Rosé and Siestas
Another definitive French measure of the rapide change in the weather is that we quickly change from our rouge vin of choice, La Croix de Pin, to rosé. The cubes of glace clinking are the melodious sound of a true French summer. An icy rosé at lunch makes a French meal complet. It also invariably ensues in a siesta under the walnut tree on our plastique chaise longues. The heat alone is enough to make you drowsy, let alone such tempting indulgences at déjeuner time. This is not recommended on a day when there is still a rénovation agenda to continue with. Just as we have declared that the weekends will be free of rénovation, I also declare that I absolutely will not indulge in a déjeuner apéritif on a working day. That way, disaster lies. Apéritifs and sharp tools are not a compatible mix, as far as I am concerned. I will not, however, ever resist the temptation of a boulangerie delight. The beaucoup travail goes some way to offsetting the daily consumption of indulgent treats; or so I always reason with myself. Since sheer hard work dominated our every waking hour on our previous working vacances, so too have we reasoned that all the pressing demands and never-ending lists can now be fitted into a ‘normal’ working week. Not that anything at all can be deemed ‘normal’ in our life in Cuzance.
It all seems to be go, go, go; here, there, in, out. Rush, rush, rush. I already know that Monday will be back to business with a vengeance. There are bills to pay and calls to make. We need to clear our debts with Nicolai, the gardener and the maçon who put our bathroom window in. We need to call Jena-Louis to check on his availability to help finish our huge paving project, and of course Piscine Ambiance, to sort out our missing Droopi 2 electric winder. Then there are the friends to call to catch up with, amis we have made over the years in France. Brigitte and Erick, when we stayed at their charming chambre d’hôte in Villefranche-de-Rouergue, and Marie-France and Michel whose house we rented in Puymule at the outset of our French adventure. It was the kindness of all of them that helped to start our new French life so happily and smoothly. Erick delivered our bed in our first year at the start of our new life and helped install our new cuisine, a huge advance on our existing kitchen — a sink and a wood stove. Marie-France lent me clothes to work in, gave us household items and even lent us their van to transport everything to start life in our petite maison.
It doesn’t take us long at all to fall back into our Cuzance days and French habits. The lists resume their supremacy. I sigh in resignation at the superiority they have quickly regained. Le jardin always calls urgently and inside, all the wooden floors are eager to hungrily lap up wood oil to replenish the dryness of decades. I still face an army of marauding les herbes. While the petite maison needs love and devotion to restore it, different tactics are required altogether on the land. As I inspect the orchard, I see that dozens of clumps of new brambles have taken up residence in our absence. They need to be banished once and for all from our tiny corner of rural France. From Monday to Friday, the door of our chambre will be left wide open each night. This way, the first creeping slivers of daylight will reach in and touch us, ready for our working vacances. It is a far more gentle way to start a working day than the routine shrill of the alarm in our other working life.
In between ensuring there are some satisfying ticks on our lists, there are visits to the trocs, vide-greniers, bricolage, déjeuners and dîners out on balmy evenings, and endless rounds of apéritifs with amis. We also devour books about France in our moments of relaxation. One of our favourites for the summer is Buying a Piece of Paris. Stuart especially enjoys it, for it links in perfectly with his predilection for reading about Parisian apartments in the French real estate magazines he also avidly devours. Real estate savvy in any language or culture, he tells me that the price of apartments have more than doubled in Paris in the past six years. I head this conversation off before it goes any further; I know the way his mind works, and I don’t intend to embark on the extravagance of an apartment in Paris. Seductive and alluring as the thought may be, I am more than content with our country life in Cuzance.
During our après-midi walnut tree time, Jean-Claude appears, as is still his daily custom. Unusually this time, as he rounds the side of la grange, Monsieur Chanteur is by his side. At eighty-eight, he remains active and spritely, incessantly tending his enormous jardin. In his bereft state, after only losing his wife a few months previously, I am surprised that he is visiting us, for his sadness means that he usually prefers to be alone. Henriette is a bright counterpoint to his stooped state and air of grief, as she bounds towards us cheerfully, chasing butterflies.
Jean-Claude and Monsieur Chanteur speak in rapide French. I swivel my head between them. It’s like watching a tennis match, as I try to discern a word or two. It is impossible. I stumble for the words to even offer a cool drink: boisson fraîche. As it is, Stuart has to translate even this simple phrase. I raise with Jean-Claude the possibility of discussing with Monsieur Chanteur the invasive pines on our boundary. They are growing by the day, and before too long will stop the precious light from reaching our bedroom. Jean-Claude tells me that Monsieur Chanteur’s trees are everything to him. It is up to me to have the chat. It would be fraught with emotion. And so I have to accept the inevitable. There is no way I will ever raise the matter with him. He is already far too sad. In fact, the more I find out about his life, the more sadness I feel.
