Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Read online

  By then, the racks were empty and desolate. Limoges brims with the hope of full solde shelves and racks, simply overflowing with French chic. Mind you, at home we would never dream of venturing on a four-hour round trip to shop. In France, however, it all seems to be quite different and our everyday selves are cast aside.

  We have carefully planned our precious few hours for our morning in Paris, to absorb as much atmosphere as possible. The very name, Quartier Latin, conjures up images of bohemian Paris and the Sorbonne, which is not far away. The student atmosphere creates a lively collection of second-hand bookshops and cafés, while the myriad streets entice you to wander and simply immerse yourself in all that is glorious in Paris. However, we have to be careful not to fall too fully under the spell of the crooked lanes, for after all, there is a train to catch quite soon. The famous Luxembourg Gardens are also in this district, as well as Palais du Luxembourg, where there is a park with a large pool where children sail boats and Parisians read the paper or bask in the sun in striped deckchairs that you can rent. All of these enchantments will have to be for a future visit.

  We take delight in the shops, restaurants and boulangeries, and as the lunch hour approaches, we join a patient, snaking queue for baguettes. A long queue is usually a reliable indication of excellence and we are not disappointed. We find a little park and sit on a bench in the shade, immersing ourselves as fully as possible in a fleeting taste of Paris. Time ebbs rapidly and we make our reluctant way back to Gare d’Austerlitz to collect our luggage. Our path takes us through the stunning Jardin des Plantes, three hectares of botanical gardens, and there is just enough time to linger and admire the outside photographic exhibition.

  Our fleeting morning has been all that we hoped for; the sun shone, we had our first espresso and delicious baguette – and most importantly, the train did not disappear imperiously into the distance.

  6

  Portables and Septiques

  We finally staggered into our petite maison at eight thirty pm. This year, all went according to plan; a beaming Jean-Claude there to greet us and a hasty trip to Carrefour to stock up on the most basic essentials, wine of course being the top of the list. That in itself was overwhelming; the crowds and long queues of late Saturday supermarché shoppers – it was like the busiest supermarket in the world. It is absolutely the last thing you feel like after the interminable flight from the other side of the world. Then of course we chose the wrong queue. How was it though that it was so apparent that we were foreigners, that the cashier signalled to us that we needed a special Carrefour card and we were in the wrong line? I had even taken care to have a scarf in my bag to nonchalantly tie around my neck on arrival in Paris, in what I like to think is the essential French touch. When I point this out to Stuart, he declares that she must think we are from Paris and won’t have the requisite Carrefour card. I decide that I like his explanation. So, to the express self-service checkout, a challenge for me at the best of times, let alone in a foreign country and consumed by exhaustion.

  As with everything, Stuart takes it all admirably in his stride, though fortunately the express cashier is on hand to assist when we encounter problems. The tomates have to be abandoned as we have not weighed them. A small loss for at least we have our first bottle of French wine. So, armed with pain, fromage, jambon and chocolate chip muesli, we set off on the very last leg to Cuzance. How can French women be so slim when they start their day with chocolate chip muesli, let alone the bread, cheese and ham we have hastily grabbed? That remains one of life’s perplexing mysteries.

  Shortly after, we arrive at La Vieux Prieuré, to be welcomed by Françoise’s warm embrace. Françoise is short, round and always beaming. I am the opposite, yet when we hug, it is like two halves fitting together. Their jardin looks at its glorious summer best and over an apéritif, we truly feel like we are home again in Cuzance. However, it makes the difference even more pronounced when we finally unlock the door to Pied de la Croix. While it is altogether different to our first viewing of it together a mere couple of years ago, on a damp day with trucks thundering past, and while it is undeniably transformed, nevertheless, despite the dust covers, it is wreathed in cobwebs. There is a thick layer of dust on every surface and abundant evidence of the visiting mice in our absence. They have gnawed through the packets of coffee in the cupboard and even the toilet paper. I try to focus instead on the romance of the film set qualities when I first step inside again after a year, rather than raw reality, when I stand back and take stock more slowly... What could those petite mice have been thinking? No doubt the harshest winter on record for a very long time has driven them to such drastic measures.

