Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Read online

  The cistern wall has been concreted over at some point and there is a huge pile of concrete debris. I fill pail after pail, the clouds of concrete dust, swirling and choking.

  However, despite scrabbling in the dirt and weeds and concrete, the source of my in-fill makes me ecstatic. I consciously realise how quickly the focus of my world has changed.

  We have indeed gone fully ‘off the grid’ as Stuart has declared to people he is doing when he heads to France. However, we discover that our rural backwater is now colliding with the twenty-first century when we find out that the Hotel Arnal now has wifi connection.

  It is an incongruous sight when I walk past one day and see foreigners connected to the world on their laptops. It remains a world that we avoid as much as possible. Every now and then, I pause in my labouring, to peep in at the soft bundle of French kittens.

  It’s been a whole year since I worked so vigorously and relentlessly. It soon comes back to me however... I have resorted to lying fully stretched out in the dirt next to la piscine, to carefully place the larger rocks along the wall of the pool. I then scoop in buckets full of small stones. The hard work balances the daily delights of abricot hibou and pain au chocolate. I work as if I am human digger. I scrape and dig and lay and shovel.

  The wood pigeons, perched high on la grange roof, peer at me in puzzlement. Their soft cooing seems to be a murmuring background of incredulity at my strange actions.

  Stuart has set off after déjeuner to the bricolage to buy a cement mixer. This is exactly the sort of purchase that is on everyone’s list when they go on vacances. Across the now silent jardin, I hear the unusual sound of Monsieur Chanteur’s raised voice. I can make out the words, ‘Je t’aime, je t’aime.’ These are words the whole world knows. His tone is both anguished and passionate as he declares his love for his wife. From glancing across at them daily as they move ever so slowly from their maison to le jardin for their meals, I know it is his sheer strength of will and enduring love that is keeping his wife alive.

  As they make their way at the pace of an escargot to their table under the walnut tree, Monsieur Chanteur firmly grips his wife’s elbow to support her faltering steps. Even from afar, I can see his loving grasp is far firmer than last year. Madame Chanteur may be fading before our very eyes but their enduring love is clearly not.

  In my musings about his fervent declaration, I decide that over déjeuner, perhaps Madame Chanteur has declared that it is simply too much for her equally elderly husband to continue to care for her in his steadfast way. His declaration that carries across the jardin is a cry of protest. I have always known that he will walk by her side with utter devotion until the very end. An end I fear is near.

  As I wait for Stuart’s return with our shiny red cement mixer, I consult the dictionary to compose several sentences that I certainly never expected to have to use. I carefully check my construction with Dominique when they drop in. Very fortunately, their visit coincides with Stuart’s triumphant return, our petite Renault Scenic staggering under the weight of our mixer. I too would have been staggering if Gérard was not on hand to help haul it out. We are all astonished at what our voiture can manage to squeeze in. We all duly admire the cement mixer before I ask Dominique if I have the correct words for our new French family of a cat and four kittens in our grange.

  I then leave on my French kitten quest through the village, clutching my piece of paper with the vital words. Marinette is sitting with a group of amis in her front jardin.

  She calls out, ‘Bon promenade?’

  Always conscious of protocol, and knowing my questions are highly unusual, I politely respond, ‘Bonjour, non, non. Ca va?’, ‘Hello. No, I am not promenading. How are you?’ before I launch into my ‘Do you own a black cat? Do you know anyone in the village who does? If so, it has had four kittens in our barn.’ Just to be quite sure that everyone grasps exactly what it is I’m saying, I also hand over my note that Dominique has written for me. Bonjour, avez-vous une chat noir? And so the note continues, explaining my French kitten dilemma. It does not change the outcome in the slightest.

  Accompanied by many gestures as usual, I make sure that the piece of paper with my carefully constructed sentences, is handed round to everyone present in my attempt to explain the reason behind my walk. I am fervent and anxious. I simply cannot leave a black cat and four French kittens to fend for themselves when we leave. Their response is to collectively laugh heartily. Quite clearly, I am the highlight of their afternoon.

