picture yet at the same time, leaving Jean-Claude partially in the dark about the problems we had encountered. We did not want to hurt his feelings, for he is always there to help us in any way possible, and yet, the arrangement was not going quite as smoothly as hoped.

  The Sim card Jean-Claude sent us, had not been activated. It now had to be posted back to France, this time to our technologically savvy friends, Brigitte and Erick to activate. By the time Brigitte and Erick received it, the period to activate it had elapsed. With much stealth, we had to convey this to Jean-Claude without him being aware that we had to seek further assistance. In return, he gave us the privileged access to his email account. The only way to get a new password was to do so in his name as he had bought the Sim. His curiosity was certainly aroused, so I just pleaded my usual technological ignorance, which all who know me well, perfectly understand. Getting the new password involved Stuart navigating his way through the portable site in French. Meanwhile, all this had to be conveyed to Brigitte and Erick. This would be complex at the best of times, let alone trying to convey it simply for friends in a foreign country. After its third voyage across the oceans, our Sim card is definitely very well travelled.

  I suppose however, it is a minor matter this year, compared to the significant role he assumed the previous year in buying our car by email and then the part he played when our long distance piscine was put in. Such is Jean-Claude’s attention to detail, that when he replies after I let him know our arrival time, he tells me he will take us to Carrefour supermarché to buy some essential supplies on our way to Cuzance. He also lets me know that he has attempted to check the pipes in our cellar, as since the winter was so severe, many people have had serious problems with frozen pipes. Unfortunately he can’t seem to find the right key, so it will be with a sense of trepidation, that we venture into the cellar ourselves to check on our first night. Will there be a flood or frozen wasteland? We already know that this year there will need to be a serious outlay of euro on the nasty septique problem as the smell is becoming ever-pervasive.