  Every year though sees a step further in our organisation for our return. Sheets are waiting in a plastic tub and it’s the only task we can manage, to make up the bed after more hours of travelling than I can manage to count. A simple meal, a glass of rosé and it’s absolutely lights out. The rest can all wait until a new day in Cuzance.

  The first full day in France is a Sunday but even Françoise knew that it would not be a highly prized vide grenier day. It will take at least two days to get the petite maison up and running. We wake before 5 am in the pitch dark of our tightly shuttered chambre.

  First things first, we set up the coffee machine. Recovering from jet lag is hard at the best of times let alone without a strong café. Outside, it’s eerily silent and darkness envelops Cuzance in a crisp chilliness. A squirrel scampers across the roof of la grange, the only other sign of life in the still-waking countryside.

  While life at home already seems remote and another existence altogether, the uncanny resemblance of our two lives do not escape us. Mobiles and plumbing seem to be our parallel downfalls on either side of the world. Our new portable plan, that we had such high hopes for, means that in fact we can only connect with friends in France. Another perplexing puzzle to add to the list of things to deal with. Oh yes, just like in previous years, the lists have started already – and it is only day one. The most pressing problem though is the septique. At home we have to get a plumber as soon as we return for the dreadful plumbing problems. That though is nothing to compare to the devastating, all-consuming, all-pervading utter stench emanating from our septique.

  Ooh la la. The smell fills our entire petite maison. It is just like being back in Turkey on our travels all those years ago when we first met. We knew it was going to be bad on our return for the septique problem had already well and truly flared up the previous year, but nothing could prepare us for the reality. For the moment though, we simply have to live with it. There are more pressing things to deal with, like, will our petite voiture start after sleeping for a year in the garage in la grange?

  Though your memory holds a thousand imprints, the reconnection with the minutiae holds infinite joy. The collection of old cutlery in a wooden trug, the exquisite heavy glass bowl that I bought for a song, the white enamel jug that holds la cuisine utensils. So many vide grenier finds on so many occasions. After only a couple of years, we can’t even recall the precise where and when of each piece of treasure. The accumulated pieces represent the layers that transform our petite farmhouse into a home.

  I am sure that each year will be the same. A repetition of reuniting with beloved objets, balanced by the discovery of the forgotten and overlooked . Added to this are the other fragments of Cuzance life that have been cast aside in the year in between. Most striking is the soft constant cooing of the doves and the stratum of noises of other birds unknown to me, overlaid by the chiming of the village church bell.

  The silence in the very early morning and late evening is the deep, deep silence of the countryside. The musical bird notes of the day fade gently away to be replaced by an occasional soft rustling in the dry, fallen leaves – field mice, hedgehogs and a slinking black cat slipping through the night shadows.

  By early morning on our very first day, I abandon the cleaning. I’m rapidly worn out – consumed by jet lag and the lack of a proper
meal, by now for several days. Airline food does not count in my book as a ‘proper meal’. I slip under the soft comfort of the eiderdown and just like our first evening, within a few minutes, drift off into a deep sleep.

  Several hours later, Stuart tiptoes in to triumphantly announce that he has recharged the car. After a year, he’s jubilant that it started the first time when he put the battery back in. The day of challenges he’s set himself is well underway and it’s not even midday. He flourishes a shopping list that he’s already written and lets me know he’s off to Martel to the supermarché. I murmur goodbye and sink once more into the Cuzance silence.

