Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Page 5

  11

  Picking Up the Threads

  Life in Cuzance is stolen time. Each time spent there is a precious gift; one to clasp in your hands, treasure and marvel at the many layers of our lives that have bought us to this point. With little effort or planning, the hours and days fill themselves and overflow in to the next.

  One of the very first things we do each year on our market visit to Martel, is to drop into the Tourisme Bureau to collect the season guide, Saison 2012 – Brocantes and Vide Greniers – Lot – Correze – Dordogne. It is a list of the vide greniers and brocantes in the Lot and surrounding départements of Correze and the Dordogne. We eagerly scan and highlight the markets we will visit. Each early Sunday morning is mapped out far in advance. I have the joy and anticipation of returning to our favourite vide greniers such as Turin and Gignac. I can already feel the feverish obsession to discover treasure sweep over me. One of our first this season will be in Blanat, near the famous town of Rocamadour, one that in the past yielded tantalising treasure.

  We are off to a flying start in planning our treasure hunts but discover there is a long-standing rivalry between Cuzance and the nearby village of Gignac. It is a rivalry based on their annual vide grenier. Walking through the village one evening, we saw that posters had been put up to advertise the forthcoming Gignac vide grenier. By the next night, on our evening promenade, we noticed they had disappeared. It is the custom throughout the départements in vide grenier and brocante season, for brightly coloured posters to appear everywhere, several weeks in advance, so that people from nearby villages and towns will flock to their clear-out the attic markets. We eagerly look out for these posters and plan our Sunday outings based on them. What was going on in Gignac? Even friends such as Jean-Claude, who do not make it a habit to visit markets, had Gignac on their weekend itinerary. Had it been cancelled? A little investigating revealed that there was friendly rivalry between our village and Gignac – hence the mysterious disappearance of the posters. Of course this made us even more determined to visit the Gignac vide grenier, for we had heard from many people that it was a truly magnificent one. And when the day finally arrived, later in the vide grenier season, indeed it was.

  There is always a tremendous feeling of early-Sunday morning excitement as you fly through the countryside to be among the first to explore the potential treasure. Often the markets are held in a farmer’s field and for one Sunday morning a year, it is utterly transformed. Row upon row of cars are all parked neatly in lines – often in an adjacent field. People tumble out of their voitures, consumed by the urge to be the first to fall upon coveted pieces of antiquity. And yet, tearing through the calm of an early Sunday morning, we are often mystified about how there can possibly be a vide grenier at the end of our country drive, for the winding lanes are quite empty and it seems impossible that the remote roads will lead to fulfilment. Yet indeed they do. We turn a corner and there, at a time when most are still enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning, is a field full of possibility. The air is often cool and damp, yet there is also a palpable air of those like us, caught up in the exhilaration of a treasure hunt.

  Wednesday and Saturday mornings are allocated to the fresh produce market in Martel, that originated in the 12th century. The arching roof is a huge, self-supporting wooden construction and the space underneath springs to life on market days. The abundant fruit and vegetables are fresh from the farmers’ fields, literally picked only hours before, still glazed with early-morning dew drops. Once the market is fin in time for déjeuner, the only sense that there were hundreds of people lingering with their baskets over their arms, carefully choosing their produce, is perhaps a stray scrap of cabbage leaf, blowing in the light summer breeze.

  Martel is a truly beautiful little town, that every single time we are there, I take pleasure in wandering around and gazing at its medieval past. There are lots of imposing doorways, beautiful arches, half-timber houses, wooden shutters and, of course, the towers. As you wind along the road from Cuzance, its seven towers give it a distinctive silhouette. It’s known locally as the town of the seven towers. While most of the towns in our region began as a religious centre or a military site, Martel sprang up because of its position at a crossroads for the Paris-Toulouse trade and as a route for carrying salt and wine. It is also close to the famous town of Rocamadour and was an important stopping place for pilgrims. The sense of history every single time I am there, seems to seep up through the very cobblestones. On market day, the square comes to life like a film set with all the actors in place, as they have been for hundreds of years. Tradition and ritual are part of everyday life in France.

  Meanwhile, we are creating our own history and enduring imprint on Pied de la Croix. Once again, before our return, Jean-Claude’s attention to the details of our other life is touching and extraordinary.

  This afternoon I had an appointment with a maçon for a quote for your bathroom window, but he could not make it; so it will be on Friday; to switch on the mains, the button is in the small shed at the back of your bedroom, isn’t it?

  Your plantations have almost done nothing, due to the bad weather... and are outgrown by the weeds, except the catalpa which displays a single bud. Françoise is recovering from a bad cold caught in those freezing churches! She was wheezing until now like an old Ford T model! Concerning plantations, there is a surprise from me; but it is not doing better than the rest; so much for mysteries!

  Love to you from JCC.

  Jean-Claude’s remarkable attention to details means that he is following up something that I had actually forgotten about asking him to look into for me! The maçon for my bathroom window. I cannot even begin to predict the possible cost.

