Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Page 15
The truck is massive. After considerable manoeuvring, it literally just manages to squeeze in past our two stone pillars. I then clutch the purple hibiscus near the pillars, close to my chest to protect it, as the truck lumbers past, down the stretch of grass that leads to the orchard. Stuart races along next to the truck to direct it. The placement of the gravel is critical. We have to move all twenty-five tonnes of gravel by wheelbarrow and then spread it out around la piscine. A few feet in the wrong direction will make all the difference in the world to the number of loads we have to move. There is a heart-stopping moment when the truck tentatively approaches the far side of the pool, the one with the slope that dips towards the edge of it. My heart is in my mouth. It seems an inevitable collision course is unavoidable; gravity alone can surely not prevent the truck tipping on its side and losing its load straight into la piscine, with the truck tumbling after it . This is a moment I cannot capture on my camera. Truth be told, I can barely even watch.
Next, there is an enormous roar as the tilt tray swings up and a colossal mound of gravel flies out in a mountainous pile at the rear of la grange. There is a choking cloud of white gravel dust. The dust flies in billowing plumes across the garden. This performance is repeated half an hour later. One truck load wasn’t enough for the mammoth task that awaits us. It now resembles an instant quarry site next to la piscine. I look at the mountains of gravel and feel utterly daunted. Stuart looks at the mountains of gravel and feels the exhilaration of an exciting new challenge. And therein, the difference lies.
And so, as the burning sun spills over the pool, we move wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow, ad infinitum. We work into the late evening, day after day. We rise early to start before the heat saps our strength. The sight of castine, the thought of it, discussing the width and length of where to place it round the pool; is the sole focus of our life. It would seem that the old days of relentless renovating toil are certainly back. Did I miss them? I think not.
Yes, back with a vengeance. For more days than I care to remember, we fall out of bed, and resume moving the piles of gravel that seem to barely diminish in size. The sheer size of the gravel pile is overwhelming. If I let myself think about it too carefully, I will simply not be able to go on. Just the mere thought of the magnitude of our task is exhausting in itself. So, I don’t allow myself to think about it. I pick up the shovel, throw a pile in the wheelbarrow, and repeat the action, again and again.
We’ve been told that a heatwave is about to hit the south of France. The perfect definition of irony. A pool that we can’t even use. It’s like being in a desert with a mirage of water. We work from sun up to sun down. There is simply no respite. Now, just like the last two years of renovation in our petite maison, we also need to finish painting the spare chambre as well as Lydia and Erick are due to arrive – now in just one day. And this is a holiday, is the one constant thought that reverberates through my mind that is as numb as my work-weary, aching limbs. What we seem to have also overlooked in the frantic flurry of work, is that the paint fumes will still be lingering in the spare room.
Why does this always seem to happen when friends are due to stay?
By now, the summer sun scorches like a searing Australian summer. The masses of bright, white castine are blinding in the sharp, bright light. The walnut tree beckons, but it is not possible to retreat to its enticing shade. Instead, Stuart’s excitement is complete to have two deliveries two days in a row. This is his idea of nirvana. Once again, it is not quite mine. Another massive truck manoeuvres gingerly through our precious stone pillars. It too misses them by a mere fraction. This one carries a cargo of Bavarian stone, crazy paving that will in the end drive us crazy with frustration. It is no coincidence that it is so named. The truck is also bearing bags of cement and another mountain to be painstakingly moved; this time one of sand. The truck has a hydraulic system that, despite its precarious consignment, levers the six pallets in six fluid movements.
As the heat soars, we start to get up at five – though it still only gives us a few hours before the sizzling sun forces us to seek sanctuary in the coolness of the house. And there, we do not rest. No, instead we paint. When we eventually return outside, raking the gravel does not quite have the Zen quality of meditatively raking smooth white pebbles in a Japanese garden.
Huge truck delivers sand and cement.
47
Tourist Season – Not on Our Agenda
By the end of July, the tourist season is in full swing. In Martel, there is a discernible difference. There are both French tourists and visitors from a spectrum of other countries. If we get to the markets late after working, it is shoulder to shoulder at the stalls. At our favourite stall for aubergine, courgette and tomates, the middle-aged jolly couple now have their son working with them. He serves me – and despite the long queue and frenetic pace, Madame still has a moment to extend a warm ‘Bonjour’ to me.
It is moments like these that I feel I belong. Later in our personal renovation season, Stuart is simply working too hard laying the paving to even come to the markets with me. It simply doesn’t seem right that he has to miss sharing one of our favourite things to do while we are living our other life. It is times like these that I yet again have occasion to wonder, are we doing the right thing? My doubts crowd in and cloud my grand, glorious visions.
The tourist season means too that my longed-for weekend in Lyon with Françoise is postponed until the following year. Bénédicte, their youngest daughter, points out that all the shops will be shut for the hottest month of summer, when virtually all of France goes on vacances. As shopping was high on our agenda of planned activities, there seems little point in going. I am bitterly disappointed. How I longed for a break and the sights of Lyon, for the sight of castine is one I never want to see again . Once again too, I also muse about how everyone at home simply thinks we are having an absolutely marvellous holiday in France at our own little house. well, parts of it certainly are but I’m not sure what fraction of the whole constitutes a vacances in anyone’s mind.
