Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Page 11
Ah yes, a relaxing walk in a French forest that would bring us out at the end of the trail near Rocamadour, one of the most-visited towns in France. From the outset of our country amble, it was apparent that it was not going to be a simple stroll in the park, so to speak... We drove in off the main road to where we had been directed for a leisurely stroll. The track rapidly became increasingly narrower and the limestone rock walls bordering each field, were in danger of imminently scraping the sides of the car. It was also becoming quickly apparent, the further we ventured, that before much longer at all, the track would simply become so narrow that there would be no way to turn around or even reverse. Before the adventure had even fully begun, it seemed doomed. We stopped. We parked. We set off. The track descended steeply; it was not at all what we had been led to believe from Catherine, who we had rented our house from and whose suggestion it had been. From the outset, the track seemed endless, and confusing in its apparent destination. I spied a length of abandoned blue twine and tied it round my waist. It was destined to be our marker to tie around trees and mark our return. As we plunged ever further down the steep sides of the towering deciduous forest, I took even more care with my Hansel and Gretel trail of blue twine. Before too much longer, as the summer heat wrapped itself around us in the ever-thickening stands of trees, I declared that there was no way I was going to complete the arduous intended round trip. No, John and Stuart, after fortifying themselves in Rocamadour, could trek back, get the car and then collect me. As we continued, we stumbled across several ancient crumbling water mills. The midst of nowhere, yet still the surprise of past relics. Several hours later, after what was proving to be an extremely strenuous hike rather than the intended pleasant forest stroll, it was clear no one would be completing the return trip. Perhaps there would be a bus from Rocamadour that would take us back to our starting point?
As we trudged endlessly through the thick forest, the tranquil sound of a stream lured us on. It was a perfect place to pause for petite déjeuner. Thankfully we had come prepared with tasty baguettes for our forest adventure. Far from anywhere, we perched gratefully on enormous boulders and let the tranquillity of the forest seep into us. It would seem the tranquillity and isolation were not quite what we thought though.
Apparently alone in our cathedral of trees, the serenity was harshly broken by the entirely unexpected appearance of three dirt bikes that roared along the narrow trail in a blaze of speed and dust.
One of the many attractions of the medieval town of Rocamadour is its stunning views over dramatic vertical cliffs. These cliffs are not quite as attractive when viewed from below and the only option is to scale them. We had all definitely had quite enough of the natural beauty of the Lot. There was no option but to catch the très cher petite tourist train to the top. This option did not mean however, that we were prepared to descend again and march back through the forest to retrieve the voiture. And of course, there was no bus service. And so we started walking in the blazing heat, along the main road, tourists streaming merrily past, oblivious to our interminable trek back. So, with the universally recognised symbol of an extended thumb, we tried to get a lift. At last, dressed in the readily recognised outfit of waiters the world over, a young student picked us up. Relief flooded through the three of us. However, our driver was perturbed and puzzled by our destination, in other words, not a destination at all... We tumbled out when we spotted the Roumégouse sign on the main road, for all we had to do now was trudge along the track and voila, the voiture would be waiting, to whisk us home. After a few minutes, we heard the roar of a car behind us. Although obviously already late and racing to get to work, our waiter who rescued us, was so concerned that he had literally dropped us in the middle of nowhere, that he had raced back to ensure that the three odd foreigners were actually where they wanted to be – that is, in the middle of nowhere. We assured him we were. With a final puzzled shake of his head, he raced back along the track, no doubt for an evening ahead full of shared bemusement at the antics of tourists.
I smile at the memories as we continue our drive to Villefranche. Petite hamlets are then strung out throughout the green folds of hills: Capendac, Faycelle and Cajarc and one of the names we love the most, Compolibat. The Lot river, sheer limestone cliffs and if it is early morning, the mist, all merge into one. Next are the small villages clustered on the approach to Figeac, each with a church spire that reaches up to the now blue sky and each unchanging for centuries in their quiet rural pace. The expansive views are ever-changing; depending on the season, the small medieval villages surrounded by plunging cliffs and steep wooded valleys. The fascinating medieval villages pass in a mere glimpse; time has not touched them for hundreds of years.
