I cast my fanciful thoughts aside, and we return to our petite maison. On with the oiling of the salon floor and accompanying invasion of les mouches when all the doors and windows are flung wide open.
The only sound as we work into the twilight, apart from the chirruping birdsong, is Monsieur Arnal’s voice that carries through the village on the still night air. Despite selling his restaurant, his presence there is unwavering. It’s as if his entire identity is tied up in its stone and he can’t let go of his grip on the mortar. I can never forget my mother’s stay there two years ago. Our new standing and acceptance in the village was so important to me that I didn’t dare ask for clean towels for her. Despite a notice in her chambre that indicated damp serviettes should be left on the sink to be replaced, this never happened. So it was that I found myself creeping under cover of darkness, carrying clean towels to her room. If a lace curtain twitched as someone watched the antics of my strange foreign ways, I wasn’t aware. But you can be sure in a village as small as ours, nothing goes unnoticed.
Martel markets
French market basket and baguette
The Call of the Wild
Le jardin is still clamouring for attention, like an enfant demanding immediate gratification. As I set to work, I think about how I am making inroads on more than the mere garden. Dominique seems to have decided to abandon her jardin elegance for my more practical style. She has actually asked me to look out for a pair of one-euro pantalons on my vide-grenier forays. Perhaps I should set up my Cuzance boutique after all. Mind you, my main clientele would be farmers’ wives. My fanciful ideas of Audrey Hepburn chic are hardly suitable to life in the country. Now, what was Stuart’s own fanciful notion of an apartment in Paris? This is how I tend to amuse myself when working laboriously away on the land, hour after hour.
I also think about how Dominique works all hours of the day in her jardin. Her jardin is the size of ten French lace handkerchiefs, stitched together with fleurs. She does have her share of les herbes. I frequently reflect that her challenges are not quite like the sheer daunting scale of mine. Two acres of marching foot soldiers, determined to move up the ranks and take over through sheer stealth. Truly, les herbes at Pied de la Croix are like a conquering army. Likewise, when I wake and creep out into la cuisine there is yet another invasion of les mouches. They have camped overnight in our petite maison and, just like the weeds, are ready to strike in full force. We spray, we swot, we leave the windows open. We leave the fenêtre shut — both before the morning sun arrives and after the evening sun dips away. We have been told that this works by those in the know about a rural life. Nothing works at all. Les herbes and les mouches. Definitely, we are not in Paris. Oh no, that is a life of chic haute couture and café culture; glorious jardins and strolling along the Seine. It may be a mere four-hour rapide SNCF trip to the City of Lights, but it is a different world altogether. I am quite sure there are some older inhabitants of Cuzance who have in fact never ventured so far. Paris is worlds removed from our rural enclave.
The petite maison seems to have me in its domestic clutches this year. And while I like playing house in my French doll’s house, as I always romantically imagine it to be, as I style and decorate and pick fresh pink roses, le jardin never fails to beckon me. It is a hypnotic lure that at the same time is perplexing. It is certainly never a mere matter of languidly dead-heading roses and carefully selecting their morning-fresh buds, ready to unfurl in exquisite beauty.
Non, non. All too readily, gardening Cuzance-style wraps me in its grip. One again, I tussle, tug, wrench, heave and dig. I always have to remind myself that there is still another day to pursue my jardin attack, for no matter how much I do, it never seems to be quite enough. The morning’s triumph is to dig holes in the rocky limestone soil, ready to plant more photinia, for the hedge we had planted last summer is all dead. Stuart always did say that our second gardener was not a true gardener. I discover this to be true on two counts. When I sadly remove the six dead photinia, I discover that they are barely resting in the soil. This is why my deep holes prove to be a triumph, for the stones have valiantly resisted every move I’ve made. Let the next photinia survive and flourish, I declare. Later, out of curiosity, I check the gardener’s card against the dictionary. Indeed, Entretien jardin proves to be just that — maintenance. Perhaps I should have consulted Patrick for his Parisian prowess with his jardin design business. Or maybe not. The photos he’s shown us of the landscape work he’s done depict magnifique jardins. There is no place for a rustique design in the City of Lights. I keep telling myself that we are definitely not in Paris. It seems there are many reasons to reiterate this all-important difference.
The elongated hours of summer means that it is always hard to say the day is fin, for there is always something waiting to be done. It means that at nine that evening we move the new bed into the spare chambre from where it has been stored in la grange’s garage. As Stuart assembles it, I trudge across the land with two heavy watering cans. It takes many, many trips to complete my task. Like the early morning, late evening is an exquisite time of day. The intense heat finally abates, and the soft fading sun gathers the land in a farewell caress.
Thursday — Hiring Equipment in Brive
The work starts in earnest. It’s off to Brive yet again for Stuart to start his Cuzance day. This time it’s to hire a heavy-duty cutting tool. The derrière of la grange needs a channel cut across its width for drainage. This means cutting through the large crazy paving stones laid last summer. It was something we had discussed that needed to be done at the time — and in our haste, overlooked in our perpetual bid to simply always do as much as possible on our rénovation vacances. Now there is a thick band of bright green moss, evidence of where the heavy winter rain has gathered in our absence. The moss has crept under the barn door and taken up residence. The gathering pools of water and melted snow will cause the enormous old wooden doors to deteriorate even further. It is not a job I can possibly help with, so it’s back to le jardin for me.
