Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Read online

  49

  The Spirit of Cuzance

  We love the sense of community spirit in Cuzance. It is both a celebration of life in the village today and an honouring of days long ago. Loud music emanates every now and then to remind the village of our much-anticipated vide grenier. The festivities cater for everyone of every age and we discover too that the commune of Cuzance gathers in the outlying scattered hamlets of Baladou, Rignac and Lagarrigue.

  On the Sunday afternoon in the lead-up week to the most significant event in Cuzance’s annual calendar, a group of lycée students visit every maison. They are all wearing white T-shirts with j’aime Cuzance emblazoned in red. The attractive, lively students are selling Tombola tickets for two euro each. The first prize is: ‘1 Voyage de 4 jours pour de personnes de Espagne’. How exciting. Even I know that it means a trip for two to Spain for four days. The second prize is: ‘2 assiettes gourmande a la ferme de la Truffe’. Once again I am pleased that I know exactly what the prize is, a dinner for two at the local gourmet farm restaurant that specialises in truffles. No one we know has ever been there for it is far too très cher.

  When we buy our tickets, we are also given a bright pink brochure – Cuzance Fete Votive 2012. The weekend will be truly celebrated in style. Friday night starts with a Soiree – entree gratuite – a Rock Festival, followed by concourse de Petanque – a game of boules on Saturday afternoon with a Bal Disco Vinyl in the evening . Sunday of course is the culmination of the commune celebrations, with the finale on Sunday afternoon of a traditional dance display . The vide grenier is also a Marche de produits regionaux, so there will be local produce for sale . Déjeuner will be available and served in Marinette’s walnut orchard. Truly, a weekend to look forward to.

  Sunday afternoons are meant to be sacred. We have made a vow not to work, to enjoy a time of leisure like the rest of France. As I head to the walnut tree after déjeuner, book in hand, Stuart has not been able to resist the lure of la grange. It is his idea of an afternoon’s recreation. I pause as I pass by, hesitate; torn by my desire to relax under my beloved tree and the desire to join in – sorting, cleaning, tidying; paring away the debris to discover the bones beneath. It is not a long battle. The lure of la grange wins.

  We work side by side for a full afternoon. I replace raking castine with raking old, dry cow manure and the flotsam and jetsam of a working barn. We ferry out wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of dirt, manure and rubbish . We sort through the discarded farm implements, deciding what is treasure we will keep and what we will discard. Part of an old bellows and a large rectangular sieve for sifting grain are prized finds to be displayed on the walls, in the far-distant, future life of la grange. We unearth more enormous flagstones that one day will have to be carefully dug up and moved to the spacious, grand entrance. The dreams are taking shape.

  We stretch and reach ever higher with our discarded barn brooms to bring down skeins of ancient cobwebs. The more we work, the more la grange yields in return. While cavernous, it is not a void. The space lends itself precisely to the placement of the rooms we imagine creating in the future. While enormous, it is not a cold, damp space. Just like restoring our petite maison, it too exudes a sense of warmth and lives happily lived in the past. There is an old wooden hook on the wall, smooth with age, that seems as if once long ago, a farmer’s battered chapeau would have hung upon it. He would have placed his hat there as he bent to stoop over his twice-daily task of milking his cows. The straw is still strewn on the floor and in the cow mangers, and the ancient ghost of Monsieur de la Croix is a lingering, warm presence.

  Most exciting to me of all our activities, is whisking the broom over the limestone wash on the walls and beams. As I sweep the broom rhythmically backwards and forwards, it crumbles and flakes, revealing a silky smooth finish. Once again I muse that the faded white wash is every designer’s dream. It has a practical not decorative purpose however, in la grange, for it was used to repel les mouches. This makes perfect sense in a barn that was once used to milk cows.

  It seems that like most of our other major life decisions, the conversion of la grange will be a fait accompli. Everything huge that we ever undertake seems to take on a life of its own. Our first significant car after a few years of marriage was meant to be on our dream list for a very long time. There are not many people I know who go to the fruit markets to buy bird seed for the parrots in their garden and return home with a classic (read old) BMW. And so it is that the decision to one day convert our barn seems to have been made when Stuart announces one morning, after inspecting his castine, that our new la cuisine in la grange will one day have a wonderful view of la piscine and the orchard. It will indeed be the piece de résistance of all our renovation years. Meanwhile, the hard work does not seem to be yielding the same results as in past renovating efforts, to balance the consumption of pain, rich chocolat mousse and delectable pastries.

  50

  Castine Consumes our Days

  The weeks start to fly in a haze of heat and hard work, broken by languorous moments in le jardin. The punishing hours of working in the pervasive heat are punctuated by café breaks and a daily parade of pastries. When the heat wave of late July passes, the summer light softens in the early evening and dances in gentle waves across the grass in the orchard. The tap, tap, tap of a woodpecker, impossible to glimpse, joins the chorus of the donkey braying in a nearby field.

  In the large jardin opposite, where a young boy has played alone for weeks with his border collie, a young girl joins him for the summer vacances. They clamber up the prunier tree, wheel recklessly along the lanes on their bikes and race in a happy-go-lucky way across the land. Her plaits fly out behind her as they live a summer childhood of carefree abandon.

