Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Page 9
Last year, the perpetual rain meant that there weren’t many stallholders prepared to face a deluge. In a strange echo of last year, the day has turned cool and gloomy once again. It is only thirteen degrees when we set off, our spirits buoyant despite the menacing black clouds. While the weather is sombre, we are elated. This is one of our favourite pastimes in the whole world.
This year, the sun breaks through just in time for the village to have its annual household clearance. As always we have an eclectic list: a letter opener for post at Pied de la Croix, old linen as gifts for friends, a watering can for our new plants. Then of course any riches we stumble upon. We resume the vide grenier approach we have adopted from previous years. Stuart sets off on a brisk reconnoitre for any must-not-be-missed bargains. We then go on a more leisurely stroll together to pause, pick up, examine, choose or discard objets. The scoop of the day is a silver soup ladle, a song at one euro.
It’s from the stall of Gérard and Dominique’s friends. They tell us later that they did indeed sell it to me at an amis price – a special price for friends. As soon as we get home we scrutinise the tiny hallmark. Surely no piece of treasure will ever surpass this? We lay out our finds and examine the pristine linen and ecole notebooks – old school exercise books from long ago classrooms that were never used. Who was meant to write in them and what stories of childish imagination, dreams and hopes may have been contained there? As I cradle the ladle, my heart feels warm, just as the soup will be, that one day I stir in our petite maison.
Over dîner, the disturbing noise from the previous evening ominously returns. We had been to Souillac for our first meal out – of course we chose our favourite steak, frites and crème brûlée. By the time we were home, tucked up snugly reading, the thunder started to roll in waves overhead. And then, the alarming sound of loud scratching penetrated even the thunder. Last year, noises emanated from the attic, a place we have not ventured foot yet this year, even though it is just up a short flight of stairs from our salle where we occasionally have time to sit in the late evening on our battered Chesterfield. Though neither of us have actually said it, I think we are both nervous about investigating an attic that has been shut up for a year. This sound though is much closer – and far more alarming.
We grab the feeble, flickering torch and tiptoe out to investigate. On cue, like a drum roll in a film, the thunder intensifies. The shutters close the night out – and thankfully too it would seem, the marauding creature at large. There is no way to investigate the noise more closely – and certainly no great desire to do so – for we have now identified the source of the noise. It is much closer to home than we originally thought. It is not outside at all. No, the scurrying, scratching sound is behind the blocked-in metal guard in front of la cuisine fireplace. We remember the trepidation of the thought of a badger in la cave. Are there bears in France? We know about the sanglier, when in certain seasons it is not safe to go for a walk in the country, in case you encounter a wild boar . Surely it is not the season for sanglier? Our knowledge of French wildlife is a bit hazy.
It is late Sunday evening; everyone has been gathered for their family dîner, we dare not disturb our friends at this hour. There is nothing at all we can do. It is times like these that I fully realise how deeply buried in the country we are. We creep back into bed and pull the covers tight. Maybe it will just simply go away. The head under the covers technique seems to work, for indeed, to our profound relief, the ominous scratching sound does – in the end – simply stop.
28
The Days Unfurl
On Jean-Claude’s daily visits he frequently regales us with stories – accounts of the village, our neighbours and soirees they attend and give. His stories would be sufficient to fill a book of their own. One day, he told me about a recent dîner they attended. There was a young woman there, the same age as Patrick their son, on holiday from Paris at the time. She too once lived in Paris and apparently she and Patrick got on very well. In fact, Jean-Claude reports that he later overheard them making plans to meet for café. This later causes some degree of excitement for both Françoise and I, as we are collaborating to find Patrick a lovely girlfriend.
He goes on to tell us that she worked as an eye re-educator. None of us are at all sure what such a job possibly means. Whatever the job may entail, clearly there is no call for it in the country, as Jean-Claude tells us she does not get much work at all. He concludes his anecdote by telling us she now finds herself living with her parents and with little diversion or income, in a petite hamlet. It has the highly amusing name of La Sotte, which literally means ‘stupid girl’. While I keep my thoughts to myself, I can only conclude that it is a perfectly apt name for the girl who came from Paris, to a remote village, and now has little work.
As he has told us on previous occasions, Jean-Claude once again reminds us that in a petite village, absolutely everyone knows absolutely everything you do. And if they don’t, they are eager to find out. As he promenades through the village each day, he is inundated by curious queries about us. Everyone it would seem is very anxious to know when we are going to ‘open’ our piscine for the season. Underlying this, is the implication that Australians have very strange ways, for after all, we are here, and in their minds the pool should be open. Damp days and drizzle do not seem to enter into it. They are perplexed as to why we have been back a week and not yet removed the cover. I am sure they are bemused by much that we do. All I can say is that the laurier hedge better have a rapid growth spurt – and soon.