Unless there is a pre-determined agenda, like the hiring of a heavy-duty cutting machine in Brive, when Stuart wakes each day it is to a blank page. He simply waits for the story of each day to be written as it unfolds. Me, just like at home, as soon as I wake my day’s chapter is already half-written. Always on waking I have an itinerary fully mapped out. I rarely deviate from the path I set myself each day. Stuart’s days are full of an eclectic array of rénovation possibilities. Mine has just one item on the agenda: les jardin and the continuing call of the wild.
Stuart arrives home, bearing his cutting machine just in time for our regular second petit déjeuner. I had been on the verge, after several hours’ hard labour, of succumbing to the stale pain au chocolat left over from the day before. If there is one thing you learn quickly in France, it is that pastries are destined to be eaten fresh on the day they are made by artisan bakers. Stuart is carrying a brown paper sac full of promise — chausson aux pomme — crisp, buttery pastry brimming with moist apple. It somewhat balances the shock of the cost of the equipment.
I return to my jardin onslaught in the burgeoning heat. I assiduously stay out of Stuart’s way while he focuses on firing up his cutting machine. It sputters ominously. I hold my breath. We both remember only too well the dismal failure of last year’s compacter, hired to flatten the yawning chasm of castine. Not only did the hire company not get back to us after we had booked it a week previously, which lost us a week’s precious rénovation, when Stuart did finally pick it up, it simply refused to fire into life. A week’s lost work translates to a year for us. The paving should have been fini last summer, and this year’s project was meant to be the transformation of our dismal salle de bain. Next year there will be a frequent refrain when it comes to rénovation in our other life.
To our enormous collective relief, not only does the cutting machine work, but the back-breaking job goes far more smoothly than we could have possibly hoped for. The air is not even rent
with cries of ‘Merde!’ The job is in fact fin the very same day. This is unheard of in our French rénovation life. A huge satisfying tick is placed on the list.
By three, however, my back is breaking and the sun is scorching me. When a Mercedes convertible cruises past, I am more than ready to jump into the passenger seat and be whisked away to a yacht on the Riviera. We down tools and make time to relax under our beloved walnut tree, before heading for Turenne for dîner with Gérard and Dominique. Jean-Claude’s grandchildren, Balthazar and Celeste, who live in Berlin, drop in to enjoy la piscine in the late afternoon. It is not something we ever expected in our other life, to supervise two French teenagers. Their laughter splashes across the orchard as they swim and play.
I especially like Celeste when she declares that she thinks I must be the Direktor of my lycée! Like a true teacher, I ask Balthazar to undertake a research task, for like teenage boys the world over he is seldom far from the computer. It is becoming increasingly evident that despite our love of being immersed in Cuzance country life, we need to be more connected with the world and its pressing demands. I ask him to go on the Free company website to see if he can find a 3G plan to go with our portable. I tell him I will reward him with a glacée next time he visits.
After their visit we set off to Le Vieux Sechoir, the old walnut drying house, which is now reincarnated as a country restaurant. What an evocative name, and what images it conjures up of another life once lived within the thick old stone walls of the restaurant. Much to our disappointment, despite it being a perfect summer’s evening, Gérard and Dominique always prefer to eat inside. The petite garden at the front is decorated with pretty wrought iron tables placed perfectly under a large pear tree. It simply calls out to us, but it is not to be. Fortunately, when we were presented with the menu, Stuart’s infinitely more sophisticated grasp of French rings alarm bells when he sees the word pied. Naturally, I don’t associate it with the name of our house, even though I do in fact know that Pied de la Croix means quite literally ‘foot of the cross’. The two words pied and porc should have alerted me well before Gérard’s explanation that galette pied porc means the ‘foot of the pig’. Unlike our amis, we are not at all excited about this menu delicacy and absolutely do not choose it for an entrée. We opt for the safe salade choice. The main course is a duo of duck — confit and margret — accompanied by fois gras. It is lavish and rich, especially late at night. Nevertheless, no-one can resist the selection of no less than six sumptuous desserts. Dominique and I choose crème brûlée, while Stuart and Gérard have mousse au chocolat. It is presented in an enormous white bowl. The rich mould of mousse, coated in cocoa, is swimming in a sea of crème anglaise. It is a truly extravagant indulgence.
I have noticed that music is never played in the many French restaurants we have been to. I assume that it would distract from the very serious business of eating in France; it is a form of culinary reverence. I have also observed that Gérard always avidly asks the waitress questions about the menu. It underpins that indeed cuisine is a form of religion for the French.
