Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Read online

  The meal has been so big and hearty that all I want to do when we finally arrive home at four, is to curl up and sleep. However, I had started to paint the hallway opposite the bathroom in the morning. To pack it all up now and resume another day, represents as much work as simply getting on with it and finishing it. So I press on, until weariness overtakes me and Stuart steps in to finish, painting until late evening. Last year this was our normal daily template; we hope this is a one-off.

  We wake to a freshly painted hallway; an effort well worth it. It frees us up to go the markets, have a hasty café and delectable abricot hibou before racing in to Brive before the twelve o’clock cut-off. By now, we know our way round so our buying trips are swifter and more successful. The find of the day at Carrefour supermarché is a solde whipper-snipper, essential for slashing through the long grass that is creeping ever-higher. As we leave, like a synchronised moment for a Carrefour ad, a man in an open-top Peugeot has a matching whipper-snipper propped on his back seat. He toots his horn, waves and we all smile. It’s like a perfect script for happy French homeowners. As soon as we arrive home, Stuart puts it to work straight away and there is a wonderful transformation from a shabby farmyard appearance to freshly cropped grass in front of our la grange. It is ready just in time for Liz’s arrival the next day.

  We mop and sweep and dust and clean in readiness. It will be the first time she will have seen la cuisine installed and all the furniture in place, for last year it was still very much a renovating site when she stayed. While we work hard, it is not at all the same as housework at home. Somehow, it feels more like cleaning and setting up a doll’s house.

  There is definitely still an air of novelty to carrying out everyday tasks in Pied de la Croix . I can only hope this always continues to be the case. I even pick sprigs of lavender from our new plants to adorn the table. It is like designing a stage set.

  That’s when it strikes me that it’s like playing in a doll’s house, for it’s when I tidy and straighten and place and decorate, that I realise the layout of our maison is a perfect square shape. Perhaps that is why it is so perfectly pleasing. As you enter from the rounded steps that everyone admires and says are très jollie, you walk straight into la salle and la cuisine lies to the right, all open-plan now that we have knocked a wall down. It is quite unlike traditional French homes where the sitting room and kitchen are rarely all open and flooded with light. There are two chambres at the back with the salle de bain in the middle. The symmetry and squareness is echoed in details such as our new shining white porcelain sink. It all reminds me of longed-for childhood dollhouses or those I have peeped at in museums. Perhaps it is why I feel like I am simply playing house.

  I am so happy that Pied de la Croix is flooded with light for none of our friends’ maisons quite have this quality. It is an element from home that we cherish – bringing in the sky and light. I often pause in what I am doing to watch the sky in all its ever-changing moods and the trees bend and sway. When storms lash the house, our unusually large windows let you watch the tempest flare up and then wear itself out. The only sounds at night in the country are those of the farm animals settling down to sleep and nature in all its unpredictability and beauty. When the wind abates after a furious storm, our petite maison seems to sigh with contentment and relief.

  32

  The Great Surprise

  Jean-Claude, Françoise and Patrick arrive for an early evening apéritif in le jardin with the softest, cutest, most adorable bundle I have ever seen, clasped in Françoise’s arms.

  I am so overcome by sheer excitement that I fail to even greet them properly with two kisses each, one on each cheek as is the custom each and every time we see them, so enraptured am I by the puppy and its entirely unexpected appearance.

  She is called Ophelia – with the emphasis on the ‘H’, as this is the letter all puppies born this year must have a name starting with. However, in the voiture on the journey home after going to choose her, they have changed her name to Henriette. They have called her this in tribute to our little Henri, far away on the other side of the world.

  To say I am touched is an understatement. Gérard and Dominique pull up in their tiny green Twingo and join us at the table we have set up in the front garden outside la grange. The sun peeps through at the end of the day and a golden glow is cast upon our happy gathering. Henriette is passed from lap to lap and we all fall instantly in love with her.

  It is Patrick’s first visit to our maison this year, and ever the professional landscape gardener, he goes off to inspect our new plants. He returns alarmed. The hedge will be far too high, it will block the sun, we should have consulted him. ‘Non, non, Patrick, you are on vacances,’ I assure him.

  Then as always, for we are far from Paris after all, and jardins that are grand designs, the conversation turns to the two inevitable topics: les mouches and the weather. Jean-Claude shares his trick of dealing with the flies. He sucks them up with the vacuum nozzle from all the surfaces. This is particularly successful he tells us, if they are crawling and swarming on the flat surfaces of windows, where they have been attracted to the light. I later adopt this method myself and find it has a high hit-rate. It always strikes me as exceptionally odd that les mouches problem is ever so much worse here than at home.

  I also always find it amusing too that we have such endless conversations on this topic, but then again, we are in rural France. There are no highbrow discussions about art and literature; yes, our house is certainly far from Paris. I wonder though how we will be able to contribute to conversations when we are indeed in Paris next year with Patrick and his friends. Time will tell. I expect though, not to hear the dreaded mouches word once.