  12

  French Protocol

  After spending several summers in France, we remain conscious of French protocol and alert to the nuances between the two cultures. We are proud of the fact that in our small village, it was us who introduced Gérard and Dominique to Jean-Claude and Françoise. We noted however, with great interest that whenever we were with Gérard and Dominique, and Jean-Claude and Françoise came up in the conversation, they referred to them as Monsieur and Madame Chanel. With our casual Australian manners and easygoing ways, this formality is a revelation to us. However, we have learnt that this formality is deeply entrenched, particularly with older generations. They can in fact, know someone for thirty years and this form of address is still used. So, in Cuzance when we go for a walk round the village with Jean-Claude, we note too that he always greets the older inhabitants, such as Monsieur Dal, in a formal manner. In fact, I have also noticed that he always refers formally to our neighbours as Monsieur Chanteur and Madame Chanteur. When I think about it, I don’t even know our neighbours’ first names; perhaps I never will. Status too remains an important element in French life and it is still often the way, that the higher the person’s status, the more reserved their behaviour is. Again though, it is mainly the older generations, and I’m sure one day, this element too will fade way.

  What we have come to love, is the many elements of French protocol, such as when you are entering and leaving a shop. It is customary to always offer a greeting, ‘Bonjour Madame, bonjour Monsieur,’ and on departure, ‘Au revoir, bonne journee,’ – goodbye, have a nice day. I always find joy in the rhythm of these exchanges. If you don’t offer a greeting, the French will simply think you are very rude – the service is usually in direct proportion to your politeness. Everyone appreciates any effort that you are able to make with the language and so, I always try to do my very best. Just like when I lived in Turkey, the very basic words go a long way – merci, merci beaucoup, excusez moi. I have learnt too, that even if they understand English, the French may be wary of speaking it, unless they’re fluent. In all respects, the French do not like to appear less than perfect. It is hard when we return home, not to continue the daily greeting, for after a few months, it is second nature. Likewise, I try not to kiss too many of my colleagues too often on both chee
ks, though I must say by now, people seem to have become used to my adopted French ways. I frequently answer the phone at work with a bright, ‘Bonjour’! In France, it is in fact the custom to greet all your colleagues each day with a kiss on each cheek.

  Somehow, I don’t think I will attempt to introduce that element into the workplace.

  I look around, watch, and try to learn all the time. The French are always quite formal when they leave their homes. Even a trip to the weekly markets means that you would never dream of going out in what you wear at home; certainly there are no thongs or singlet tops in sight. When we stayed with Brigitte and Erick in their chambre d’hôte, I always noted that after they finished cleaning the chambres each morning and had done the daily washing of all the chambre d’hôte sheets, they would both change to venture out to the boulangerie and supermarché. They would always put on something smart. This too is a custom I am conscious of, apart that is, from the humiliating times I have dashed on an urgent mission through the village to Jean-Claude’s in my renovating attire. Being conservative and smartly dressed is just another way of trying to fit into French life. It is something I have come to love, for all who know me, are familiar with my penchant for dressing up whenever possible.

  Likewise, relaxing in a café can be altogether different. No matter how frantically busy or overflowing the tables are, there is always just a quiet hum of conversation. The tone is always muted, never loud. While drinking is a recognised French way of life, no one shouts or loudly laughs their heads off and the ring of a portable or a noisy child is seldom heard. It is not chic to behave in such a way. On the rare occasions we have lunch at our favourite restaurant in Martel, Le Jardin des Saveurs, although it is just menu du jour, the bread crumbs are swept off the crisp tablecloth after the first course. The waitress comes with a petite pan and brush to ever so discreetly whisk the crumbs away.

  This is the sort of attention to detail that I simply love.

  When we are invited to dîner with friends, no side plates are used for the bread that invariably accompanies every meal. If we are lucky enough to be invited to Jean-Claude’s and Françoise’s, the pain is especially delicious as Françoise makes her own bread. The pain is simply placed on the tablecloth next to your dinner plate. Hence all French homes have a tablecloth that often stays on the table throughout the day. While I now have two tablecloths, both farmhouse checks, and both gifts, I don’t think I will ever have a plastic one as many French households do. While very practical, I simply don’t find them attractive at all.

  The apéritif hour is something else I find especially civilised. Only one apéritif is usually served, at the very most two. Bread sticks or a small dish of olives or peanuts is always placed on the table, for it is rare to have a drink without some small accompaniment. We find this a great way to catch up with friends, as it is simply so easy and the protocol means that people rarely linger longer than an hour, for they then head home for dîner. This suits our style of entertaining just perfectly. When we are invited to dîner, usually just one apéritif is offered before eating, as there will be wine with the meal. Jean-Claude has a plastic carrier that was once used for milk bottles. When we have an apéritif on their terrace, he brings it out with pastis, gin and other choices in it. Despite the reputation of the French for drinking vast quantities of wine, in fact it is surprisingly far less than at home. Vive la difference.

