Our House is Definitely Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  Again, Jean-Claude goes to great lengths to ensure I grasp the machinations of Cuzance politics, for he assures me that this is untrue. He tells me that Gérard Lacroix was the founder. I find this fascinating, as he was the man we bought our petite maison from. The plot thickens. I also find it extraordinary that such attention is given to so many facets of our village. Who could have ever possibly known that there was individual focus on country lanes? There seems to be far more to village life than meets the eye. Now I know what they are plotting and planning when I look out and see the lights in the Maire office burning late into the evening. I am quite sure that the passion of their discussions is further fuelled by a digestif or two.

  Jean-Claude elaborates further in his extensive reporting of village affairs.

  Pierre Pipereau is now gathering a pluridisciplinarian team. ‘I feel like working, unlike today’s team, with councillors who are only present for visitors; who know their files, and are knowledgeable enough to further them. I shall resolutely commit myself to a policy of democratic participation within the village where my councillors will be active.’

  My goodness, I think. Such lofty aspirations and such a strong political platform for our little rural village. It sounds more like the heated politics of Paris.

  In order to make up my team I have strived to get a panel of the forces active in the commune, as many men as women; active people, farmers. I want my councillors to work for everybody’s good. This notion is not just a rhetorical or electoral formula; it is a concept that has deep implications for me.

  Jean-Claude loses no time in setting me straight on this political gambit: ‘Susan: this is anyway a necessity by law today.’

  He continues to fill me in by sending information straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak — we are in the country, after all.

  Right now the team is still in the process of gathering ideas in order to insure pertinent long-term projects. I do not want to resemble the people who are today in office since they are people of yesterday and are present only to accumulate financially profitable jobs. The mayor must show the way; our long-term projects will be rooted and programmed in the local reality of our land and we shall make sure they are furthered. I love Cuzance, I love my village. I will give life to a team which is able to work conjointly for the common good.

  Quite frankly, I start to wonder if Jean-Claude is mistakenly quoting from the national journal, Les Figaro, for these ambitious sentiments seem to come directly from the heart of someone aspiring to be president of France.

  However, all this pales into insignificance when I discover that in another rural village in France, chicken farmers threaten legal action over a defamatory porn film. All I can say to that is, oh là là. Imagine if such high drama took place in Cuzance. Our petite village would definitely be on the tourist trail.

  This really dispels all notions of a quiet life in the country. It makes me think again of our notes about not buying a house near sheep because of the marauding les mouches. I feel that anyone contemplating buying a rural petite maison in France perhaps needs to add to their criteria: ‘Do not buy near a chicken farm’. It would certainly seem that whatever you are in the world, even buried in a petite rural enclave, you can’t escape politics and drama.

  Summer Treasure Searches

  While we have chosen to abandon our habit of setting the alarm for precious vide-grenier mornings, a quiver of excitement ebbs into our dreams and we still always wake as the first fingers of sunlight filter in. The tingling thrill of the quest soon holds us in its thrall once again. While the little house is already crammed with treasure from our previous early Sunday morning market forays, the lure of summer treasure searches is one that grips us in a passionate fever. Our voiture positively buzzes with our eager anticipation. It surges forward with a will of its own along the winding country lanes that still have threads of mist. The little car responds to our palpable sense of excitement, like an eager puppy straining at the leash. Once again, our own vide-grenier guide that we plan at the start of every summer also forms our personal exploration of our département and the surrounding ones. It leads us to tiny, tucked-away villages that we would never otherwise discover: Aubazine, Beauregard, Gabillou, Soturac.

  All the villages display small, brightly coloured handmade signs along the roadside to show the way to their vide-grenier. The intermittent arrows, often almost buried in tall grass, point here right, there left. Despite their interspersed appearance, we often wonder as we whizz along the narrow, curving lanes, how a market can possibly appear when we seem to be utterly buried in the depths of the remote rural landscape. Along the way, we gasp at châteaux and exclaim as glimpses of soaring limestone cliffs perforate the dense forests. Le Dordogne suddenly appears, carrying kayakers; it is a shimmering expanse in the glistening early pearl light.