Gérard and Dominique are about to leave for la plage for a month. To say I am envious at the thought of relaxing at the beach for a month is the understatement of the year. How I long to run away and join them. We are invited to a farewell dîner. Last year when we joined them for an evening meal in their home, it was always a very formal affair. Apéritifs were served in their salon and the amuse bouche were always laid out ready on arrival. Unlike when we invite our amis for the apéritif hour, there was no casual sitting outside sipping our drinks and enjoying appetising snacks. Instead, there was always a formal sense of ritual and occasion, in what seems to us to be the rather formal French way.
We are touched and delighted upon arrival – always sure to be precisely punctual, as the church bell strikes the hour, for this too is part of the protocol – to be told that this time it will be a family dîner. Once again, all the rules we have read about the formality of the French and the virtual impossibility of being accepted into their friendship circle, are broken. After apéritifs, Gérard serves our favourite meal of canard in their cosy cuisine. Just like Stuart, he too is the family chef . We bid fond farewells and make plans for l’année prochaine. Making such friends in such a short time is something we never expected, let alone amis to make plans with for the following year. Suddenly, life seems ever so much brighter. The castine pile will diminish with time; we will make time to spend under the walnut tree and we will be able to one day soon revel in the luxury of our piscine.
The following week passes in a haze of heat. My mind drifts to Dominique, soon to be relaxing at la plage. Now the alarm is not only set for vide grenier days. We are simply so exhausted we can no longer rely on waking early to set to work. And so, we set the alarm for every single day. Castine waits for no man, or indeed, woman. The sun has become so fierce and intense, that by now we are forced to stop by nine thirty every morning. On a normal vacances, this is the sort of time most people would
wander out to start their day. Yet nothing is ever what I would deem to be normal about our days in Cuzance. In just four days, we have trundled countless wheelbarrow loads of castine and raked and raked it out over the rough ground to form a smooth base for the paving. Singlehanded, I have also unloaded three enormous crates of jagged-edged crazy paving. Each piece is tremendously heavy, especially as I reach the bottom of each pallet. Once again, I lift and stretch and heave and lug. The only way I can manage to manoeuvre each piece of heavy stone is to balance each one on my leg as I unpack it from the crate before I lay each one out on the grass around la piscine. It will be Stuart’s job to then choose each piece to assemble our giant-size, outside jigsaw puzzle.
It becomes more and more difficult to balance each paving stone on my leg as I haul them out the crate. This becomes harder and harder the more I unpack and the lower the level gets in the crate. Balancing crazy paving against your leg is not to be recommended. They slip out of your grasp as you struggle with the sheer size and weight.
I have the corresponding, jagged-edged scars on my legs as an indelible reminder of my latest French summer.
The relentless pace is broken by the arrival of our Belgian amis. They arrive just in time too, before my spirits are broken – not to mention my back. Once again, I wonder how I possibly manage the unrelenting physical work. For two days as the heat hovers at forty, we picnic on the banks of the Dordogne and relax in the shade of the pine trees that border its edge. The distinctive towering limestone cliffs form an impressive backdrop to the smoothly gliding river, full of holiday makers kayaking. To my delight, there are groups of children kayaking, adorned with colourful Indian feather headdresses. The afternoons are spent luxuriating at Jean-Claude and Françoise’s la piscine; a special place in the world for me; a place where the beauty and tranquility never cease to seep into me. After a month, our stolen picnic days seem less normal than our renovation routine.
Eleni at sixteen, is poised on the page that is turning from late adolescence to blossom into a stunning young woman. One moment, shy and awkward, the next, glimmers of future sophistication. First-year-at-university Jorn is serious and reserved.
He quietly watches and listens to everything. I catch expressions on his face that reveal how he truly thinks; that we are amusing simply for the very fact that we are Australian.
He is clearly bemused by the fact that we have chosen to renovate on the other side of the world in just a few short weeks every year. Like us, Lydia and Erick have wandered reluctantly into middle age. The bond of long-ago days, travelling together in Turkey, binds us all tightly together.
We eat late dîners at Pied de la Croix, the six of us gathered in le jardin under the lowering shadows. The sun slowly sinks in a blaze on the horizon and then a quarter slice of moon hangs in the clear country sky behind the pine trees.
On our last evening with Lydia and Erick, we eat our final dîner with them, a baked salmon that they have prepared for us all. We sit outside relaxing with our apéritifs and are waited on by Jorn and Eleni; it is like being in our own jardin restaurant. Just as we savour our last delicious mouthful, a storm rolls in – the thunder roars ceremoniously and the rain pours in heavy sheets. We frantically grab everything from the table and race inside for dessert. The freshness of the air is like the sweetest perfume imaginable.
The scorched, baked earth exudes an invigorating freshness. We scoop up morsels of chocolat mousse and watch the transformation of our little world. The smell flows in through the open windows. It is a smell that is like no other and one that city life never yields. It is a heady combination of dry earth that is rapidly revived, overlaid with the pungency of freshly mown hay, an undertone of farm yard manure and freshly awakened dry, crackling leaves that unfurl with new life.