It transpires that he can speak some English after all. This is not something even Jean-Claude knew about his closest ami in the village. However, his daughter has derided and mocked his accent. As such, he has lost his confidence and will no longer even attempt to communicate in English. I well remember that the Chanteurs moved several years ago to be closer to their daughter and grandchildren, who live in a nearby hamlet. Jean-Claude tells us that on Father’s Day, despite it being a mere five minutes away, she did not visit. She did not even call. His large, sprawling jardin is crying out for the sound of his grandchildren’s laughter. It may in some way fill the empty space in his heart. Not once have I even seen them visit. But as the summer rolls out its days, we find out that it is indeed always true that there are two sides to every story. Perhaps the deliberate planting of the pines should have been a clue. Time lifts its veil of sympathy and causes me to look at our neighbour with new eyes.
Until more is revealed, I have meanwhile urged Jean-Claude to suggest to Monsieur Chanteur that he gets a petite Henriette for company. Even though he scorns the idea of the responsibility, I think that a petite chien to bonjour each morning would add some joy to his lonely days. In a further note of sadness, he has told Jean-Claude that he does not know what would happen to his chien if he died. It seems he thinks this is on the near horizon.
Plans in Place
Things are starting to fall into place so smoothly for our Cuzance summer days that it makes me feel slightly nervous. This is not Stuart’s way at all. He just calmly considers it all to be a natural fait accompli. Jean-Claude accompanies him to visit Jean-Louis to make plans for the paving. Oh yes, the paving saga continues. We have planned to get it underway again on the Monday of our third week, following our trip to Toulouse. This will also allow us to put in a solid week’s work before John and Joe arrive for their holiday. In a stroke of superb timing, it is the week that Jean-Louis will be on night rather than morning shift at the Chanel factory in Martel. He is more than willing to work with Stuart each morning. We have already decided that this year it is madness to pave in the blistering heat during the afternoons in the hottest month of the French summer. Last year we had pressed on regardless of the searing temperature and it was utterly exhausting, especially considering that laying crazy paving is relentless beaucoup travail. Jean-Louis had insisted on continuing to work after déjeuner, despite the fact that it was truly très chaud. It would seem that age and reason are catching up with all of us. It increases our willingness to rise with the sun and put in as many hours as possible until it beats down too ferociously to continue.
Apart from the culture and
cuisine, if there is one single factor that distinguishes a French summer from an Australian one, it is the quality of the light. The colours represent every hue possible in tints of gold, from the softest touches of yellow at dawn to the intense bright clarity at the height of the day’s heat, to its last rays at ten when the sun finally slips away in an ethereal golden glow. The final shafts bathe the orchard behind la grange in a light that is almost translucent. Once again, the elongated summer evenings seduce us. It is not until the heat subsides just before eight that we are able to resume work in le jardin. This in turn means that we eat later and later. By then it’s time to fall into bed.
After eight days, just like in years past, we have still not managed a promenade in the evening along the many country lanes of Cuzance. This, absurdly, includes not even managing an inspection of our boundary wall along the back lane. Jean-Claude has lost no time in telling us that parts of the stone are crumbling away and are in dire need of repair. Another rénovation task to add to the list. Time simply vanishes in a Cuzance day. ‘Zut alors!’ Stuart declares, as we have another simple supper of pain and fromage.
As we chat over our final digestif on our très joli steps, we make plans to re-visit many of our now beloved restaurants. I always love the anticipation of avidly scanning the blackboard menus, propped on pavements that display the menu du jour. For only twelve euro or so there is always a choice in each of the trois selections. Entrée: Assiette de erudités ou Taboulé; Plat de Jour: Truite aux amandes ou Poivron farci; Dessert: Pêche Melba ou Fromage Blanc — Formule: 12.50 euro; Plat du Jour: 10 euro.
It is fortunate that my limited French allows me to translate most menus, always being very aware of the dreaded word ‘andouillette’; the coarse-grained French sausage made from intestines. The distinctive strong odour, not to mention taste, is one that has left an indelible impression on my culinary memory. When I see a set menu such as this, I know I can choose the three courses for just over twelve euro, or simply the plate of the day for ten euro. There is never any hesitation on our part, for the formule is always superb value. The first is a plate of assorted cold meat and salad that is already prepared, or the well-known tabouli (it always helps that so many words are so similar). The next choice is trout with almond or stuffed pepper, followed by the famous Peach Melba, a dessert of peaches and raspberry sauce with vanilla ice-cream. Of course, it is fascinating to make such a selection in France when it was invented in 1892 by the French chef Auguste Escoffier at the Savoy Hotel, London, to honour Nellie Melba, the Australian soprano. Like andouillette, although not quite in the same category of must-be-avoided-at-all-costs, fromage blanc is a type of soft French cheese made from cow’s milk that has a unique creamy sour taste.
While I have never been to a Michelin-starred restaurant — and possibly never will, despite there being a surprising number in our département, for they are not just in Paris as most would assume — I love the comfort and conviviality of country cafés and restaurants. In just a few years, at our select favourite restaurants, it is another seam in the fabric of our French life when we are remembered each year and greeted with warmth. I always enjoy the sense of not simply being a tourist sailing through, flying to the next must-see destination to tick off on their list of sights. Yes, we have our inevitable lists, and the ticks are not always as gratifying as we might like. I do, however, know that the lists will subside one day soon; the ticks will grow, the list fade away, and a life of leisurely lunches will be ours more frequently, perhaps even the entire pattern of our days rather than rénovée. What dreamy, heady days they will be.
