Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Page 6
15
Our Belgian Friends
Time adds a rich layer of meaning to friendships from afar. A chance encounter on the streets in Trabzon, a small town on the Black Sea, twenty years ago, has led to a friendship sustained through letters for many years and now emails. We had noticed Erick and Lydia on the small plane from Istanbul as they were the only other tourists heading to a remote part of Turkey, at quite a dangerous time. It was the first Gulf war and there were bombs being dropped on Iraq. When we stayed in Trabzon, the four of us were the only tourists, so we all teamed up to share our adventures. There was a curfew each night; helicopters constantly hovered overhead and there was a real sense of imminent danger.
As with many of our friendships, chance seems to play a strong role. We had been booked to go on a ferry to eastern Turkey, but as I was heading back to our flat, after collecting my final pay from my teaching job – paid in cash and given to me in a large brown paper bag, just like real-life Monopoly – I encountered Stuart in our local market, heading home too to our flat in Besikatas. He had been to pick up our ferry tickets but on the eve of departure, we found out quite by chance, that the ferry had been burnt and destroyed. We made a last minute decision to fly instead and so, two new friends entered into our lives.
There was no way in those early days that I would have ever dreamt of having a house in France. Just a few days into our travels, Stuart spent all his money on a Turkish carpet, while just a few months later, I paid for my own engagement ring. Who would have ever thought too, that I would go from sleeping on a beach alone in Greece for three weeks to save money, to having a petite maison? We were both backpackers on a shoestring when we met Lydia and Erick. We stayed in rooms that cost only a few dollars a night; rooms that you would rather not glimpse in daylight. From soldiers with guns at checkpoints and in the streets and markets, to châteaux glimpsed as you round a corner on the way to the supermarché from Pied de la Croix. What a long way we’ve come. Life is truly an adventure when you take risks and push the boat out from the safety of shore to sometimes turbulent seas and uncharted territory.
As with many of our travels over the years, we have met up with people along the way, spent a few days exploring together, traded life stories, and shared meals. Most of these people are just transitory travel companions, bound by the place and time. So it was that after meeting Lydia and Eric, we spent the next week with them exploring eastern Turkey. This has been a special friendship though that has spanned almost two decades. The years have seen us both renovate our many homes and share our unfolding life stories, including that of their two children, Jorn and Eleni. Then finally, after many years, we all met up on our first trip to France.
It was the time we rented a house for a fortnight and we seized the opportunity to gather our family and friends. There was a little studio at the bottom of the garden, so Liz, our friend from Wales, was booked into that. Stuart’s brother John, was in a nearby gîte, a short bicycle ride away, while Lydia, Erick and the children were able to camp just nearby. And so, for a week, eight of us gathered each evening for meals in the jardin under the damson tree. This is not the sort of thing that comes readily to us at home, yet, across the other side of the world, somehow this is now woven into the French part of our life. Time dropped away, we laughed and filled in the gaps of the intervening years, and now, once again we are to be reunited in our own petite maison.
Just a matter of a few weeks before leaving, Lydia emailed to let me know that their summer holiday in the Basque country meant that they would also be able to visit us for a few days. What did I think of that plan? My fingers flew across the keyboard in excitement to let her know that is exactly what we hoped Pied de la Croix would be, a place for spending time with those we love. Somehow, again completely unlike the person I am at home, it doesn’t matter that we don’t still know John’s plans; whether there will be eight or ten of us in our petite maison, that there aren’t enough beds, enough linen and one petite bathroom. We simply know that it will all be perfectly fine, it will all work and our everyday selves at home will be transformed by the seductiveness of summer days in France.
16
The Figeac Caravane
Things really started to fall into place before we left this year. Weeks before heading for Cuzance, we decide to check the route for the Tour de France. Much to our excitement, the route goes though Brive-la-Gaillarde, a mere twenty minutes from us. We speculate about the back roads that the Tour may take and wonder if in fact it may go straight past our petite maison – after all, our house is right on the road! Last year I had strenuously resisted Stuart’s entreaties that I go with him to watch it in Figeac. I simply couldn’t imagine anything more tedious than a bunch of bike riders whizzing past at great speed, a blur of coloured jerseys, gone in a flash. I kept saying that he should make arrangements to meet Erick as I was sure it would be a perfect outing for them; much like my vigorous attempts to not be involved in any canoeing trips... The thought of a day in the jardin, even if it did mean literally sitting in a pile of weeds and rocks to tug and pull at them, was infinitely more alluring. However, like many of Stuart’s ideas, once I finally capitulated, it turned out to be a brilliant day.
Figeac is a beautiful historic town on the banks of the River Cele, surrounded by charming villages. It’s an unspoilt town centre, with a delightful range of medieval houses that are both stone and half-timbered. The site of the old halles, or markets, is where cafés now spread their tables. After a visit to the Office de Tourisme, to check the route, we joined the throng of the soon-to-be Tour de France crowds, and with just enough time before the race came over the bridge, had the menu du jour. Just as were finishing our café, the heavens opened and it looked like our experience of the atmosphere we had only ever viewed from afar at home, was to be a rather damp one.