On another day that he drops in, Jean-Claude shares more stories with us about our neighbours, the Chanteurs, but he tells us that it is in strict confidence and that I am not to breathe a word of it. When they walk past as we are sharing an evening apéritif on our porch, I am shocked to see how frail Madame Chanteur has become in the intervening year. I am touched anew by Monsieur Chanteur’s loving protectiveness as he holds tightly onto her arm to support her. They too stop to admire our fleurs. However, once again I feel frustrated and on the outside as I simply can’t communicate with them the way I would like to. At the vide greniers I certainly know how to ask the price ‘Combien il est?’ but I fail each time to understand the answer and always need Stuart on hand to tell me the price. At least I know enough to wish them ‘Bon soiree, bon promenade’ as they continue on their gentle night-time stroll.
The next day we continue our combined onslaught in le jardin against the invading sea of weeds and brambles. A week of intermittent sun, interspersed with short, sharp showers, has meant that the weeds and grass have sprung up in front of our eyes. It is virtually impossible to hold the tide back. In only a week, the focus of my life, has narrowed down to our little Cuzance world.
All that matters now is the garden and my obsessive tendencies are in full force.
I waste too much time wandering round the vast expanse in search of my digging implement that I have flung down carelessly. I almost cry with frustration. My indispensable jardin tool now means more to me than my coveted pair of French boots.
I have lost precious time working and before long, the rain plummets down again and I am quickly saturated and driven inside. Our gardening clothes are soaked through and we have to wait for them to dry out before we can do any more work in the garden. Once again, I wonder what we were thinking. One set of work clothes each yet enough clothes for a month of Paris soirees. When we retreat to the house, there is now an ominous smell emanating from behind the fire grate. There is no way at all to see what is causing it, for it is impossible to even attempt to wrench the grate out. Thoughts of the suspected badger from la cave return. Or, possibly worse.
‘Light duties’ in le jardin
29
A New Week Beckons
Last year, Monday mornings invariably meant a visit to the Maire. There were mountains of paperwork to be approved and signed off. There were heart-in-the-mouth moments and a huge sense of trepidation. The work on the roof was well underway but did not have the offi
cial sanction. Would the work on the roof have to stop? Would it take weeks and weeks to have the official stamp of approval? And, worst of all, would it be fin before our departure? Now it looks like there will be more bureaucratic moments in store.
After deciphering our solemn-looking lettrès from Cahors that required us to state whether la grange was now being inhabited after the addition of its nouveau slate roof, we receive yet another official lettre from the government département in Cahors. We need to provide verification that la grange is not a nouveau maison. How will we prove this and how will we provide the proof? We choose to shelve the intricacies of French bureaucracy for the moment. There is simply too much to do.
Meanwhile, Mondays start with continued efforts in le jardin to stem the tsunami of weeds engulfing our new plants. It is heartbreaking to see this happen in front of our very eyes and, indeed, in the blink of an eye. It has only been a matter of days after all that we planted them. To protect them, Stuart climbs the ladder to the storage space above the carport and the very handy bales of hay that have been left by the previous owner. Mulch in an instant. He tosses down bale after bale of crisp, dry hay. Little were we to know that this would prove to be a perfect source of propagation for another influx of choking weeds. So much to do and so little time.
We then gather rocks from the land to edge the beds. There are lumps of limestone everywhere; no garden supply centre is necessary when you live in Cuzance. The land provides all that we need. We utilise all that we can that we find. Even the old blue twine from the hay bales has a second life when it is used to tie up and train the grapevines.
This is recycling in its natural element. In fact, Stuart even remarks that he has not yet made one bricolage run. By the start of the second week last year he would have made at least five trips in this time. Freed from his endless work on la cuisine that consumed his life our previous summer, this time we are able to work side by side. While not as relentless – yet – in our efforts this year, for it would be impossible to sustain year after year, Brigitte from the village on her daily walk, does kindly enquire if we ever have time to simply promenade. I try to convey that we are certainly going to try to more often this year. While we are not completely consumed and driven by the desire to rénovée like previous years, nevertheless the days still ebb away. The difference is that this year we have found time for stolen hours under the spreading shade of the walnut tree.
30
La Dinette
While the inability to communicate with the outside world due to the failure of la portable is at times frustrating, nevertheless our lack of technology means that we are able to fully immerse ourselves in life in the country. At times however, the world beyond does bring a layer of responsibility and commitment to friends and family. On such occasions, I wander down to Jean-Claude’s to check my email. I am an incongruous sight, walking through the village clutching my laptop, for in many ways, time has stood still in Cuzance and the outside world does not seem to intrude or impinge. It is something I particularly love, the immersion in my own special little world; a world where for a while you can divorce yourself from reality. While inevitably it laps at the edges of our rural backwater, I indulge myself in pretending it does not exist at all. We can dance to our own tune while we are here.
Stuart has gone to Souillac to play bridge with Françoise. A quick check of my email extends into a six-hour visit, ending with la dinette, for on their return, Françoise invites us to stay. La dinette, she tells me, is an informal, impromptu meal and casual invitation.
This is more flattering than an invitation to a grand dîner. There are five of us, as Patrick is still on vacances. We gather round their outside table, overlooking the upper terrace festooned with wisteria. As a Parisian landscape gardener of growing repute, Patrick has not been able to resist some vigorous pruning and training. He and Jean-Claude have differing views on landscaping and the generations sometimes collide.