  My quest includes visiting the maison in the lane behind our grange. I have at times seen le chat disappear through our orchard, headed in this direction, so I have high hopes that the cat and kittens belong very nearby. I cautiously unlatch the gate, very conscious that there is a sign attached: ‘Attention chien’. This is something I clearly understand; to be on alert, that there is a dog present. Engulfed by fear that I am going to be savaged by a dog – while trying to save my French kittens – I tentatively creep up the gravel path and knock hesitantly on the door. Indeed, there is frantic barking, but to my enormous relief, it is a jumping bundle of white fur that greets me rather than the savage barking bonjour I am dreading. My relief is not matched by the fact that my neighbour has no knowledge of le chat; it is certainly not his and he has no desire to adopt my four French kittens.

  What happens next when I continue through the village, stumbling through my several straightforward sentences? Everyone else I encounter simply laughs too, just like Marinette and her amis. Yes, they all know the noir chat; yes, they are very familiar with its promenades through Cuzance, but no, nobody owns it. Everyone seems to have the same suggestion. While my French is very limited to say the least, there is no mistaking the general consensus. Asphyxiate le chats. I convey the full extent of my horror at the thought.

  My last stop is at the Hotel Arnal where there is quite a gathering for the apéritif hour. I repeat my routine and entreaty. While the people in the village collectively already think we are quite mad for our endeavours – to come from the other side of the world and rénover on vacances – my request simply cements in their minds their opinions of our foolishness. Yet I continue, imploring everyone to ask their friends and neighbours if they will adopt our kittens. Despite the laughter at my expense, I end with what I am sure will be a seductive selling point. I conclude persuasively by reminding everyone that cats are excellent for mice in the country.

  I return and sink disconsolately on to our très jollie front steps. I gather my thoughts about our French kitten quandary. Gérard and Dominique return for an apéritif and even they cannot quite understand my sense of responsibility for the cats. They are leaving soon for la plage and we are invited to a farewell dîner. Thoughts of them relaxing at the beach do not lift my spirits. Not only will I be working relentlessly in the summer heat, I now have an unresolved dilemma. What I do know is that it is out of the question to smuggle four French kittens home.

  Talk turns to lighter matters. French people love talking about food; cuisine underpins their very existence; buying it, preparing it, eating it. We have bought a can of Confit de Canard in the supermarché yet we are not clear at all about how to cook duck that comes preserved in a can. I go inside to get both the can and a frying pan for an impromptu ‘cooking’ demonstration on our little porch. We want to be quite sure about the instructions for creating an authentic French meal in our own cuisine. Gérard explains that you drain all the confit to roast your potatoes in the duck fat. I’d forgotten that detail from when we had dîner with them last year and now the memory of their crisp, delicious flavour, floats back into my tastebuds. I am looking forward immensely to this meal of our region.

  The chat saga does not disappear however. In the following weeks, every time Jean-Claude encounters Monsieur Arnal outside his hotel, he gleefully enquires whether I have yet succumbed to smothering my French kittens. On my behalf, Jean-Claude indignantly reiterates each time, ‘Non, non!’ Long live le chat I think each time he repeat
s his tale to me.

  41

  Le Tour De France

  On the morning of our much-anticipated outing to watch the Tour de France in the nearby town of Souillac, I vigorously resist venturing out to la grange to check the kittens; they are not mine after all. It has not made matters any better though when over dîner the previous night, Stuart glanced out the window and remarked that ‘our cat’ was walking down the road to the village. ‘Non, non,’ I protest. ‘It is not our le chat.’