  Meanwhile, Stuart has rapidly taken on the characteristics of a mad man, consumed by his daily pursuit of flies. He swats them frantically, to no avail – we resort to hanging ugly strips of old-fashioned fly paper; we spray noxious fumes in a fury. finally, one night, he spots sneaky little mouches buzzing through the open vent for the old stove.

  He stuffs it thoroughly with plastic bags. Voila, the next morning instead of getting up to a swarm of mouches; a veritable invasion, there are only one or two. The change to our sanity is both instant and remarkable. Such is daily life in Cuzance.

  33

  Friday the Thirteenth of July

  The swallows are now swooping in wide circles through the pale blue sky – surely a sign that at last summer is imminent. We have a slow, relaxed morning after our impromptu dîner party the evening before with Patrick and Liz. When Patrick had wandered back to Jean-Claude and Françoise’s to tell them he would be staying for dîner after our apéritifs, he arrived bearing a plate of freshly baked Rhum Baba that Françoise had just whipped out of the oven. We fall upon the plate with glee. The spontaneous dîner party is complete. It is nights like these I treasure, gathered round our long wooden table, French wine flowing, laughter and conversation spilling out into the quiet country night. The hoot of owls is the only other sound to punctuate the stillness.

  When I later thank Françoise for her delicious dessert, as on many other occasions, I cause much merriment with my pronunciation. I say merci beaucoup for the Rhum Baba, for this is the name I know the dessert by and think it is universally known as such. But no, in France it is called Baba au Rhum. Jean-Claude is so highly amused by this that he then often asks me afterwards to pronounce the dessert by the name I know.

  Each time I say, Rhum Baba, he falls into fits of laughter. A small thing in itself but who would know there was a world of difference in the trifling difference of a dessert. I wonder what they call trifle?

  As Stuart and I are having our morning espresso on our petite porch, Jean-Claude arrives bearing his beloved new bundle. Marinette, on her daily promenade, supported by her cane , stops to admire the adorable la chien. While I perch on our moss-covered, stone wall as we all chat, I hold Henriette as she snuggles up to me and falls asleep in my arms.

  I carry her carefu
lly inside to show Liz. The salle de bain is like a Turkish bathhouse.

  I’m dismayed by the clouds of hot steam for Jean-Claude has just told me it is highly unlikely that the first maçon , whose quote is now looking hugely attractive rather than in fact très cher, will also not be able to put our window in the bathroom this summer as I had hoped. He has left yet another message on the maçon’s portable but tells me he is probably already on his summer vacances. Ooh la la, maçons, I fume silently . I well remember how the month of August is when virtually the whole of France is on vacances for the entire month. If you need anything done, it has to be organised far in advance of this sacrosanct summer vacances. We are about to have our friends from Belgium to stay, and then there will be six of us. I am anxious about how our decrepit, dark bathroom will cope – especially our septique and toilet in its tiny box. To call it a room would be generous.

  Jean-Claude continues his morning of gloom. He is perturbed when he discovers that I have not signed and posted the maçon’s quote to let him know I have accepted it.

  This is a detail about French protocol that I have completely forgotten from the previous year when we had the roofers. I’m disconcerted as this will mean even further delays.

  Thoughts of maçons are soon forgotten when Liz, Stuart and I set off to the picturesque village of Montvalent for déjeuner. It is again true that the journey is in equal pleasure to the destination. Sharp, curving bends that Stuart always has fun skilfully swerving round; glorious châteaux glimpsed from afar, sheltering under the edges of the chalky limestone cliffs; tiny churches with steeples piercing the sky; row upon marching row of perfectly aligned waving stalks of corn and vineyards, straight as railway tracks, stretching to the horizon. The smooth surface of the Dordogne glides beside us; the rural charm is picture-perfect; truly it is one of the most beautiful départements in all of France.

  Once again, the restaurant has been recommended to us, and just like last year, it was Anne-Marie, our bank manager who told us about it. At home, we don’t even know who our bank manager is. If it is anything like Bon Famille that she had also highly commended last year, we will be more than happy. She has told us that it is run by a young couple who started it the previous year. I always have high hopes that these rural restaurants are where chefs destined for the bright lights and enviable cuisine of Paris, are starting out. We are not disappointed. As always, we choose menu du jour. We are served succulent skewers of duck and peach, a superb combination of flavours, followed by pistachio crème glacée. The sun shines, life is good. As we are relaxing over our glasses of rosé, Gérard and Dominique call to invite us for café and gâteau for afternoon tea.

  We manage to leave our leisurely lunch in time to dash into the supermarché on the way home. Voila, there is a solde mosaic table and chairs that will be just perfect for behind la grange when the paving is fin. It is always fortunate that we have such clear powers of imagination, for the paving is yet to even begin.

  We walk through the village carrying a bowl of plums, freshly picked from our prunier tree, its branches so laden they are snapping off. A brief chat on the way with Monsieur Arnal, who remains oddly perplexed as to why after being back for so long we have still to remove the cover for la piscine. Surely he has other thoughts to occupy him? We gesture at the ever threatening grey clouds and tell him it is still far too cool.

  We gather for gâteau round Gérard and Dominique’s table in their cosy la cuisine.