A Cuzance Monday
Monday starts in hurry and scurry, and a flurry. Just as planned, I fall out of bed at 6am, and I am in my dishevelled work clothes and in le jardin within half an hour. It is my version of a working week in France. Stuart continues to sleep.
Much later, I wake him with a cup of tea. Once he gets into action, his achievements are magnificent. Once again, the reversal in traditional roles is in full play. He washes the floor in readiness for further applications of oil. Quite possibly it is the first time it has been applied in their 120-year history. The results are truly splendid for the chestnut and walnut gleam and shine. In between he applies himself methodically to his lists of calls, not his favourite task at the best of times, no matter which country he’s in. There are a satisfying number of ticks on the list. This includes leaving a message for the maçon to pay his bill. How very strange, we think, pursuing an artisan to pay our debts.
It is perplexing that two days later he has not returned the call. He did not leave a bill in our petite maison nor did he give l’addition to Jean-Claude. It is even more puzzling as the vacances month moves ever closer. Surely he would like to be paid in time for his annual family holiday? It has also been arranged that Albert, gardener number two who lives in nearby Le Cave, will drop off the pump for our water tank. It is the ugly plastique tank that he set up at the end of the carport that is one of the reasons that Monsieur Chanteur has planted his soldier-straight line of already towering pines on our limite. We have indicated that at some point we will relocate the tank, but it is to no avail.
A call to Gérard confirms the amount owing to gardener number trois, Nicolai. He will drop in to Pied de la Croix within half an hour. This ensues in the flurry part of our Monday morning. Stuart abandons his rejuvenation of the floorboards and hastily dashes out to Martel to withdraw the huge amount of euros. Meanwhile, I abandon le jardin to consult the dictionary and nursery guide, Jarrige Espaces Verts. I construct the most simple of lists. Two roses for our front bed next to très joli steps — une rose blanche and une rose rouge. I cross-check the nursery guide to write the names of possible red and white rose choices. Never was a garden design so quickly constructed. Next, the boundary for our limite is still exposed to le Marie and our neighbours. The trois hazelnuts that have been planted the previous Novembre — for this is the month to plant in the northern hemisphere — are all healthy and flourishing. I sound out each word like a five year old as I write down a simple phrase to indicate that I would like more planted, but I need to work out the exact number later.
As Stuart tears off in Formula One style to Bank Populaire, I suddenly remember that the bank will not be open, for it is Monday and most shops are shut. These are the things that we always need to try to remember in our French life. His rapide round trip will have been a waste of time. Time, as always, is not something we can afford to waste.
Dominique appears as I’m poring over the dictionary. Despite her and Gérard just organising with Nicolai to collect his l’addition, they too only just remembered that the bank will be closed on Monday. Like a jardin angel, she has appeared with the money to lend us. Incroyable, I exclaim with gratitude.
I ask if Nicolai would accept a cheque. After all, we have been surprised in previous years to see how commonplace it is to write cheques in France — in restaurants, in the bricolage, in le supermarché. Stuart has organised that we have a chequebook for our other life. Non, non, Dominique declares. I ask if we should give her a cheque instead of the fistful of euro she is clutching, to pay our gardener. After all, we’re leaving early in the morning for Toulouse and won’t be back for several days. Non, non, I am again told. Once again, such is the kindness of our new amis.
Stuart pulls up in a cloud of dust, like a Grand Prix driver. Voilà, he announces, he was able to withdraw the huge amount of euro from the cash machine.
Next to appear in our hectic Monday morning is Nicolai. I tell him très merci beaucoup; his work in le jardin is superbe. At long last, a gardener who is not très cher and who seems to understand both the needs of foreigners and the dictates of our rustique jardin. Stuart carefully counts out his crisp bundle of euro notes. Dominique then indicates to Nicolai that she would like to take a petite promenade with him round the garden to discuss my Novembre plans for when we have returned to our other life. I hand over the hastily scribbled notes that convey my design. They ar
e simple, for it is not a grande jardin design in Paris. Noisette turns out to be the word for hazelnuts you eat, not the tree. Non, the tree is noisetier. Who could possibly know that they were not one and the same?
Fortunately, Nicolai immediately grasps my idea to continue the rest of my row of hazelnuts. He paces the limite and announces that he will plant huit. Eight is just about what I had calculated. There was no need after all for my laboriously constructed sentences.
We return to our petite porch and I fall upon the jardin catalogue, as I remember another idea I had for the front bed. At all times I keep in mind that it is a rustique jardin and not destined to be the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris. I flick through and find the photo of hydrangeas and show Nicolai where I think two could possibly be planted in front of where we sit and watch the French world go by. Non, non, he declares. The conditions are not right under the tree. Instead, he shows me where trois could be planted in the bed along the moss-covered wall next to our stone entrance pillars. Perfect, I beam. It will be yet something else to look forward to on our next reunion with Pied de le Croix.
Our House is Definitely Not in Paris Page 7