When we leave after a (fortunately, for there was a close call with a possible pig’s foot) magnificent meal, the name of the restaurant is lit up against the ivy-encased wall. Groups of French amis are still lingering over their digestifs, enjoying the soft-as-silk summer air. We follow Gérard back along a secret country road. I am enormously relieved to avoid the tight twists and turns of the road we drove on to the restaurant. We plunge ever-further into the deep, dark night-time forest. Gérard takes an abrupt turn droit. There is not even a signpost. The petite road becomes ever narrower. Another unexpected gauche and now the trees join hands overhead. You can no longer see the stars. It was truly an adventurous return to our petite maison. We look forward to seeing the secret country road, that only locals know, in daylight. Whether we will ever be able to find it again is an altogether different matter.
It has been a rewarding, happy day in the history we are creating in Pied de le Croix. As the day closes, gold hems the clouds.
Gypsies or Snakes?
Evenings out for dîners are a luxury in a rénovation life, for all our days start with the solei. The morning means that the très cher equipment has to be returned, so it’s back to Brive for Stuart and back to le jardin for me. This is not a trip I will ever attempt solo; the roundabouts are far too choked with fast-moving traffic. I would find this a totally terrifying experience. Of course, Stuart embraces the challenge of the rapidly accelerating voitures and lanes that speedily merge in and out.
My morning instead starts with laboriously loading the wheelbarrow with concrete after removing it from Stuart’s newly-created drainage channel. This is a task that I am more suited to than Grand Prix-type driving. Next, I scoop out all the gravel l carefully placed there the year before. In a rénovation life, there is nothing quite like re-visiting work that is long meant to be fini. Now that the paving has all been cut out, I dig and create a channel ready for the drainage to be laid. Once again, I bitterly bemoan that my nails are perpetually cracked and broken. There is little place for vanity, however, when you are far from Paris.
My morning’s relentless hard labour is broken by a visit from Dominique. She has just been chatting to Monsieur Chanteur and has alarming news. The village is full of talk about gypsies in the area, apparently breaking into houses, including two nearby in the back lane. As is often the case, some nuances are at first lost in translation. I think that she is telling me there are snakes in the nearby maisons, for she mimes strangling her neck. She uses the word serpent, which I can only assume means snake. I back away in horror. Snakes are something I loathe. My fear of them is on par with attempting to brave driving on busy autoroutes in France. I have had too many close encounters with them, including discovering one curled up inside a rug when we lived next to a rainforest. I am permanently scarred by the experience, as I was home alone when I shook the rug out and it flew across the floor.
I warily eye the long grass I have just been merrily traipsing through. Non, non. It transpires that she means the gypsies are like serpents, as they move so stealthily.
Jean-Claude drops in and adds to the dire warnings. He tells me that it is critical to get bars added as soon as possible to our new bathroom window. It seems that he had not been alarmist after all when he had told us of the necessity for bars on our nouveau fenêtre. It would seem that the real world does at times intrude into our simple country life. The real snakes in the grass are in fact gypsies.
Mon dieu, Stuart exclaims when I tell him on his return. The alarming news of lurking gypsies means just one thing to us — another task on the list that never diminishes. Now the bars on the window are a looming necessity.
Déjeuner fini, it’s back to work for us. Stuart to his channel, me to the land. I start to tackle the brambles. In the intervening year, my senses have foolishly failed to recall the essential technique for handling their rapacious thorns. Within mere minutes, my fingers are embedded with them and swell up painfully. I rapidly begin to resemble a human pincushion. Now it comes flooding back, albeit somewhat late. I recall my previous approach to win the battle of the brambles. I grasp the brambles with the secateurs, pull the long clawing tentacles towards me, and chop, chop, chop.
The sheer hard work is broken when amis drop in and while away the après-midi hours with us under the walnut tree. Even Monsieur Chanteur visits occasionally. He is no longer quite as formal and reserved. He does, however, still use formal address with everyone: Madame Cutsforth, Monsieur Cutsforth, even Monsieur Chanel, his closest friend in the village. At times, he wistfully and mournfully mentions his wife. He has started to smile again and even laugh.
Our rocky ground is unstable and quite unsuitable for our IKEA chairs. They rock and tip. One day, he nimbly — as he always moves, despite his advanced age — sets off in the afternoon heat and returns with four plastique jardin chairs for us to borrow when friends visit and stay. It is a measure of how far we have com
e in being accepted by old-school Monsieur Chanteur. However, there are dark clouds gathering on the horizon of our alliance.
Celeste joins us for many happy walnut tree hours, sometimes alone, sometimes with Jean-Claude and Henriette. Stuart teaches her to dive and he is pronounced to be very sportif.
On another day, Dominique drops in with a needle to extract the embedded, infected thorns from my fingers. She tells us the needle has to be sterilised. We find some matches and, in my clumsy fashion, I drop the hot needle. It plummets into the long grass and we all scrabble vainly in our search for it. It is, quite literally, like searching for a needle in a haystack.
At times, in our gatherings, there can be three languages flying round. It is Celeste, at just eleven, who is the translator for all. She chats away to Dominique in German and tells her she prefers Berlin to Paris. How could that be possible for one so young? I am altogether impressed with her sophistication when I am showing her my photos of Paris and she recognises the works of Rodin. It seems there are times when country conversation does stray beyond the weather and les mouches — just not very often.
Our House is Definitely Not in Paris Page 9