  Much to my surprise, on our first afternoon, while the house is still in a state of considerable disarray, Stuart suggests an outing to Martel. Although he has already been once to the supermarché, he feels like having a wander round. He seems to be fervently embracing the fact that we have declared that this year we simply will not slavishly work the whole time and that the first week will be a break. It is a quiet Sunday afternoon in Martel and while it is a small town, we discover quiet streets tucked away off the main square that we had not previously explored in the past two years. That in itself is a measure of how absurdly hard we had worked before. And so it is, on just our first full day, we are able to enjoy a leisurely stroll, admiring the abundant, bright window box displays. To our surprise, we also discover two more boulangeries that we had no idea existed. Over espresso and a chocolat crepe we discuss how it simply reinforces that we have certainly worked far too hard on our previous visits. We need to also remind ourselves why we are in France. It is not to merely renovate the entire time.

  7

  A Mouse in the House

  On our second morning, as I sleepily stumble out into la cuisine, it suddenly comes home to me with a jolt, that just two years ago, all we had was a single table to not only prepare everything on but it was also our storage area. It would hold at any one time an eclectic array of items, like a surrealist painting; a loaf of pain, paintbrushes, bricolage catalogues, maps, screwdrivers, as well as our petite collection of plates, glasses and cutlery. Renovating and setting up a house in those basic conditions requires a lot of organisation, flexibility – and patience. The statement, ‘two years’ does not quite encapsulate all that has been achieved since then, for in reality, the total transformation until now, has all been achieved in a matter of nine weeks. While that time was spent in the longest days of sheer hard work imaginable, it was not even nine full weeks of solid work. There were the endless bricolage trips, the expeditions to the Trocs in search of second-hand furniture, the brocante and vide grenier outings. I can only marvel as I gaze around at our new stylish IKEA la cuisine, the cracked old leather Chesterfield sofa and chairs, the long wooden table and assorted array of old wooden chairs. How did we possibly manage all this I wonder?

  After only one whole day back in Cuzance, our collection of vide grenier finds are all unpacked and our petite maison is almost restored for another summer. The mantelpiece is decorated once again with everything that has been tucked away for a year. In pride of place, is my still-life painting, that I picked up for a mere two euros. I like to secretly believe that it is by a famous artist and worth two million euros. I convince myself that it is and I will make our fortune by selling it at Sotheby’s. The matching bright yellow jugs, the dark brown espresso cups and saucers, all lined up in a neat row, the beautifully carved wooden vase – all these things give me pleasure every day in our little French farmhouse. As I eat my chocolate chip muesli – surely not ‘real’ muesli but nevertheless utterly delicious – I discover that it is extremely addictive. I decide that it is far too decadent a way to start the day. Surely I should be more selective here about my choice of daily mouth-watering treats? I devour another mouthful of exquisite rich, small dark chocolat squares. For now, such momentous decisions can wait.

  As I soak up the view of le jardin while I have my first espresso of the morning , I plan my day. Most pressing is to seek Jean-Claude’s opinion on the source of the freshly dug, ominous mound of dirt in the cellar. I had only seen it in the fading light of the previous evening, yet what I saw was enough to sufficiently alarm me. I asked Stuart why he hadn’t told me about it when he discovered it earlier in the day. In his usual inimitable manner, he told me he didn’t want to worry me. It was probably only a rabbit he said.

  I don’t know much about the habits of rabbits but I do know enough to think that it may be more disturbing than a mere lapin. However, I cannot begin to imagine what creature has been marauding in our cellar. In addition, there’s some highly alarming noises emanating from the attic – dubbed last year, ‘The Squirrel Room’, due to the disturbing sounds of scampering and the sight of squirrels leaping across the barn roof.

  Stuart informs me he will venture up there later. He can go alone, I think. There is also still a mouse in the house.

  In my sleep-induced, jet-lagged haze, as I had prepared my petite déjeuner, I had only just managed to remember where Stuart had decided was the only safe place for the pain and packets of food that may be tempting for a mouse on the lookout for a tasty takeaway treat. Where else but in the oven of course?

  My day gets underway despite the possibility of creatures who have taken up permanent residence in our absence. While we get our bank statements and other French accounts delivered to us at home, it occurs to me that after a year, I should probably check the post box.