However, the downpour was short-lived, so we crossed the river, caught up in le Tour excitement, and positioned ourselves in a perfect viewing spot, ready to see the riders swoop around the end of the bridge and then race up the hill. As it turned out, there was an hour of unexpected build-up of atmosphere and anticipation with the arrival of the caravane. This was something we had never seen at home when the Tour de France was shown and we had not heard anything about it, even from our French friends. It turned out to be tremendous fun. Truck after truck roared past with loud music blaring from speakers, young French people dancing on the floats and banners flowing in the breeze to advertise different companies. To add to the festive atmosphere, the dancers on the trucks all had samples to throw to the crowds: biscuits, magazines and if you were really lucky to grab one, a Tour de France cap from the large supermarché chain, Carrefour. So, this year, we knew what to expect.
Last year after the caravane had passed, we decided to move our vantage point to higher up on the hill. It turned out to be perfect. Just like in our petite maison, we were right on the road, close enough to feel the whoosh of air from the bikes that pass in a blur of movement and colour. The whole race was in fact so fast that we were not even sure it was finished. finally, some French tourists asked the policeman on his powerful motorbike in front of us, whether it was fin. We understood that oui, indeed it was. So it was in fact that at that very moment, Dave texted us to let us know he was watching the Tour de France on a cold, wet day at home and thought that the countryside looked very familiar to Cuzance. Were we thinking of going to see it at all? We texted back triumphantly to say, ‘We are here and Cadell Evans has just gone past us.’ And so it was, the Tour de France that I was so reluctant to go and see, was the year an Australian won – and it was a day out that was far more enjoyable than I could have anticipated. Perhaps I should review my thoughts on a canoe trip after all...
17
Le Grand Jardin
Every single time I spend time relaxing in Jean-Claude’s and Françoise’s glorious jardin, it takes my breath away. Every single time, I feel a sense of privilege to have entree to such an enchanting kingdom. T
he high limestone walls and solid wooden gates, right on the street in the heart of Cuzance, do not give a hint of what lies beyond. The upper jardin is adorned with garlands of mauve wisteria and sweet-smelling honeysuckle, and on the right, a large, flagstone terrace leads to their stunning seven-storey maison. I find out later from new friends we make in the village, that it is known by everyone as ‘the castle’. It is not until you are in the lower sweep of the garden, beyond la piscine, that you can gaze up and see it spread out before you. The tower climbs high into the sky and is balanced by the towering dark green fir trees planted on the boundary. When friends come to stay, I make sure that a visit to La Vieux Prieuré – the Old Priory, so named because it is literally opposite the church – is on the itinerary.
Apart from the neighbour’s tractor, occasionally gathering hay, it is only the constant musical notes of birds that stir the peace and quiet. While I love Pied de la Croix, returning to our French home is always something of a jarring note. Although just a short walk, it is worlds removed. However, what I do need to remind myself, is that just three years ago when we first arrived, we couldn’t even walk around our property.
Although I’m still dismayed by the profuse proliferation of weeds, it is already a far cry from my first glimpse of our new French home, on a cold damp day, one that definitely matched my mood. I remember only too vividly my utter sense of wondering what on earth we had done. Now at least in our absence, Albert has planted a border of lavender and photinia next to la piscine. Thanks too to my vigorous pruning efforts last year , the orchard is flourishing. As the days grow warmer, the walnut tree is a perfect place to escape from the afternoon heat. It is even more perfect when Stuart makes the trek back to our petite maison in front of la grange, and returns with afternoon tea on a tray.
Espresso and citron tarte, under the spreading limbs of the eighty-year-old walnut tree; a slight breeze stirring the air. Life simply does not get much better than this moment on a languid French summer afternoon.
After over ten years of rénovation, I’m at last learning to adopt Stuart’s philosophy, that it can all wait until another day. I’ve learnt too from his approach, that half the work is in the reflecting and planning. So, we take the opportunity on this stolen afternoon, to discuss the paving plans for la piscine. On his white plastic chaise longue – no French home is without them – he has a pile of house magazines gathered from vide greniers.
He pores over the pictures and explores the options. We pause to gaze at the golden stone of la grange and the immaculate new slate roof. While it took at least a week on our last working vacances to find the time to venture into the barn, this time we manage it on our third day. Though only a few steps from our petite maison, domesticity has consumed the daylight hours until now. While an absolute extravagance to even contemplate its conversion, it still remains at the pinnacle of our rénovation dreams.
Literally as we finish weighing up the merits of paving or decking round la piscine, Jean-Claude appears. I had only just said that once again we would need to get his help sourcing a concrete supplier and voila, he appears round the side of la grange. As with all our pursuits, he enthusiastically embraces our crazy paving plan and with just a brief interlude for a hasty Kronenbourg, he whisks Stuart off to the nearby village of Cressensac to start investigating prices and all the possibilities. Though on the verge of seventy, there is never any time to be lost where Jean-Claude is concerned. Perhaps indeed it is the very fact that seventy is looming means that he embraces each day with enormous delight and enthusiasm.