  And then, the arrows stop. Voilà, a freshly mown farmer’s field is already filling with fellow treasure hunters. Cazillac is a new one for us this year. Just the drive across the field makes the outing worthwhile, for a sweeping panorama stretches out before us of rolling hills, a tapestry of every hue of green, fields of fat, contented brown and white cows and expanses of tall corn waving in the breeze. It is like a real-life piece of exquisitely stitched embroidery; a wall hanging where the seams are the farmer’s stone walls, the colours the brightest threads.

  There are many tricks to the trade in the pursuit of summer treasure. I have acquired the skill of casting my eyes down, for far below stall level the best bargains are often to be found. This leads me to unearth superb tea-towels for a mere euro. Frequently they are of vintage quality and the scenes depicted are redolent of times long passed. They are far too pretty to ever be used, though. Was it only just a year or so ago I parted with four or five euro for an old tea-towel? Well, they were French linen, of course. I have since discovered that I can unearth better bargains.

  I have also learnt the art of rummaging through baskets laden to the brim, and ancient overflowing leather suitcases that are placed on the ground. Another speciality I have developed is quite a knack for discovering scarves with designer names, such as Givenchy and Nina Ricci, gracefully decorating their corners. My favourite of the summer is a 1950s one depicting scenes of Monte Carlo. It is silky and colourful, embellished with all the highlights of this ultra-wealthy enclave: Le Casino, Le Palais, Le Jardin Exotique and Le Grand Prix de Monaco. Who was once wearing it and whisked along the cliffs of Monte Carlo in a sports car with the top down, the azure sea crashing below? When I toss it round my shoulders in what I Iike to imagine is an ever-so-nonchalant style, I am sure there is a lingering hint of ever-so-expensive exotic perfume from days long gone. I waft along in a cloud of perfumed dreams, utterly convinced that its owner was a glamorous fifties film star. Vintage clothes and accessories remain among my favourite things of all, no matter where I am in the world. I can lose myself in hours of daydreams, imagining who once owned them and what soirées their frocks floated through on a summer afternoon. Ah, ‘Made in Paris’ the label declares, and I smile to myself in triumph as I swoop to scoop up such treasure.

  Despite our best-laid plans of limiting ourselves to just one vide-grenier a day and heading to the nursery to buy more plants, for the second day in a row we abandon our plans. The fever of the treasure hunt has us firmly caught in its grip. So, off we set on another twenty-minute drive, past immaculate walnut groves, prosperous-looking grande maisons and delightful villages that are straight off a film-set, this time to Le Cave. On arrival, I immediately fall upon an enormous wooden bowl for five euro. Huge, heavy wooden bowls also seem to be becoming our forte, for just last summer we found one that caused heads to turn in envy as Stuart carried it exultantly homewards. Do we need another bowl? Absolutely not, but how could we possibly resist? Once again, I mentally place it on a significant sideboard in la grange of the future.

  Our plans for la grange seem to play a bigger and bigger role each year in our dreams and discussions. Mind
you, we still have no idea whatsoever of the potential cost. Stuart tells me that the plumbing alone would be prohibitive. After all, it would be two storeys, and in the design board in my imagination it has three upstairs chambres and two upstairs salle de bain. We will see. Isn’t that what dreams are for? If not castles in the air, a French country barn is what my dreams are made of.

  A simple Sunday outing turns into five hours altogether, for by now it’s déjeuner time. We feel like locals as we decide to head to nearby Cresse and have lunch at a small, unpretentious café we discovered the previous summer. Who could resist canard and frites at a bargain price? The duck is piping hot and succulent; it simply falls away from the bone in its sweet moistness. We both agree that the quality of the food more than makes up for any charm the café itself may lack. It is an interesting fact that the café of our choice is located right on a busy road. Considering that we both cherish peace and quiet, our seeming predilection for roads is altogether curious.