Group meeting to discuss kayaking.
48
Castine Days Continue
Despite friends staying, the castine still calls to me. I wake early and creep out of the slumbering house. The metallic tines of the rake, ting, ting, ting against the gravel. I develop a slow, steady rhythm. Rake the gravel out smoothly three times, lift the rake, repeat the process – over and over. The rain that has tumbled down overnight, as if on cue, has tamped down the gravel for us. It is perfect preparation for hiring a compacter.
Hiring a compacter is yet another French exercise that proves to be both fascinating and frustrating; not in equal parts however. The frustration factor far outweighs the fascination of hiring equipment in a foreign land. Stuart sets off to Souillac on Saturday morning as soon as our friends leave on the long trip home to Belgium. He is headed for the machinery hire business that Jean-Claude has found for him in the local phone book. It is closed. An old woman pops out from the house next door just as he is leaving.
She indicates to Stuart that there is a phone number on the shop window and after discovering that he is not French, goes back inside to ring the owner for him. Voila – all is arranged for the hire the following week. He returns home, we resume work.
While clearing the land – jardin still remaining very much a euphemistic word – we decide that, just like people, there are good weeds and bad weeds. The tall fronds of delicate Queen Anne’s lace add a meadow-like touch yet the brambles spread their tentacles ever further. They mock us and tear ferociously at our clothes and skin as we hack and attack.
Just after Lydia and Erick leave, the week-long fever pitch starts in readiness for our very own vide grenier. We have flown home before it the previous two years so we are elated to be here this year to take part in it. Every commune takes great pride in showcasing its villages in their annual market glory and all the associated events.
Just like in previous years, a tractor appears with three men on its tip-tray to attach a banner of fluttering flags to the roof of our petite maison. The other end is tied to a large prunier tree in le jardin across the road. Throughout the following week, the commune van makes its rounds each early evening, the megaphone loudly announcing the forthcoming festivities. In the afternoon, Paulette from the Hotel Arnal, makes a point of dropping in with two notices about village celebrations. I can translate some of it, such as the Friday night disco, but I need Stuart to also interpret what else we can possibly attend. I understand enough to know that I will certainly not be going to the disco.
When Jean-Claude visits later with Henriette, on one of his many daily promenades through the village with her, he tells us that we missed the vide grenier at Strenquels as it was on today, Saturday, not Sunday as we had thought. I literally stamp my foot in petulant annoyance. Perhaps the presence of two teenagers for several days in our petite maison has affected my behaviour. Jean-Claude finds my outrage so entertaining that he asks me to repeat my childish performance. Like a teenager, I refuse. We are dismayed that we confused the dates, for after all, our vide grenier outings are the jewel in the crown of our weeks. He leaves, still laughing about my amusing antics.
Next to drop in, just before their departure for their la plage vacances, is Gérard and Dominique. We show them the Cuzance pamphlets for a more accurate insight in to the village activities. One offers the opportunity to learn dry stone walling. I ask Stuart if he interested in learning this traditional skill. He gives me a look that succeeds in fully conveying he thinks I am quite simply mad. While words are not needed to elaborate upon his expression, to ensure that I fully grasp the foolishness of my suggestion, he points out that he actually has quite enough dry stone walling of his own to do, or words to that effect. The other notice is a free reading about the history of the omelette and famous black truffles of le Lot. How fascinating we think. Who knew that omelettes even had a history? Dominique tells us however, that even she would not be able to fully understand the talk as the regional patois would be so thick. It says, in part: Nous vous conterons l’histoire de l’omelette et celle des origins du diamante noir. I do know that this will also be an account of the famous black truffles for which our region is renown.
O
nce again, I wish Henriette would unearth some of this black gold, as it is known, on one of her visits. That would ensure the transformation of la grange.
Talk of truffles leads to two other stories. The first Gérard shares with us is the annual Cuzance grand dîner, held every November in a marquee. Five hundred people attend from the commune for the event is famous both for its truffles and value. Truffles are served with every course, even dessert, and there is endless champagne. The cost is only fifty euro a head. While this is expensive for many villagers and local farmers, he explains that elsewhere it would cost five hundred euro, a truly staggering amount of money. At the dîner just the year before, the soon-to-be President of France even attended as he was originally from the region. To think that our simple little rural village was graced by François Hollande. It is yet another insight that we would simply never have discovered without the stories shared by our French amis.
This is followed by another truffle tale, an exceptionally magnifique dîner at the restaurant of the famous chef, Alain Ducasse, in Provence. It is a restaurant that is so famous and exclusive that guests even fly in by helicopter simply to spend an evening dining there in sublime luxury. Gérard was invited there on one memorable occasion by his uncle. However, at the end of the exquisite meal, it is Gérard who is chosen to have l’addition presented to him. He tells us that he nearly choked with shock. The bill was , très, très cher. The cost was seven hundred euro for each person – and there were ten seated around the exclusive table. Fortunately for Gérard there had been an error in giving him l’addition. His rich uncle paid for everyone. Ooh, la la, we all think.