  The Tour de France is going to pass just three kilometres away from Cuzance in the nearby village of Cressensac. There has been much discussion and speculation for weeks with our friends about the best vantage point. Stuart has long had his strategy worked out. He’s determined to go to Souillac to see the cyclists tackle the steep hill just over the Dordogne. While Cressensac is very close, it is flat and they will simply pass by without the challenge end exertion of a vertical climb. He has even worked out precisely where to park, at Point P, Materiaux de Construction – a place he is very familiar with from ordering our sand and gravel. It is on the outskirts, will not be crowded and we should easily find a place to park. When Dominique and Gérard give us a copy of the local paper, La Dépêche, it is exactly the place that is suggested for locals to park. Our strategy and time to leave is further revised when Jean-Claude tells us that the main roads into Souillac will be closed from 9.30 am. He advises us to go on the back roads that only locals know, a circuitous route that goes through the hamlet with the delightful name, Le Pigeon.

  Day after day, the sun plays hide-and-seek with the clouds. On the Tour de France day, we are very lucky – it is not wet nor too cold or hot. The weather gods are on our side. We park on the outskirts of Souillac an hour before the tour whizzes through. As we walk from near the ancient, soaring stone viaduct, to find a viewing position, an efficient, alert gendarme enquires where we parked. I am able to reply ‘Derriere, du pont,’ – ‘Behind the viaduct.’ So simple, yet I am so pleased with myself to be able to tell him.

  With a throng of other followers of le Tour, we walk to the edge of the town centre. Our plan is to walk up the steep hill near a roundabout at the end of the main street, so we can see the cyclists pick up speed and swish up the incline. As we near the roundabout, there are thick crowds already lining each side of the hill. Clearly, many have been there for hours, judging by the way they are set up with their folding chairs and picnic hampers. It is then we spot the perfect vantage point, a curved, arching wall that runs parallel to the hill. Behind it is a narrow road, lined with houses. Astonishingly, given the ideal view it offers, there are still spaces left. It is a superb spot, for you can see right along the main boulevard of Souillac where the cyclists will first appear, before ascending the hill right in front of us.

  We don’t have long to wait at all before the hour-long caravane starts. This is a feature of the Tour that is not shown at home but we had been told about it by our friends and seen the caravane the previous year when we watched le Tour in Figeac. It is a lively procession of advertising floats that builds up an atmosphere of anticipation. The floats blare loud, catchy music and energetic young dancers perform enthusiastically on the back of them. The atmosphere builds quickly. There are cars and vans and open-back trucks, advertising Carrefour, Vital and other big French brands. Sweets, key rings, caps and journals are tossed to the exuberant crowd.

  It is then the helicopters hover into sight. You know that soon the cyclists will appear along the Boulevard Louis Jean Malvy, the main street of Souillac, adorned in their bright jerseys. The floating helicopters move closer and lower. The anticipation builds in equal proportions to the incessant whir of the whizzing helicopter blades. The nearby bystanders tell us that the first cyclists will appear in two minutes. By now, there are six hovering helicopters. I jump up and down and vigorously wave my arms. I have worn the brightest dress in my wardrobe in my attempt to stand out in the sea of people.

  I want to be spotted and seen by everyone at home who are avidly following the Tour de France.

  Before the cyclists shoot through Souillac, a cavalcade of gendarme, motorbikes and dark-coloured cars with deeply tinted windows appear. At the roundabout, on the pavement opposite us, there is also a significant cluster of gendarme, their swaggering sense of importance, plainly discernible. Clearly there is someone très important in the cavalcade. Then, only one hundred metres away, a swelling murmur of excitement in the crowd indicates that it is the nouveau President of France, François Hollande. We are told that he was born in Tuille, where the Tour will stop overnight before its final triumphant ride into Paris. There has been no mention of the President’s appearance in any journal. It has been a closely guarded secret and is a surprise to all present. As we are so close when he steps out onto the sun-warmed pavement, vigilantly surrounded by a posse of black-suited, burly bodyguards, and the first cyclists appear in a blur of motion, I wonder if we will be pinpointed by a helicopter and beamed across the world.