Then, there is the well-remembered sense of arrival in Villefranche at La Closerie; through the heavy wooden gates, along the gravel path bordered by profusely blooming roses, the long table with a heavy white linen tablecloth, set for sixteen and another table with an array of apéritif glasses. The scene is set in their pretty jardin for a magnificent party. We greet Erick, Stuart’s French rénovation counterpart, for they can both turn their hand to anything at all when it comes to renovating. Erick’s most recent renovation is the conversion of the old bath house that was used by travellers long ago, and is now a charming apartment.
We are introduced to some of the other guests, a number of who have come from Cannes in the south of France, where Brigitte and Erick are originally from. Everyone else at the party is French, so we feel even more special to have been invited to celebrate Brigitte’s birthday. We make our way up the stone stairs to wish Brigitte bon anniversaire.
She is surrounded by a cluster of her female friends in la cuisine. As one, the women all turn startled glances our way. Brigitte calls out frantically to us, ‘Non, non,’ and we are shooed away like chickens in the wrong farmyard. It is clearly evident that they are in the middle of frantic, last-minute amuse bouche preparations.
We make our way back to the garden where champagne and hors d’oeuvres are being served. Some women disappear to change into pretty party frocks. Liz and I have spent a long time deliberating about what may be appropriate to wear for such an occasion in France. I simply have no idea. The steps of Pied de la Croix were the scene of an impromptu fashion parade as I tried on a range of possible outfits to model for Liz, reclining in the front garden; somewhat different indeed to my usual dishevelled state at our petite maison. Even the house seemed to raise a wry eyebrow in astonishment to see me attired in clothes fit for a soiree. We may not be in Paris, but it would seem there was a reason after all for my unreasonable packing.
By ten however, there is a damp chill creeping across the garden from the Averyon which flows next to their chambre de hôte. The women collectively disappear again to grab wraps and change into warmer clothes. Sartorial elegance is abandoned for comfort.
Stuart and I have been placed at opposite ends of the table. He is surrounded by people engaged in a very fast-flowing, impassioned debate about politics and the recently elected new President, François Hollande. Despite Stuey’s infinitely better grasp of French and ability to usually follow and take part in conversations, he later tells me that he was completely lost in the rapid fire volley of political comments. While I still struggle, nevertheless later, I am able to exchange conspiratorial knowing looks with Kitty, across the table from me, about our no doubt rapidly expanding waistlines at the end of the rich gourmet dîner.
Dîner is served. The three-course meal is a tribute to Brigitte’s extraordinary culinary skills. I am absolutely sure that her restaurant in the south of France, would have had a loyal and devoted following of regular clientele. I know this from the very first exquisite mouthful. Around me is a collective sigh of appreciative murmurs. I eat as slowly as possible to make the entree last as long as possible. It is a sublime medley of light-as-air puff pastry with a layer of foie gras adorned with sweet, melting abricots that have been poached in butter and sugar. Silence reigns over
the table.
The men have gone upstairs to collect the entrees from Brigitte’s la cuisine. When we finish , the plates are all whisked away in a wide wicker basket, hauled upstairs on a pulley system that Erick has ingeniously devised. The women then trip upstairs in a clatter of high heels to gather the main course. If it is possible, the main course surpasses the entree. Slowly cooked aubergine with roasted tomate, frittata and rare roast beef, cooked to utter perfection, in a smooth, succulent sauce. The sauce is made from highly prized cepe, imbued with the dark, secret places of the woods surrounding Villefranche.
Only those who are passionate about mushroom gathering, know the secret caches of the forest and where to unearth them. French people guard their cepe secrets closely, for they are the jewel in the crown when cooking.