  13

  Isabelle’s Petite Shop

  Visiting Isabelle’s shop has become a part of my weekly ritual. As well as going to the twice-weekly markets to buy our fruit and vegetables, on Friday morning we now go to Martel once a week to do our grocery shopping. Such a prosaic task has become one of pleasure. We have now established the habit of first having our weekly treat of going to the boulangerie to choose a delectable pastry. There is always an immense pleasure in lingering at the counter and gazing at the sumptuous array of mouth-watering pastries.

  Then across the road to the locals’ café, as opposed to the ones in the market square that tend to attract the tourists. While the café is right next to the road – we seem to be attracted to places situated on roads, just like our petite maison – like so many French towns, it overlooks tubs of brightly coloured flowers. We order our espresso, ‘Deux café s’il voux plait.’ Yes, I can actually manage the simple phrase for ordering two espresso...

  and we linger over our melt-in-the-mouth croissants.

  It is a chance to sit and observe the daily life of a small French town. The café is also a Tabac. There is a place to precariously park right at the front of the café and the locals dash in to buy their Gauloise. It is like a drive-through tobacconist. Once when I went in to pay for our espresso, I was puzzled by the fact the young woman behind the counter did not move from one end of it to the other, to collect my euro. After quite a while, I moved to the other end of the counter to pay. I told Stuart about the puzzlement of paying. Ah, the first end of the counter is the Tabac section and you can only pay for those purchases there. Hence the dash-in-drivers who hastily grab their daily Gauloise.

  Our bank, Bank Populaire, (literally, a popular French bank), is next door and on the other side of the café is Les Marchands de Journaux, where people grab their copy of Le Figaro to read over their espresso. Next there is the pharmacie and like all other chemists in France, it displays a poster of mushrooms to be able to identify those that are poisonous. Mushroom gathering in spring is a very popular pastime in France. Each year Brigitte and Erick tell us when they are setting off for a few days’ break to pick mushrooms. By now, as we have our espresso, we actually know a few locals passing by and going to the shops, to exchange ‘Bonjours, ca va? ’ with. This simple greeting fills me with delight. In some small way, we do belong.

  It was on one of our café sojourns the previous year that I glanced across the road and my eyes landed with happiness on a newly opened petite shop, complete with a hat stand and other second-hand wares out the front. I exclaimed with pleasure to Stuart that I simply had to go and investigate straight away. Knowing my predilection for any possibility of second-hand treasure, Stuart settled back with another espresso while I skipped across to investigate. A second espresso can only last so long, and by the time he thought my time for exploring had definitely been sufficient, I had my arms laden with potential purchases to eagerly share with him.

  When friends and family come to stay, Isabelle’s shop has now been woven into my personal itinerary. So now mum has her pink jacket in Australie and Liz has a petite watercolour in Wales. As with all my treasure, I eagerly display my new chapeau to Françoise next time I see her. She duly shares my pleasure in my pretty pink hat. Not long after, when I go La Vieux Prieuré, Françoise and their youngest daughter, Bénédicte, show me what they have unearthed in Isabelle’s shop, for they too call la petite shop by the name that I do. Just like last year, when Dominique appeared in her first-ever purchase of second-hand clothes, it is when I introduce my French friends to sources of second-hand delights, that I truly feel a part of life in Cuzance.

  Actually, I don’t know the name of la petite shop at all. However, I always chat to Isabelle the immaculate and chic owner, so that is what I call her treasure trove. I’m thrilled to actually say it’s part of my weekly routine in a new village, in a new country.

  To start to establish rituals, means that I feel a part of the rhythm of life in Cuzance.

  14

  Bon Courage

  ‘Bon courage’ are words that I would be profoundly grateful to never hear again. It seems that every passer-by, every casual drop-in, every artisan and all our French friends, utter this phrase when leaving our petite maison. No translation is needed. The meaning is absolutely clear. Underlying this seemingly casual, polite phrase is an undertone that distinctly conveys, firstly; they think we are extraordinarily mad to tackle such a project and secondly; how grateful they are that it’s not them. Shades of one of my frequent thoughts, ‘Is a working holiday a vacances at all?’ rise
to the surface whenever I hear this phrase. Somehow too it is always uttered in a tone of the utmost bonhomie.

  As I continue to labour long and hard at whatever the current task is, I always gaze wistfully after their rapidly departing backs, knowing full well, that they are returning to relax in their jardin to linger over an afternoon apéritif... I can only begin to imagine the sage nodding of heads and absolute concurrence that yes, the madness of foreigners knows no end. My limited understanding of French would certainly not impede my understanding in this instance, of the speculation about a couple who come all the way from Australie each year to spend their vacances renovating.

  As I get older, my penchant and inclination for renovating seems to rise in inverse proportion to the passing years. And so it is, that I find myself declaring with increasing vehemence – that next year when we embark on the bathroom – will be my last renovating push – ever. We will see. I seem to recall that those words have been uttered before. Despite all that ‘Bon courage’ implies, nevertheless when working life at home becomes challenging, I console myself with my escape clause – Cuzance. It reverberates in my mind, a place that somehow doesn’t often seem real and yet real it is. Cuzance is indeed a place to return to year after year. A very real and very real different life, even if does hold the oft-repeated phrase ‘Bon courage’...