  Most villages too have at least one eccentric old woman and Jean-Claude tells us about ours in Cuzance. She has been caught in the night stealing people’s pots of vivid geraniums. Gérard and Dominique have the misfortune to live opposite her and her wild, barking chien. Whenever we visit, she peers out from behind her tall, straggling hedge. She spies furtively on all their comings and goings. Even from where we live, we hear her loud calls frequently echo through the village. Jean-Claude embellishes on the story in an email when we return home.

  To bring water to your mill, I shall tell you about the story (or the part I know) of Thérèse Delpech who lives in front of the Murats. Once there was a problem with flower pots and I learnt through Mme Dal that Thérèse stole her flower pots and had been caught red-handed in the dead of night by a farmer who complained to Jean-Luc, the mayor, who in turn summoned Thérèse to the Mairie... and the following night, the geranium pots were back in place!

  As you know, if you’ve been past the Murats’ place, you are attacked, across the fence by two mad dogs belonging to Thérèse and, one day, the Murats got tired of it, and seeing Thérèse exciting the dogs against strangers... so that, from their bedroom window, they started barking back, to Thérèse’s fury, who in turn, shouted back insults. Now, every time Gérard sees her, he repeats them, mimicking her voice, which does nothing to ensure peaceful surroundings in their part of the village! That is why you may have heard me welcoming the Murats in a growl, ‘Ah les connards!’, for their greatest pleasure, since it is a standing joke between us and Gérard is quite a clown!

  For once, this story is not sad (well in fact it is, if you consider how lowly human nature can be), unlike other stories I share with you.

  Combined with the pig farm next door to them and the ever-present pungent aroma, despite their lovely sweeping views, we know which end of the village we prefer to live. No wonder Gérard and Dominique have told us that as they drive round the countryside, they are looking for a farmer with a barn who they can approach and offer to buy it, so they can move and escape their mad neighbour. So, at least one obligatory eccentric old woman in Cuzance. Who knows what other secrets the village holds? well, there are other tales Jean-Claude has shared but he has made us promise not to tell them. I make
it my secret mission to try to discover more.

  After a few weeks, we finally find time to wind our way across country, along the narrowest of roads and the sharpest of hairpins, to have lunch at our favourite restaurant from the previous year, Bonne Famille. There is a large group of workmen seated round a long table inside, their plates piled high. The tantalising aroma follows us as we sink into our seats on the terrace with pleasure and anticipation. The menu du jour does not disappoint – stuffed tomates followed by fragrant rice and poulet, chicken that simply melts as the first succulent mouthful is savoured. It is followed by my second favourite dessert in the whole world, crème caramel. We raise our glasses of rosé in a toast to summer days in France. On the way home, we drop in to a nursery to buy packets of meadow fleurs that Jean-Claude will scatter for us in spring.

  Then the day of the compacter at long last arrives, a far cry from our vision of a meadow of spring flowers. In direct proportion to the building of the heat, so too do our stress levels escalate. well, mine at least. Stuart, as always, simply takes it all in his stride. After a huge delay in the arrival of the compacter, when Stuart is finally able to collect it, it doesn’t work. The hire equipment business has not called us on our portable as promised. We have lost precious days in our ebbing schedule and have been simply marking time. The mountain of castine is by now mocking us in its looming presence.

  Rather than waiting in vain for the promised call to collect the compacter, Stuart has finally given up and gone back to simply see if one is now available. It is and we are more than ready for the next critical stage.

  As with most significant moments, Jean-Claude is on hand for the noteworthy – and much delayed moment – of starting the compacter. It doesn’t start. While it has been demonstrated to Stuart when he collected it, now it simply refuses to fire up. Needless, to say, tempers are fired up instead. It is by now late afternoon, the sun is at its searing peak, the engine shudders, stalls, starts, shudders, stalls. It takes a whole two hours to start it properly. finally, Stuart has it running and sets off with the shuddering machine across the castine. Progress is not smooth, not smooth at all. The castine is not evenly flattened. No, the tiny gravel stones spray everywhere and leave gaping channels behind.

  Clearly, there is something seriously wrong with the compacter. It judders to a halt. This time it completely refuses to start. By now Jean-Claude has discreetly exited stage centre left; that is, slipped quietly away around the side of la grange. We are left alone to grapple with the baffling complexities of compacters.

  The compacter proves to not in fact be a fully functioning one. It now completely refuses to fire into life. I amaze myself by suggesting that maybe the spark plugs need cleaning. It is inexplicable, for it started the very first time when Stuart collected it. I am despatched to ask for Monsieur Chanteur’s help. I know that his workshop will run to a simple spanner. Armed with my dictionary, I am intent on making my mission clear. I have already written out my three essential words: bougie – spark plugs, prise – socket, outil – tool. Once again, these are certainly not words you will encounter in any holiday language guide that I know. Monsieur Chanteur indicates that they will finish their café in their customary shady place under the walnut tree and then find what I need.