18
Two Worlds
At home, through choice, my week day has life more or less an unvarying rhythm. I go to school, I return home, we walk Henri, tend to household tasks and the demands of daily life; renovate; friends on the weekends, family from afar in the holidays. In the early hours, as the day breaks and pink light floods the sky and sea, I write before going to work. A very simple life, a comforting sameness. In Cuzance our world is utterly different. In many ways, it mirrors our early renovating days in Sydney, more than a decade ago. We worked virtually every waking hour. As soon as we arrived home from work, we pulled on our renovating clothes. I learnt how to mix concrete; I ferried wheelbarrows of bricks from the front of our terrace house to the back; I loaded skip after skip with renovating debris. And, we lived without a kitchen for nine whole months. Yet somehow, we had huge reservoirs of energy. It meant that we went out frequently for dinner and despite the punishing labour and arduous hours, we found ourselves in a large circle of new friends. Moving to Sydney from Canberra was a new life in every possible way. Just like in Cuzance, friends dropped in frequently and often lent a hand.
So now it is too, many years later and on the other side of the world, that suddenly we also have a circle of new French friends who also drop in to check on our progress and invite us to apéritifs and dîner. The endless hours of summer sun, means that each and every day, holds any number of possibilities. That is one of my strongest memories when I return home to a more sedate, prosaic life. That on a morning when I wake in Cuzance, the day holds the promise that anything at all is possible.
Despite my utter lack of attempt to learn any French at all in the intervening year between my two lives, I utterly astonish myself when the few words and phrases I do know, surge back into my memory. On the morning I wake with the intent of writing my postcards I bought on our morning in Paris, my waking thought is that I have already assembled the sentence in my mind to go to Le Bureau de Poste. ‘Hello, three stamps for Australia please.’ Later, as I stand in the queue – as is my habit on such occasions in a French shop – I rehearse the sentence in my head. ‘Bonjour, trois timbres pour l’Australie s’il vous plaît.’
And always as you leave, ‘Merci beaucoup, au revoir,’ which conveys, ‘Thank you very much, have a nice day.’ While my inflection is incorrect, nevertheless the woman on the counter in Le Bureau de Poste, graciously acknowledges my effort with a warm smile, and by the end of our summer, also greets me with a smile when I enter to buy timbre. Each customer in every shop I go to, is greeted with customary courtesy and is politely farewelled as they leave. These rituals never cease to please me.
19
A Country Life
After only a few nights, my body clock seems to have adjusted to being in a different hemisphere. Just like at home, I creep out of our chambre just before dawn . The tall, curved street lamps are still lit and the birds are only just starting to melodically greet the new day. The sky gradually softens and lightens and as I venture out, rabbits are bouncing through the grass, their white bob tails bright in the damp greyness. The neighbouring black cat emerges from one of our outbuildings and peers at me in surprise. It’s welcome to sleep there I tell it, but you could at least be doing a better job with the mice.
It is drizzling and cool on the very morning I was planning to start tidying the jardin in front of our petite maison, including wrenching out the year-old weeds that have sprung up in the cracks in the rounded front steps. Just like in previous years, we have to glean the weather report from people we encounter. Last year it was the roofers or Ann-Marie, our bank manager in Martel. This time it was Nigel, the day before, who told us the weather would turn cool and cloudy for the rest of the week. Right on cue, it changes. This does not suit my plans at all.
Thank goodness we had our precious afternoon under the walnut tree. We remember only too well the days we spent working in the searing heat last summer. The day Stuart and Erick spent twelve hours straight installing la cuisine when it was forty degrees. I also recall only too vividly that not only did I toil relentlessly in the blistering heat in le jardin, but also in the rain. There will be no such madness of foreigners this year, I resolutely remind myself. Another thing we have reminded ourselves this year is to make the most of the days that peel away from the early morning chill and unfold into days of glorious sunshine. It would seem that once again the seasons are confused and we need to adjust our rénov
ation plans to meteorological vagaries.
Though petite, Cuzance is an interesting amalgam of people and maisons. It’s a true rural village. This is reinforced when we go for an evening walk – though usually very late – it’s still uncannily light. The fact that we are surrounded by French farmers is evident in the hushed silence hanging over the freshly mown fields and groves of walnut trees. A young farmer wishes us ‘Bon soiree’ as he comes out of his maison to draw his heavy shutters tightly closed so he can block out the last of the summer light and sleep before his early dawn rise.
We are lucky to be surrounded by an abundance of walking trails, with names such as ‘Tour de Cuzance’. We walk past the Marie and Hotel Arnal. Though only nine, not a soul stirs in our sleepy little village. We choose a trail on the outskirts that loops around the village and at the end of the walk, emerge at one of the many true working farms.
There are pieces of farm equipment scattered everywhere and several tractors to plough the fields and gather the summer hay. Like most French homes, it has an extensive vegetable garden where lettuce, tomate and cabbages flourish. A petite chien bounds towards us, wagging its tail vigorously. It has a friendly, endearing face, the sort of loving dog that you could simply scoop up and take home. As the day draws to a satisfying close, it’s the time when rabbits race homewards through the fields. They certainly better not be heading to a burrow in our la cave.