Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Read online

  On each of the six approaches to Cuzance, there are newly built maisons constructed from wood and with sloping roofs. They have been designed and built to blend with the centuries-old stone maisons. There is however, no mistaking the fact that we are in a rural landscape when the very distinctive farmyard odour periodically pervades our jardin.

  There is also the raucous squealing of pigs, on cue, at feeding times, early in the morning and then in the evening. The full moon shines on us as we end another happy day in Cuzance; the only people in the empty night as we head home along the quiet lanes.

  Rebuilding an old dry stone wall.

  20

  Martel and the Markets

  Today is market day. I’m not quite filled with the same sense of eager excitement that I am on vide grenier mornings but nevertheless, there is a feeling of anticipation about once again filling my basket with fresh produce. I don’t think that I will ever lose my sense of joy each year at rediscovering all the things that we have come so quickly to love.

  On Sunday afternoon, sauntering around Martel, the market square had emptied after the Sunday déjeuner gatherings. Now, on market day, it is bustling and lively. My secret hope is fulfilled when the middle-aged couple, both short, round and cheerful, whose stall we most frequented last year, recognise us and welcome us back. They must serve thousands of customers every year. To be remembered, truly makes me feel as if we belong.

  When we return home, our basket is brimming. It is laden with more treats that we look forward to enjoying each year during our French summer. At the stall specialising in the walnuts of our region, we’ve bought trois products: Noix Caramelisees – their crunchy sweetness a perfect accompaniment with the Apéritif Noix we sip in small, delicate glasses after dîner, while the Huile de Noix Vierge will be used for salad dressing.

  We also buy soap for gifts – Savon Au Lait D’Anesse – soap from donkeys. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen it and I find it fascinating that soap is made from donkeys’ milk. I am especially fond of donkeys and the soft braying of one that I occasionally hear from a neighbouring field. As we unpack our straw basket, we bury our noses in the tantalising aroma of the ruby red fraise. Inhaling the freshness of succulent strawberries, brings summer to life in our cuisine.

  I’m starting to make small steps forward with my language skills, for when I write the supermarché lists, I write what we need in French: beurre, sucrer and jus: butter, sugar and juice. Stuart’s first words when he got up were, ‘What will we have for dîner?’

  I remind him that is precisely what French people think on waking, for I remember Martine telling me that when we stayed at her home in the Loire Valley. I suggest a roast chicken and write poulet rosti on my list. Food is definitely a religion in France. It is one we fervently embrace.

  21

  Pied de la Croix’s Stories

  At home, everything we have bought and accumulated has a story attached to it, like when we lived in Newtown and there was an evolving element of recycling. Some of our street finds were fabulous, like the immaculate sixties Formica table I found one day in the alley behind our house. In France, the sense of an accompanying story is even stronger. The prosaic task of hanging out the washing on my makeshift line in the carport is made meaningful when I reach for the pegs. I’ve chosen to put them in a faded old battered tin that is punctured with tiny holes. Who once used it and for what purpose? I imagine it was a French child from long ago; grubby knees, torn shorts; searching in the long grass on vacances at his grandparents’ farm; collecting insects and giving them holes to breathe, lost in the endless days of a childhood summer.

  I spend a lot of time each day, letting my gaze drift and linger on the beloved objets we have gathered. I frequently muse about their past and who else once loved them. The price I’ve paid has nothing to do with my fondness for each and every item, for in fact, nothing cost much at all. It is what they represent and their unknown history that makes them valuable to me.

  Last year, every waking moment of every single day, was consumed by the endless lists. We were utterly engulfed by them. What to buy, what to do and in what order.

  Everything was imperative, everything was a priority. It bordered on the tragic when we had to use masking tape to attach the most urgent tasks for each day, to the inside of the front door. literally right in our face, there was no way possible each time we opened and shut the door that we could overlook the urgency of contacting the plombier yet again or face a potential flood in la cave. We are profoundly glad those days are behind us.