  Monsieur Chanteur inspects the recalcitrant compacter. He gestures that Stuart should accompany him to his workshop to find the right tool. To say we are astonished is an understatement, for rather than walking the short distance back along the road, as nimbly as a goat, Monsieur Chanteur jumps over our adjoining stone wall. For a man of eighty-eight, it is a truly remarkable feat.

  Spark plugs cleaned, it seems that at long last we can make up for lost time. It is not to be. More problems beset us. The starter cord breaks. A hasty repair takes place.

  It is now early evening – and still the compacter won’t spring into life. By now, there are more than a few merdes flying through the air.

  There is no choice but to return it to Brive – an hour-round trip. Success at seven.

  And so it means, that just like last year, we work late in to the night. I move wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of castine and rake and rake before Stuart is able to then compact it all. We labour long and hard until the fading light forces us to stop. finally we throw ourselves in quick succession under the shower and head off to Martel for an exceptionally late dîner.

  We need a hearty meal to set ourselves up for a full day of compacting. We are looking forward to another significant day in the history of Pied de la Croix that we are in the process of creating – the day we will start to lay the paving. At last, there would be progress in the surrounds of la piscine. After our late return from dîner, the huge ugly toad that lives in the cellar, crosses my path in the gloomy light as I stumble inside with exhaustion. It seems to be a fitting end to a day of utter frustration.

  The summer idyll is truly over. We at last have a fully functioning compacter. We spray water to prepare the surface to compact correctly; it evaporates immediately in the heat.

  Stuart compacts, I spray. I trundle another wheelbarrow of castine and add another layer.

  The castine mountain does not however, seem to ever diminish. It seems to have become a permanent fixture in the rugged landscape of our jardin. The compacting continues for several days. Round and round la piscine, up and down the sides, round and round. It is a never-ending blur of slow motion. I heave and haul interminable wheelbarrow loads of castine; the tiny pieces have by now taken over my life.

  As I drift off to sleep each evening, I surprise myself with both my thoughts and attention to detail. I think about such things as the construction of the concrete stairs in the barn and the critical consideration of their precise placement. I move rooms around in my mind. Where exactly will the salle de bain go upstairs? I know from past renovating that it’s essential to run the plumbing for the bathroom in line with the existing plumbing to reduce costs. While I have other more pressing matters to consider, like the very real renovation in hand, rather than an imagined one of the future, these thoughts are nevertheless a world away from the daily routine of life and work at home.

  51

  Le Jardin – Strike Trois

  In the early morning light breaking at the bottom of the orchard, huge bunnies bound, seeking new pastures where no one will disturb them. Last year, I was a naive fool in my single-handed onslaught. I used the only thing to hand in the spraying of the voracious brambles – a domestic-sized spray bottle. Now I am far better equipped with my industrial spray container with a sturdy strap that I sling over my shoulder. This time, I tell myself, I have a far better chance of success in the battle of les herbes. The sibilant sound of the wind stirring the towering pine trees in the neighbouring jardin, spreads a soft whisper across the garden as I resolutely continue my battle.

  Working in le jardin continues to still be a very generous interpretation of the term ‘gardening’. Day after day I continue to tussle, tug, heave and wrench at all the weeds that never quake or tremble when attacked. French weeds are like no other I have ever known, and weeds; indeed, I have known a few. The invasive bamboo in our garden when we lived at Austinmer, when we first escaped from city life, consumed our days in our never-ending battle to quell it forever. Now, in our Wombarra home, Stuart has chosen bamboo wooden flooring as an ironic homage to it.

  As for French weeds, they fight back with ferocity. A measure of their phenomenal resilience is that they are already stealthily creeping back along the edges of the weed matting that has only been in place a mere matter of weeks. They seem to shout at me in triumph, as if declaring that foolish foreigners cannot simply descend and in a few short weeks, even be presumptuous enough to think that they can possibly imprint themselves upon the wild rural landscape.

  There are long thin white ones that have a subterranean life all of their own, deep below the rocky surface. As I claw ferociously to dig them out, they are like dead fingers coming back to life, reaching up to me as I strugg
le in vain to chop off their heads...

  Shades of the old nursery rhyme drift in and out of my head.

  As with everything French, we watch and learn. On our evening promenades, we note in other gardens, that the only way to win the battle of les herbes, is to first place the weed matting, then cut a very precise hole exactly where the plant will then be dug in. This was our first mistake. We had thought we could just lay the weed mat, next dig a hole, then bed down a plant. It would seem not. And so, we start all over again... This includes moving the copious rocks that we have carefully placed on top to prevent the weed mat from blowing away.

  As I labour long and hard, I divert myself by searching my mind for various appropriate sayings. The expression, ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day’, springs very readily to mind. As I pace myself against the chiming of the bell that signals that in another hour, the heat will be so intense I will have no choice but to reluctantly down tools, I watch le chat slink around the edge of le jardin. Though we have carefully searched all the outbuildings and at times we can hear the faint meow of the four French kittens, we simply cannot find where she has moved them to. We are just glad that at least she has moved them out of la grange.

  It is the perfect touch of irony, that the books I have chosen to read in my rare moments relaxing in le jardin, are all about glorious landscaped gardens, complete with water features and sculptures. Nothing could be further than my gardening reality.