  Each summer we learn new things about our other life. We very quickly learnt to be on high alert after we enjoy déjeuner at a restaurant. After the two-hour lunch break, particularly on a weekday, as two o’clock approaches it becomes the critical hour on the roads. Drivers are in a frenzy to return to work on time. It is equally frenetic late on a Friday afternoon in the prequel to the weekend. Another word of caution — the same rule of the road we have learnt applies to the last ten-minute lead-up to the sacred lunch break. If in doubt about your ability to drive in France, I would advise you to eat at home.

  We found this out the hard way and almost at our peril. The French tend to drive as if they are in a perpetual Formula 1 race. It’s zero to over one hundred in three easy moves, successive swift clutch manoeuvres that are swifter than the swoop of a swallow’s wing. They overtake on blind corners, on precipitous hills. Lack of vision is never an obstacle, not even in the driving rain. I catch my breath in fear every time I witness their dare-devil performances.

  One time we are returning from one of our favourite restaurants in Les Quatre Route, and our first sublime lunch for the summer at Au Vieux Four. We are on the twisting, turning road back to Martel when a behemoth of a truck starts to bear down on us. He tails us for several heart-stopping minutes, clearly frantic to take off and accelerate past with ferocity — on a sharp corner, no less. Oh là là, we think. He overtakes in a rush of wind and we are left in his slipstream. These are the times when we wonder if we will make it home safely. Our little car rocks in the shudder that is left in his trail of vapour fumes. This is not a one-off experience. No wonder the apéritif hour is often advanced.

  Le Dordogne

  Rural markets

  Summer Starts

  Summer descends overnight. In Cuzance, it seems to be as simple and quick as that. The long, lazy weekend afternoons spent reading and dozing under our walnut tree slip away like wisps of cloud in the bright blue sky. It is like a cerulean chapeau with floating ribbons of white to tie it. The first of the swallows appear, dipping and swooping in search of water. La piscine is still to be opened, even though the sun is now a throbbing pulse.

  It has been five days since Stuart picked up his Droopi 2 and it is only on Saturday afternoon that he finally has a chance to open the petite box. Despite enquiring if it was complet when he collected it, it is not. Non, non. The essential element is missing — the electric winder. So much for not hauling the heavy pool cover off for the first huge clean. Another trip to Brive, we groan.

  Now that the full surge of summer is upon us, so too the forceful growth in la jardin virtually unfolds before our eyes. While we are delighted by the rapid unfurling of petite leaves on the two grapevines gracing la grange, le soleil also accelerates the growth of les herbes. This is not a reason to rejoice. Oh là là, we bemoan. The weeds are back in full force. Their ferocious desire to conquer the land never abates. It will be sooner rather than later that I don my industrial-size les herbes spray bottle, sling it over one shoulder, stagger under the weight, and set off on my annual battle. It is a battle that I am quite determined to win. Let the duel commence, I declare with determined vehemence.

  The enervating heat means that within a mere eight days after our arrival, we have to rapidly adjust how we approach each day. It is now a battle on all fronts — the creeping temperature and encroaching weeds. As such, it is just our second Sunday that we resume our ritual of rising early for our vide-grenier forays. This time it’s off to Turenne, one of the très beautiful villages of France.

  It more than deserves its accolade. As Stuart tears along the sun-dappled lanes, empty at this early hour, there perched high on a hill Turenne appears, dominating the surrounding hills and fields. Days of long-gone marauders appear in my imagination, for it is easy to see why such citadel towns were built in such dominant positions. Arrows would have shot fiercely from the castle battlements and invaders would have lost the battle before it started. Oh, how well I know what that feels like.

  Its maisons cling to the hillside and climb to the summit, crowned by a grand church. It is exceptionally magnificent for such a petite village. On our way, we crawl through the narrow streets of Hopital St Jean, still sleeping behind the tightly drawn shutters. Just last Sunday it was brimming with stall holders and a lively market atmosphere. Now it is Turenne’s turn to bask in its annual vide-grenier glory.