Dessert is truly the piece de résistance, a chocolat gâteau simply oozing with decadent richness. Again, a reverent hush falls over the long table. When every last luscious morsel has been devoured, there is a clamour of requests for the recipe. I glance around at the gathered amis whose friendships span decades. I notice how French women gracefully wear the lines upon their face like a badge of ageing beauty.
A mere ten minutes after everyone is utterly replete, and has been plying Brigitte with questions about her culinary secrets, there is a distinctive sound of fireworks exploding. We leave the table en masse to gather in groups next to the river. There is room for a few of us to crowd together on the terrace of the upstairs gîte. The bridge arching the Averyon is crowded with hundreds of people, who I am sure, have been waiting patiently for hours. For us, it simply unfolds in a seamless sequence from an exceptional dîner.
The fireworks last half an hour, huge explosions of colour that rush towards us in all their spectacular infusion of bright light and colour. A single white swan glides serenely back and forth across the river. It is the culmination of both Brigitte’s birthday and Bastille Day.
The frenzied motion of the fireworks sets the scene for champagne and dancing on the low wooden deck in le jardin. It is normally a place for quiet contemplation in the chaise longues lined up in a row. These are now hastily cast aside while Erick’s son, Maxim, plays music of our generation – the Rolling Stones and Bee Gees. The unseasonal coolness of the late evening does not dampen everyone’s high spirits.
There are protracted fond farewells in the morning and an invitation to stay in Cannes. Despite being the only foreigners, we have bridged the gap in a long-established circle of French amis and made to feel again that we are truly a part of our new French life.
When we head home, a line of Sunday traffic is stopped on the main road through the town. It is the strangest position for a restaurant I have ever seen. It is located on one side of the busy road and the tables and customers are on the other side. Surely it is the most dangerous job as a waiter in the world? We watch as one hurries across, tray perched precariously aloft. Each time he serves a new customer, he has to traverse the pedestrian crossing. Now there’s a waiter who certainly deserves his gratuity.
We arrive home in the late afternoon. Dominique and Gérard pause as they are driving past in their petite voiture to let us know they are on their way to an evening vide grenier. We are simply too weary to join them after the soiree that extended until the very chilly early hours of the morning. More ominously, Liz had told us that a ghastly smell has now developed behind the fire grate. We enter our petite maison in trepidation, to discover that the smell has pervaded our entire house. Once again, we decide there is simply nothing to be done and fervently hope that it will just disappear. Besides, we have our own private vide grenier to unpack, for as we were leaving, Erick plied us with gifts, including a one-hundred-year-old Singer sewing machine table, complete with the original Singer machine. He has also given us an ancient door knocker for Pied de la Croix and a heavy stone urn that I plan to plant bright red geraniums in. It is only much later when Gérard and Dominique drop in with a jar of confiture from our own plums, that they tell me what the urn is really for. It is intended to hold ashes. This is a detail that Stuart chose not to disclose. They add that they have found us a petite present that they will give us another time. We are surrounded by the riches of renewed summer French friendships.
35
Summer at Last
The weather in all its varying moods continues to dominate daily conversation. It is the most common thread that ties us all. We have been told in Villefranche and now again back in Cuzance, that yes, finally, tomorrow will be hot. The daily weather in Cuzance can change literally within the space of mere minutes. The clouds scud rapidly across the sky, then the sun bursts through in a blaze of late afternoon brilliance. Liz and I race outside to bask in it on our matching chaise longues. We know it will not last. Sure enough, we retreat rapidly as the wind whips up and the sky once again darkens. Brigitte had told me that on their wedding day in September – surely the height of summer – it had been twelve degrees. They had to abandon their jardin party and continue the celebrations in their maison. Yet, just two days later, the temperature rose to thirty.
Encroyable, as we would all say. However, I have also been told the heartening news that the day after Bastille Day, the temperature starts to soar and stays that way for a month, until the middle of August. Right on cue, to our enormous relief, this does indeed prove to be the case. Incredible indeed!
As summer starts in earnest so too do our rénovation plans. It is time to face the music.