  Dominique and Gérard visit us after our exciting afternoon with an apéritif invitation and just before we head out again, Jean-Claude also visits to tell us that Henriette has just seen her first Tour de France. It certainly is a dog’s life.

  Life in Cuzance is a non-stop social whirl. In three weeks, we can count on less than one hand, the nights not shared with friends over endless apéritifs and dîners. Such constant soirées could not possibly be sustained at home while we work – and yes, also renovate. Is there no end to our renovating across the continents and oceans? In France, it’s quite a challenge to find the time to do all that we want to do; visits to new places, vide greniers and brocantes, precious time with amis, and all the work that simply must still be done. It is just as well the daylight hours seem to stretch to infinity.

  42

  Two Trees and a Cupboard

  When we return to our other life, Jean-Claude and Françoise remain a constant presence.

  There is simply no end to their continuous kindness. Our petite maison remains in the care of their loving hands. Emails wing their way across the miles bringing joyous news. The day before our twentieth anniversary, my Inbox announces ‘Furniture’. In my Monday morning bleary-eyed state before work, I think that like last year, some friends of theirs have some furniture for sale and he is kindly letting me know what is available.

  No, it is far better than I could have anticipated. They have been involved from afar on a quest for us. The measurements have been provided and the cost determined – a different price from both of us; of course, mine has been higher than Stuart’s and of course they both know that mine will prevail. They have found our longed-for cupboard!

  YES! SENSATIONAL! We found in Sarlat the piece of furniture you wanted! It is awaiting you in the sitting-room of la petite maison and will fit quite properly the place you meant it for! It is made of cherry-wood, with a glass front and a drawer; it is certainly not one metre deep but will accommodate plenty of articles and books – and it cost 180 Euros (we had a rebate from 200); sorry, there’s no bill since I paid cash in banknotes; sorry we can’t send you a photo since both our cameras are out of order. In the same stand, Françoise found her Noël present – a Moustiers fountain.

  It was the most challenging of quests. The armoire is to fit in the corner next to the fireplace in the salon. Its measurements are very precise for there is a cupboard attached to the wall above. The cupboard on the wall is hand-painted with bucolic scenes. The paint has been so thickly applied that it is impossible to open. I always contemplate it as a source of potential treasure. Within just a few months of our return, they have been successful where we failed. I am quite sure too that they have visited far more brocantes and vide greniers than they usually would, especially in such a short space of time.

  Then there is more exciting news.

  Yesterday afternoon I bought your two mûrier-platanes and planted them, and watered them thanks to Mr Chanteur’s watering-cans and pond (he had left them for my use
since he had sown grass by his pond; when I bought them they advised me to buy buttressing equipment (sorry I don’t know how to say ‘tuteur’ in English) so that the wind should not fell them. Also, as I had told you earlier, I bought two bags of earth for the one tree that is in the rock by the pool; so that the bill is steeper than you expected (of course I will leave the detailed shop’s bill in la petite maison).

  While we were delivering your furniture, Françoise saw that your bedroom shutters were not tightly closed so we went in again to close them. The wind is still blowing so that, in spite of the buttresses, the mûrier-platanes tend to lean into the wind – I am trying another way of buttressing them.

  And so, through our email exchanges, Cuzance is always close.

  43

  Trois Vide Grenier

  We eat dîner at a seasonably yet unreasonably late hour. It is often so late that I simply fall into bed straight after eating. Despite how much we always seem to fit into every single day, the days still slip away like sand running through your fingers. The church bell tolls, the day moves on.

  There are two days in a row when we wake with a palpable frisson of excitement.

  A weekend that holds trois vide greniers. It is unheard of to have three treasure quests within the space of a single weekend. All is carefully plotted and planned. Thanks to Gérard and Dominique, who always read the local Lot journal, La Dépêche, we have been told that there are several not listed in our Tourisme Bureau guide: Theminettes, Saint-Felix and Betaille.