  We are not disappointed. On arrival, Stuart quickly disappears on his initial reconnoitre. This is his usual style. Mine is to meander. I’m swiftly seduced by the exceptional array of second-hand clothes that most stall holders have at vide-greniers. They are not called ‘clear-out-the- attic’ markets without a reason. A euro here, a euro there. Who can resist? Another blanc fine-cotton chemise. Another classic white shirt. Another straw chapeau. Why not? They are French, after all, and cost a song. Do I ever actually need anything at all? Absolutely not. Yet my rummaging and sifting and sorting always yields tremendous results. And when the label occasionally screams ‘Paris’ at me, there is no end to my joy. The triumph I feel is akin to winning the French Open.

  As we are leaving we encounter the Irish couple, Joy and James, who we had met the previous day with their friend Jane. We had first met them at Cazillac when Jane asked Stuart, in French, where she could buy an espresso. Being taken for a French person is always flattering. Of course, it is me who is more enchanted by such errant observations when they happen to me. I conveniently overlook the fact that I usually can’t reply. It is enough that I have created such a convincing persona. I knew there was a perfectly valid reason for all the French clothes I seem to acquire each summer.

  Today was my turn, though, to feel enormously flattered. Black chapeau, my très chic very French-looking red, black and white robe, straw sac slung over my shoulder, sauntering along, ever so casually. It is a far cry indeed from the endless days of dishevelment spent in la jardin. Is there any better compliment in the world than when it comes from a French man? ‘Très bien, Madame,’ he murmured and smiled as I drifted past his stall. Oh yes, my French is good enough to understand that! Sauntering became a floating motion after that momentous moment. It is not quite what artisans think when they come to our petite maison. Oh no. I can see it clearly written on their faces that no French woman would ever renovate or garden in such a state. Perhaps that explains why Dominique gardens in a frock.

  We proudly display our esteemed find of the day to the Irish trio. There is always one vide-grenier find that stands out as the most significant coup de grâce. In fact, it was Stuart’s this time; a nouveau Christian Dior shirt from Paris, no less, snapped up for four euros. Jane declares, ‘Health to wear, strength to tear. Money to buy a new one.’ This is a whimsical Irish expression I’ve not come across before, but I rather like the ring of it. She tells us it is a local expression from where they come from in Ireland in County Tyrone. James hastily adds he’s from Belfast; clearly they don’t indulge in such whimsy there. Jane then goes on to tell us that she is descended from the kings of
Ireland. Again James interjects to add one critical word to the conversation: ‘Allegedly.’ We all then chat about where our maisons are, how long we have had them and the joys of having a home in France. They marvel at the fact that we travel each year from Australia to our little French home.

  Basket brimming, including a long-searched-for garden trowel, we take a different route home — not intentionally. There are so many twists and turns in the spider web of rural roads that one wrong turn means that you are somewhere entirely different to where you expected to be. Dotted in the hedges are petite signs to petite hamlets; bold black names emblazoned on blanc backgrounds, with quixotic names like Branty and Friat. I’m always fascinated by the poetic names. As we wind our way back to Pied de la Croix, we climb imperceptibly ever higher. Valleys are arrayed below in all their picturesque beauty. Although it’s Sunday, usually a revered day of rest, it is the busiest season for farmers and their harvests at the height of summer. Bright blue and shining red tractors sweep through meadows of tall grass. They are so small below us that they look like toys.

  As we can never stand firm against the lure of the vide-greniers, I can imagine one day having our very own stall at our Cuzance vide-grenier. I’m convinced that the villagers and local farmers will flock to it out of curiosity. After only a few years, it is not only my market basket brimming; the little house is already almost full to the rafters. Yet I can never resist scooping up another piece of treasure that I simply can’t live without. Naturally, Stuart is far more prudent and restrained than I am. Dominique and Gérard have a stall each year with his sister, who lives a 120-kilometre round-trip away. This is not a choice I would make in the searing summer heat. Non. I will simply set up a table right outside the stone pillars of Pied de la Croix. It’s where there is always a line of end-to-end voitures parked when we peep outside the shutters on Cuzance vide-grenier mornings. I will have a captive market and the added novelty of being the foreigners who arrive each year from the opposite side of the world. Like much of the imaginary world I tend to live in, I already have it all planned. What I also know is that any euro I am likely to make will go straight back into my market basket fund.