For a simple meal, to us it is extremely impressive that there is still a procession of courses. Saucisson from the markets – a type of cold sausage, thinly sliced, this one infused with the regional walnuts – homemade pain, ragout, fromage and then homemade crème glacée, chocolat tart and orange sauce – remains from their splendid Sunday déjeuner. These are not quite the leftovers we are used to in our home. The meal is made especially memorable when Françoise declares that we are part of the family.
Our sense of acceptance and privilege to be so lovingly absorbed into our French life, is added to when Patrick offers us the use of his apartment in Paris when we return next year. It is like being offered the keys to the kingdom. There is no other phrase that exists with quite the same ring as, ‘An apartment in Paris.’
We are puzzled though when Patrick reminds us that he made this offer when we met him the previous year. It is mystifying to both of us how we could have possibly forgotten such an exciting prospect, for after Cuzance, Paris is the only other place we would choose to be in our other French life.
As the heat builds up to a crescendo, so too do the flies who have taken up permanent residence in Pied de la Croix. Stuart sets to work in a frenzy of fly swatting. Like most other words I learn, it is in the context of necessity. So it is that les mouches is quickly added to my vocabulary. Like the weather, les mouches is a frequent word on our friends’ lips. No discussion of international politics or worldwide events; no, in the country your world is narrowed down to the vagaries of the climate – ‘Will there be a storm tonight?’, ‘Will it rain tomorrow?’ and the marauding mouches.
31
Ferme Auberge
Scattered throughout the countryside in our region, is an abundance of signs for gîtes and ferme auberge. There are rural gîtes and gîtes in châteaux, and then there are the signs that point down enticing rural lanes to ferme auberge. Like many other experiences, it is not until this year that we have time to experience one. We had often been told by Gérard and Dominique of their fondness each Cuzance summer to eat at a ferme auberge at least once a week. Today they are taking us to their favourite one, near Souillac. They represent the essence of all that is celebrated in French rural cuisine, farm-fresh food, grown, picked, cooked and served by the family in their maison. Each département in France is justifiably proud of its own regional produce. What all départements have in common is that food is an art form, a religion, the essence of existence. What French people choose to eat each day underpins the rhythm of their daily life.
As always in France, the drive is as much a part of the experience as the destination.
This one takes us past the well-remembered towering limestone cliffs, down winding narrow lanes and then, up a gravel drive to a large and picturesque house, covered with ivy and steps decorated with welcoming pots of crimson geraniums. It is set high on a hillside and has a sweeping view of the summer crops below, neat green fields of abundance.
In a ferme auberge, everyone gathers round one long table and everyone is served the same meal. There is no need for a menu although there is a choice in the main course.
This is not a meal for the height of summer for the food is rich and heavy. It is redolent of the fare prepared for true farm workers, when déjeuner is the main meal of the day to build you up for a solid afternoon’s work in the fields. Now, as the tourist season starts in earnest, the lunchtime gathering of up to thirty people, can be a smorgasbord of nationalities. In the evenings it is even busier, when dîner is also served on the outside terrace and sixty people can be served in the course of an evening. All I can say, is that after a seven-course meal at night, they must roll home like a big bale of hay.
We are seated in the prime position, next to the window, overlooking the beds of yellow roses. The first course to arrive is a hearty vegetable soup, followed by rillettes,
a thick, coarse type of pâté, served on crunchy, oven-fresh pain. Next, there is a choice between goose and roast lamb. Gérard is an aficionado of goose and heartily recommends it. Dominique and St
uart opt for fat, corn-fed goose and I choose soft pink, tender lamb. It seems to have jumped straight from the fields to my plate. We toast each other and promise to make an annual pilgrimage to la ferme auberge. There is a green salad and fromage followed by Gérard’s absolute favourite dessert , île flottante, which literally means floating island . Despite our love affair with all that is a dessert in France, île flottante does not rank highly on our list. It is a strange concoction of meringue floating in an ever-so-sweet syrup. It is cloying and does not rate a look-in in our echelon of favourite French desserts. Gérard assures us that the ferme auberge one is utterly different. We remain to be convinced. I am even less sure when he says it is also known as ‘eggs in snow’. I am instead given a plate of abricots and walnuts. I discover I have made a mistake. They persuade me to try a mouthful, and I am swept away by its smooth lusciousness. Trust a Frenchman to be au fait with his desserts.
We head home thoroughly replete, through the pretty villages of Cresse and Gluges.
The voiture is swamped by the formidable rock walls and we hug the narrow road as it curves in right under the soaring cliffs. I breathe in tight in case we encounter another car. Somehow, I think this may make a difference. The Dordogne flows calmly next to us, kayaks flash past and kites wheel lazily overhead. We drive next to walnut groves, the trees as straight as silent sentinels, and as we go through the small village of Saint-Sozy, Gérard and Dominique point out La Terrace, a three star Michelin restaurant. Who would have thought that there was a Michelin star restaurant right on our doorstep? I later discover there are in fact six in our département.