  It is true that a year can make all the difference in the world. Our mutual waking thought is that we have to buy toothpicks. Can such mundane thoughts possibly be a greater contrast? We have invited Gérard and Dominique for apéritifs. We have bought the melon and prosciutto for the amuse bouche – how I love that term for a snack served with drinks – but have overlooked the critical toothpicks to assemble everything. We take care to check the word for toothpicks in the dictionary before we head out to shop.

  While very good at gesturing, indicating and miming while in the supermarché and I can’t find an item, I don’t quite fancy the actions that would be involved in pointing at my teeth.

  I wake from my afternoon sleep to be greeted by Stuart’s announcement that he has moved four wheelbarrows of dirt, courtesy of Monsieur Lapin. Seriously, doesn’t the rabbit know that we have more than enough work to do? After my espresso, I pull on my work clothes. What a wonderful reprieve to wait until day four this year before doing so. It was only last year that I would fall out of bed at daybreak and pull them on straight away from our very first day. A rapid espresso and it was off each day to le jardin to set to work with the dawn chorus greeting the new day. I know that Dominique’s immaculate jardin will have a colourful profusion of summer fleurs. I’m determined that before their arrival, I will finish tidying up in front of our petite maison. I always have to remind myself though, that no matter how many weeds I wrench out and how much ivy I hack down, that it will always be a rustique jardin befitting an old farmhouse. A château it is not. However, since we have two months luxuriously stretching out in front of us, we plan to buy two baskets of pink petunias to decorate the front of la grange. They will hang from the iron trellis that was used to support the grapevines. In its former life, la grange was the hub of the farm where the cows lived and were milked.

  22

  Brive-le-Gaillarde and le Jardinière Chantalat

  We sleep in, we sleep in very late. I’m confused as I creep out for the light is dim and sombre. Still swimming up from sleep, I turn the portable on to check the time. The soft grey light tells me it’s about seven. I repeat several times to Stuart that it is in fact after nine. Sleeping in is fine but it also means that it is a frantic rush to get to Brive before the shops shut at twelve. This is something you learn very quickly, shops shut on the dot of twelve and remain resolutely closed for the full two-hour déjeuner break. Dominique and Gérard had invited us to a pre- déjeuner apéritif. We’d declined, saying we were off to Brive to shop. Thank goodness, we agree or we would have segued straight from petite déjeuner to an apéritif in an exceptionally short space of time. Not that we are ever opposed to an apéritif but the time has come to accept that we are on a working vacances after all.

  Over the apéritif hour the evening before with Gérard and Dominique, we had learnt some more about French customs. While they are very comfortable with us and seem to enjoy our Australian sense of humour, they are more formal in their approach to the ritual of the apéritif, than Jean-Claude and Françoise who casually offer us a beer while we are all relaxing round their piscine. As we chat happily with Gérard and Dominique for over an hour and an half, only one apéritif is ever accepted. In many ways, this sense of protocol suits us perfectly – we like the way it defines the time as a certain ritual before parting ways for dîner. As we get to know them more though over the summer, the French ‘rules’ seem to relax more and Gérard is certain
ly happy both to accept, while at our petite maison, and also offer another drink, when we visit at the apéritif hour.

  We have made plans with them to go a ferme auberge for lunch. It’s an outing they are very fond of and last year we had listened wistfully as they described the degustation delights of a seven-course déjeuner, all produced from the farm fresh fare. We are astonished that so many courses are only sixteen euro. I almost jump up and down with excited anticipation.