It is Monday but fortunately not as in past years, a day to visit the Marie. Instead Liz and I head to Martel to shop while Stuart goes to Souillac to order paving, sand and concrete for la piscine. He returns very pleased with himself on two counts. Everything will be delivered early the following week and like he does the world over, he has bargained for a better price. Once again too, this was all in French at a local business where no one speaks English. Seriously, is there no end to his talents? The extent of my French is feeling confident enough to buy a baguette in la boulangerie.
Stuey celebrates, though not ‘officially’ opened, by having his first dip in la piscine.
All however, is not serene in Pied de la Croix. By now there are again more mouches in la maison than outside . We simply have no idea where the flies are now swarming in from. At Gérard and Dominique’s, their proximity to the local pig farm means they are perpetually engulfed by mouches. They are so invasive that they can’t even enjoy their evening apéritif in le jardin and take pleasure in their sweeping view of countryside and fields.
As the days start to offer a hint of summer promise, the boughs of the orchard trees are all fully bowing to the ground. We now have to pick endless buckets of fruit to save even more branches from simply snapping under the weight of the copious pears, plums and pomme. No wonder you never see prunier for sale in the markets. Everyone must have their own plum trees, or at least their neighbours or amis’ trees to make their summer confiture. It is a strange position to be in, such abundance, and the words that never cease to fill me with surprise, ‘our own orchard’. The mystery of how life unfolds is something I am always conscious of in my own little piece of France.
Our vacances is over, let the work begin. The sun shines without a single cloud in the sky to start the new week. It seems to be true what we have been told, that the day after Bastille Day, summer will start in earnest.
The last morning Liz and I have in Martel together is all that we hoped for and planned in our emails across the oceans. Sometimes as I log on in the evening at home, Liz and I find ourselves emailing each other at precisely the same time. Liz remarks that she often reflects on the fact that she is just about to have the day that I have just had on the other side of the world. I had never thought of it quite like that.
Off to Le Bureau de Poste at long last. How is it possible to have had postcards written for ten days and not had a chance to post them? We are not working after all, it seems inconceivable. Even I can’t account for it. What I do know, is that the hour
s in the day rush past at a frightening pace. The church bell strikes, must dash out and get fresh pain, I think, and then proceed to load another wheelbarrow of weeds. Lunchtime arrives; stale pain yet again, redeemed only somewhat by trying to transform it in the toaster. How does this keep happening in the land of magnificent boulangeries, is our constant refrain. We are on vacances after all. How would we ever explain this at home?
There is no possible answer.
Liz and I return after pain a chocolat and café at Mespoulet, to be briefed on Stuart’s expedition. Before heading back to Souillac, he tells us he dropped in to see Jean-Claude, who yet again swung into action. A call is made to a man who used to live in the village.
His job is to deliver gravel. He is nearby. Voila, Monsieur Moreau arrives within half an hour as promised, to give a quote. It is unheard of. An artisan never arrives when he says he will. In fact, sometimes they simply never arrive at all. It would seem that we will have gravel delivered by the end of the week. Before long at all, it is another word that I become only too familiar with: castine. Once again, I muse to myself, is ‘castine’ a word that one would usually encounter on vacances? Perhaps not...
As we later walk round our garden in the unexpected and welcome sun, the intermittent sun and rain has meant that the weeds and grass are yet again growing ferociously. I have completely transferred my interior renovating obsession to my sprawling jardin this year. The orchard trees too have come alive with burgeoning fruit, while the prunier trees are now breaking, they are so rich with fruit. Yet at least this year I can see the grass for the trees... so to speak.
We often find out critical information by sheer chance in random conversations.
We were sure that the people from Paris in the neighbouring maison would simply have a local farmer in to cut the waist-high grass before their annual return. We thought that it would be an equally simple arrangement to have our grass also cut by a farmer and his tractor. After all, we are not aiming for a cultivated garden and have accepted that it will be rustique for ever after. It will be easy, efficient and cheap. Our costs are certainly something that need to be reined in. It is something we were very, very close to organising. It definitely made sense to us.