  When we visit them, there is always a sense of formality, for the table is always beautifully set in readiness and the café and cake is served ceremoniously. Dominique has been out to buy special gâteaux, a choice of chocolat or fraise; my hand always hovers when luscious chocolate or strawberry are both on offer. All our friends well know my weakness for French pastries. As guests, the choice is ours first. If only all of life’s decisions were this simple; chocolat wins every time. The sense of protocol in the serving of afternoon tea is balanced by the laughter and jokes we share. I always try to remember to take my dictionary when we spend time with them but on the occasions I forget, we still chat like old friends, although we have only known each other just a couple of years. They too love the vide greniers and the following day we are all headed to Padirac. By now, they are very familiar with my bargain hunting ability, and Gérard never fails to ask if what I am wearing cost one euro. I have asked them to keep a look out for a girouette, for I am still sad that our weather vane mysteriously went missing when our barn roof was replaced. Despite all our enquiries, nobody claims to have any knowledge of it. Patrick later suggests we should go the gendarme about it. This is not one of his better ideas. I shudder to think how this would affect our standing in the village. Perhaps not.

  34

  Brigitte’s Birthday

  We feel hugely honoured to be invited to Brigitte’s sixtieth birthday celebration and to stay the night in their chambre de hôte in Villefranche de Rouergue. The day starts with an early morning expedition to Padirac, the first vide grenier we have been to that is also a Marche fermier. It means that instead of a quick dash to Martel on the way to buy our fresh produce, we can buy it there. As always, I have already put my eclectic list for my treasure quest in my large straw basket. Today we are searching for nut crackers, a candlestick, ice tongs, a chopping board, an English dictionary and of course, highly coveted old linen.

  There is at last a glimmer of sun as the three of us set off early. It is Bastille Day and the day looks full of promise, as if the weather may at last break; perfect for Brigitte’s party in the evening. For the past fortnight, the average daily temperature has been the same as at home in winter. Liz, fresh from Wales, tells us that England has had never-ending rain for months on end and there are widespread, record-breaking floods. We hope the rain doesn’t wash over the Channel to our little corner of France.

  However, as soon as we arrive in Padirac, the hint of sun fades and the chill once again descends, wrapping the vide grenier in a cloak of grey dampness. France and summer? The two words seem incongruous. Memories flood over Liz and I as we wander round, stamping our feet and rubbing our hands in our efforts to warm up. This was our very first vide grenier that we visited together when we met up in France four years ago. We can even recall the la robe she bought. She tells me the dress is still one of her favourites.

  It is a superb vide grenier, full of fascinating stalls . We find five fabulous gardening books, including a nouveau one by a gardener of repute. This will be a perfect gift for Patrick when we stay in his apartment in Paris. I spend a long time poring over exquisite old linen pillow cases, all hand stitched and many with initials embroidered on them for days-long-gone, trousseau. These are the moments I love, for they conjure up so many images of young girls, hair tumbling over their shoulders, as they sit by the light of an old oil lamp, each stitch a measure of love for their imagined future life.

  As I linger over my linen choices – trumped by an imperious French woman – when I am finally given the price for my selections, the stallholder directs a questioning glance at Stuart. I have been madly calculating what choices I will sacrifice. He later tells me she was concerned the pieces would be far too expensive. I live for the clear-out-the attic days.

  I am always hesitant to ask, ‘Combien il est?’for I think the price will be très cher. It is not. I am in fact astonished that they are not expensive at all. I scoop up sets of pristine white pillowcases to take home for friends. I move on to find a pair of ice tongs, another tick on the list. They will be used with the Suze ice bucket we found last year, when we serve pastis for summer apéritifs. It is an essential part of any French household, for pastis is the drink of choice for many of our friends.

  Returning home, with baskets brimming, we’re startled by the sight of a bride in the front passenger seat of a white van, her flowing veil fully covering her face. Even behind it, we can see her face is pale and taut. On the narrow country road, it is an especially startling sight. The trees arc and meet o
verhead; the roads are slippery after the overnight rain. The way the trees meet so closely, creating a tunnel of gloomy darkness, is a sure sign of how treacherous these roads would be covered with winter ice and snow. I hope they are not a symbol for what may await the bride in the van.

  The dark black clouds roll overhead and we stop in Martel just in time to see the fire brigade – la sapeurs-pompiers band – and veterans marching to the Cenotaph to commemorate Bastille Day. There is a stirring sense of pride and patriotism in the reverent crowds lining the streets.

  The afternoon passes quickly before we set off to our party, leaving Liz to spend the night in Pied de la Croix and immerse herself in the solitude and peace of a Cuzance country evening. And so we have another French evening of utterly marvellous memories. There are so many fragments of the night that lies ahead yet all so smoothly orchestrated to achieve the perfect sum total.

  There is the drive itself to Villefranche; the winding roads that by necessity impose slowness and thus the savouring of the rural landscape, as it changes and unfolds around us. There are flatter, drier fields near Gramat, bordered by limestone walls. When we pass the sign for Roumégouse, it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It was certainly one of our more memorable adventures when we set off on a forest walk one day with John a few years ago.