  For now, though it is on with the business of a renovating life. Despite taking the wrong autoroute exit into Brive on our first trip for the year, and despite by now the very limited time before lunch, we have a very successful trip to Jardinière Chantalat. At home, we rarely go to nurseries except to buy seedlings for our vegetable garden. Now, we have two yawning acres that have been neglected for many years. Somehow, in the damp drizzle, we manage to squeeze four tall Laurier, two photinia, two hanging baskets and a tray of orange marigolds in to our Renault. The daily stop for pain, home for our usual simple déjeuner of pain, fromage, jambon and tomate, then off to le jardin in the rain. Despite the fact that it gets heavier and heavier, and we’re soon quite drenched, we press on. I remember from last year that once I started working, the more I did, the more I wanted to do. This could well be, that despite having found Albert to mow and help while we are away, the fact remains that our land is huge and there is still more than enough to do. Although there are still swathes of weeds and brambles, the transformation in just two years is amazing. On our very first visit, it had been so overgrown that we couldn’t even attempt to walk around our property and we left for home without even seeing it all. From once a small terrace garden in Sydney, to Cuzance, when days can pass and I don’t venture to all four corners of our garden. Life’s journey has been both entirely unexpected and extraordinary.

  I start with a tenacious vine at the front of la grange that has grown rapidly in the past year. It is in danger of taking over and crawling into the gutters and rafters.

  Its tentacles reach into the gaps in the stone and over time, its invasiveness will cause the stone to crumble. Pretty as its bright orange flowers are, it has to go. I have to get the stepladder out and pry my secateurs into the crevices. When I step back, I’m very pleased with my effort – even if I am soaking wet by this stage. Time for afternoon tea and a new chocolat mousse to sample. Mmm; La Mousse Gourmande Au Chocolat. It more than lives up to its gourmet label.

  We gaze out through the rain-soaked windows and admire the bright orange marigolds that Stuart has planted. They are in an old stone trough built into the low stone wall near our très jollie front steps. We think the old trough was originally for the farmer’s pigs to feed from. The baskets of pale pink geraniums hanging up high either side of la grange’s huge wooden doors are a perfect complement to the pale gold stone.

  There were already five iron extensions protruding from la grange’s walls, complete with hooks, just waiting for our fleurs. In less than a week, our petite maison looks more like a well-loved home every day.

  When Gérard and Dominique arrived the previous evening, they stood for a few moments inside the doorway, while they took in all that we have achieved. Despite not visiting for a year, the fact that they notice our new lamp, impresses us. We bask in the warmth of their compliments. The gift of new friendship is like a beribboned, special occasion, glistening white box from the patisserie, tied in a shining bow.

  They told us how our nearest neighbour, Monsieur Chanteur, had intently questioned them when they had stopped in spring to take photos of our jardin for us.

  Who were they and what were they doing? Despite not being able to communicate very fluently with him, we’re touched that he apparently keeps such a vigilant eye on Pied de la Croix in our absence. However, we are not at all pleased that he has chosen to plant five fir trees on our shared boundary. Eventually they will be enormous and block both the restful rural view and precious light from our chambre. Jean-Claude fills us in on why he has chosen to plant them so close to our maison. He says that he is an ‘old school architect’ and is apparently offended by the sight of our outbuildings and particularly the addition of our new water tank. We find this quite perplexing. After all, have we not all chosen to live in a rural setting?

  More amusing are Jean-Claude’s accounts of our Parisian neighbours across the road. He deems them to be very ‘special’. This is his disparaging word for anyone who is at all different and does not quite fit in. We feel very fortunate to have escaped having this label applied to us. It would seem that the people from Paris scorn the bourgeois who own a second home. Stuart points out that this is a particularly strange attitude, for after all, their petite maison is where they escape to avoid the Parisian summer heat.

  Even more entertaining is Jean-Claude’s account of Monsieur Paris who took on a controlling role for the Cuzance vide grenier. This extended to telling an old woman from the village that her stall was somehow not to his liking. This story sheds more light on why there seems to be at times a great divide between people from Paris and the rural French. We discover later, that perversely, Monsieur Paris is not held in high regard in the village as his home is always surrounded by piles of discarded junk. As his house, like ours, is right on the road, it is an ugly sight indeed.