  It wasn’t until we got our regulation-sized, Le Bureau de Poste approved post box late the year before and attached it to the stone wall – under Jean-Claude’s guidance about what position would be deemed acceptable by Le Bureau de Poste – that we were considered to officially exist in France. I discover a puzzling collection of very official-looking letters. They have been posted every two months from a government office in Cahors. We have absolutely no idea what they mean. They are put aside to ask Jean-Claude about when we visit for a late afternoon apéritif. What does bring me enormous joy is a welcoming letter from Kaitlyn and Ryan, my students at home. I am deeply touched by their thoughtfulness that a letter is here to greet me at the start of our long summer away. This too I tuck away to share with Jean-Claude and Françoise.

  It is yet another extraordinary fragment of my new life, the fact that two of the people I am the closest to, are a seventeen-year-old Australian school girl and a seventy-year-old French man.

  Today I have to tackle the dust-covered linen and towels, yet even washing in France is not an ordinary experience. I venture down to the cellar and pull back the creaking, cobweb-covered wooden door. I always have to remember to stoop as I go in or I’ll hit my head on the low stone doorway. I reach for my washing products that are placed in a handy little stone niche in the wall. The cellar has been here for one hundred and thirty years; like many other elements of our petite farmhouse, I wonder about all those before me whose footsteps I am following in the cavernous, cool space. Next I need to unpack. I have not even had to go near my suitcase yet for I’ve just pulled on clothes that I left in our armoire. What is already dawning on me, is that in my usual fashion, I have seriously over-packed. What on earth was I thinking when I filled my suitcase? In the depths of the country, I simply pull on a T-shirt and a pair of pantaloons every day. I seem to have packed for the Riviera or a summer of Paris soirees. It has never been my forte. And let’s not forget, I have been lured by the promise of solde in Limoges in our first week . Indeed, as I was packing at home, even I was struck by my sheer madness at bringing clothes back to France that I’d bought just the previous year. Like our well-travelled Sim card (which I hasten to add still doesn’t work), it would seem that I also aspire to have clothes that travel the world more than most people I know. Seriously, I don’t know what I’m thinking at times. Later, when Gérard and Dominique drop in to see us and I’m invariably in my less than attractive rénovation clothes, they actually ask if when we go home I can send a photo of what I look like when I go to school every day. That see
ms to sum up my lack of stylishness in France, despite my best attempts at times.

  Over our apéritif with Jean-Claude and Françoise in the soft glow of the late summer afternoon, I make plans with Françoise for my first cooking lesson to make a tarte aux pomme, an apple pie that will also be a French lesson, as all my instructions will be in French . This is why I am in France after all. Sadly though, the summer will pass and our plans will be thwarted. Next year; that seems to be our catchcry for many things. As I obsessively work later in le jardin in the intense summer heat, I dream of how in the following year, under Françoise’s expert culinary guidance, my tarte aux pomme will glisten in its honey glaze.

  Before we leave their maison, Jean-Claude translates our official letters. They are related to the new la grange roof and enquire whether la grange will now be inhabited.

  Absolutely not, Jean-Claude emphatically declares, and writes accordingly on the letter for us in French. He and Stuart conspiringly agree that we should not pay any more taxes than necessary. All that our barn houses is our voiture and a car hardly counts. Views on taxes are clearly the same the world over. As we wish them bonne nuit, Françoise climbs the small wooden stepladder in the enchanting kingdom of her petite la cuisine. She reaches and stretches for jars of her gleaming homemade confiture. The most prized jar of jam is her fig one, labelled September 2009. We are then given a choice between fraise and rhubarb, all from her immaculate potage garden. While strawberry is a luscious choice on fresh pain, we choose the rhubarb as we have not tasted it before. It is touches like these, of the homemade gifts of confiture from the French kitchen of our dear friend, that make all the difference between simply having a maison in France and having a home. In such a short time, Cuzance is definitely home.