  We have planned to go with Gérard and Dominique to an evening vide grenier in nearby Baladou. Just before we are about to leave, Dominique appears on our doorstep to tell us that they had discovered it is a barter-only vide grenier. We have not encountered one here before but it makes a lot of sense in a rural community. Dominique explains that you can swap any number of things – shoes, clothes, confiture, even your labour such as work in le jardin. We have nothing at all to swap and it is the apéritif hour after all, so that’s what we decide to do instead. I certainly don’t intend to labour in anyone else’s jardin...

  As Dominique is inviting us for a drink, Jean-Clause drops in on one of his daily visits. She says they have not seen much of him at all since they returned to Cuzance for the summer. He explains that he must devote all his spare time to us while we are here.

  Everyone is gathered inside the doorway – Stuart and I stand each side of them to watch their animated gestures and rapide conversation . They joke and laugh together; it’s like watching a lively stage play. As Dominique leaves, I tell her she could have called us on la portable rather than trek through the rain to let us know about the change in plans.

  She tells us it is always a pleasure to visit us in our home. They admire our fleurs as they leave together and I feel elated that our petite maison is being transformed so fully into a welcoming maison and reflect on what a far cry it is from the past two years when all we did was relentlessly renovate. There has not even been a single bricolage trip yet and it is only today that a hardware list has been started. By this time last year, the bricolage was already Stuart’s well established second home. As we later meander home through the gentle rain after our apéritif, I am once again filled with a sense of joy to have two lots of amis in our village to share our other French life with.

  23

  Le Chien Quest

  Jean-Claude has enthusiastically embarked on a quest for a dog. On Monday afternoon, perched on the old wooden chair in the corner of Françoise’s petite la cuisine, I asked her what the chart on the wall meant. She explained that it was a diet plan from her doctor but confided that she was finding it difficult to follow the strict regime. It’s no wonder she found it hard; cooking is both her forte and passion. I told her that when I get home from school each day I always feel tired but having Henri means I have to take him out for his daily walk. When I get back, I feel rejuvenated. While Françoise struggles to exercise, she agreed with my suggestion that by getting a chien, she too would be able to go for a gentle stroll each day through the village. This would go some way to combating the exquisite cuisine that Françoise conjures up for her friends and family.

  We searched for Jean-Claude in le jardin to
tell him of our plan. He has had dogs in the past and loves their company. He is the essence of all that a dog owner should be.

  Always working in his jardin, always on walks through the village, stopping to chat to all he knows; characteristic pipe in mouth and checked cap perched on his head. Walks with Françoise and a chien by his side would complete the picture perfectly. His only reluctance to agree with the plan is that in the bitter winter months that they spend in Lyon, after their summer sojourns in Cuzance, we all know that while ostensibly Françoise’s chien, it will be Jean-Claude who takes it out in the early morning and evening sleet, snow and ice.

  By Thursday, la chien project is fully underway. Jean-Claude has found the perfect King Charles spaniel, four-months-old, in Cancon, a two-hour drive away. It was born in April, just like me. Maybe I will have a say in the name. I am filled with great satisfaction that my plan is so quickly coming to fruition. What we are also excited about is that in some small way, we will share their chien on our summer vacances and so have a French dog to return to each year. We decide, that as we will meet it straight away, when it becomes a much-loved part of Jean-Claude and Françoise’s life, it will associate us with its new life too. We already look forward to it rapturously greeting us on our return to Cuzance in the years ahead.

  Much to my amazement, I discover that all dogs born in a certain year in France, must have a name starting with the same letter for that year. Stuart explains that this way, you can tell how old a chien is. So, when they get their puppy, this year it must have a name that starts with ‘H’.

  Later in the week, I am surprised by the extent of my disappointment when Jean-Claude tells me that all the puppies have gone already. They have searched further on the internet and there will be none available for two more months – just when we leave.