The waitress leaves hurriedly after her announcement. We have another rapide discussion about our options. It is getting absurdly late. And still our apéritifs have failed to materialise. I venture tentatively into the beehive busy restaurant. ‘Désolé, pardon, réservation annulée.’ I make a hurried exit. And still the owner, capitalising on the wet stormy evening, periodically picks up his trumpet to summon more customers. Well, you may blow your own trumpet, I think as the echoes follow us as we all slink away on the slippery cobblestones.
The restaurant I think is reasonable proves in fact to be très cher when the menu is subject to Stuart’s scrutiny. Just as well I am not managing our French finances, I have cause to think yet again. What could I have been thinking? It’s late, I’m tired — and I would very much like an apéritif.
The rain pelts down. We huddle in a narrow stone doorway. I just want to give up and go home. The options are very limited. Non, non. Determined as ever, Stuart dashes through the driving rain. He darts back round the corner and calls to us. We race across the rain-soaked square to the shelter of an enticing restaurant. There is a long table full of people, pulled up tightly under the canvas awning. Bedraggled, we anxiously scan our third menu of the night. Perfect, we all announce in unison. Thirsty, hungry and wet, we are shown to a table inside. We nibble tentatively on the basket of pain we are served straight away. We are having similar thoughts not to devour the bread too voraciously in case another rapide exit is in order.
The drinks arrive immediately. Extraordinary. Our delicious meals are then served promptly. Even more astonishing. The service is swift, polite and friendly. The steak is cooked to perfection. It is almost two hours since we left Pied de la Croix. At last, we all sigh in contentment. The fact that the vin rouge is the most deplorable I have ever tasted, is something I choose to overlook. Despite the late hour and our sumptuous meals, we all order dessert. It is a celebration after all, our first family dîner out in France — and in the end, it has all been perfect.
Perfection even extends to the view. We are seated at a table on the back wall, and across the restaurant an enormous window forms a perfect frame for the most idyllic of vistas. There are blanc, two-storey maisons opposite, wreathed with pale mauve wisteria and decorated with colourful window boxes full of sunshine-bright marigolds. Even the still-streaming rain does not dispel the utter French prettiness of the scene. Majestic plane trees are strategically planted throughout the courtyard to shelter the cluster of tables where everyone would usually be gathered on a balmy summer’s evening. The warm tarte tatin, served with vanille glacée, is exquisite. Home-made apple pie never tasted more delectable. I grimace, however, as I sample Stuart’s choice — fromage blanc. It is just as the name implies — plain white soft cheese. He declares it to be a prison dessert. Well, perhaps a French prison. A French family across the other side of the room catch my expression. The mother laughs and conveys that it is not her dessert of choice either. It is a warm French moment.
The rain has finally stopped. We step out into the cool, fresh smelling, rain-washed night. John sums it up: ‘He can keep playing his own trumpet.’ We know that we will never venture near the restaurant again where service was not apparently a priority. We know, too, that we will definitely return for dîner again at Auberge du Puits — the Inn of the Wells. There is still a well nearby and, as the night sky has cleared, people emerge from their maisons to draw water from it. All’s well that ends well, for had we not stumbled upon it in our dishevelled, drenched and dispirited state, we would never have discovered what in fact became our new favourite restaurant for the summer.
Three Men go to Market
Market day in Martel has rolled around again. Refreshed after four days’ rest, I abandon my market plans. I am eager to plant out my new pots and continue work on my garden bed next to la piscine. The downpour has softened the earth; perfect conditions for planting and working.
So the three men set off to market with the straw panniers to buy fresh produce. As I head to le jardin, Morgan and her papa walk past on their morning promenade. We met them several years ago in another instance of the road bringing new friends from the village to us. I reflect on last year and apéritifs with his sister and mama, when they told us that indeed our barn had sheltered Résistance fighters. I well remember the thrill I felt to know that in some small way, Pied de la Croix had played its role in the fight for freedom. My secret hope remains that I will unearth a petite scrap of parachute silk, buried by an airman — or even better, an English female spy — who landed in our orchard in the depths of an inky night.
I also recall the evening of the apéritifs with new amis for another reason. On the eve of departure, after drinks with our neighbours, we worked frantically by the light of the moon to complete our planting. I absolutely do not miss our first few years of feverish rénovation and arduous sixteen-hour days, when often only pain and a glass of rosé were our evening meal.
While John, Joe and Stuart enjoy espresso at Mespoulet and slowly meander round the markets making their selections, I am grateful for the clouds that scud across the sky as I dig and dig in readiness for my planting. As I bed them carefully into the soil, I wish each of them bon courage that they survive. I send threatening thoughts in the direction of les lapins watching me furtively from the far corners of the garden. I have become only too well-acquainted with the habits of rabbits in the country. I get another bale of crisp, dry hay from the storage area above the carport, once a home for a tractor. I again feel gratitude to the long-ago farmer, Monsieur de la Croix, and his abandoned hay that fed his cows in the depths of the bleak long winter.
I work steadily all morning, delighted to be back in my own little world again. By lunch I am covered in grime. My clothes stick to me. The radio is still issuing warnings about the extreme weather; old people and young children in particular must take care. I remember hearing about the summer of 2003, when thousands died in the European heatwave. I press on so I can enjoy my afternoon of freedom and before the heat soars even more.
After washing away rivulets of dirt, I sink wearily and gratefully into my chair for a well-earned lunch; truly a sumptuous repast. The men who went to market present it on our petite porch. There is an array of fresh fromage, such as Roquefort, Camembert and Tomme. Tomme is a generic term that means ‘a wheel of cheese’. It is then followed by the name of the village or region it is from. Stuart’s favourite is Tomme of the Mountain, though I rather suspect it is simply for the name alone. Others we have come to enjoy include goats’ milk cheese, such as Chèvre and Cantal, one of the oldest cheeses in France, named for the Cantal Mountains in the Auvergne where it originated in the first century. There is crisp, fresh baguette, for it goes hand in hand with an array of fromage, followed by sliced pêche blanche accompanied by pannacotta glacée.
The few hours of afternoon relaxation quickly segue into the apéritif hour. It is a special opportunity for John and Joe to visit Jean-Claude and Françoise’s splendid maison and jardin. Joe takes his new soccer ball, and the hours fall way while they all play on the sweeping expanse of lawn. The rest of us sit on their wisteria-festooned upper terrace under the shade of their sentinel pine, chatting, sipping pastis. It is a meeting across generations and cultures, from petite baby Basile to seventy-year-old Jean-Claude; from Berlin, Paris, Lyon, York and Australie. This is our new extended French family. It is both an honour and a privilege when we wish them all ‘Bonne nuit,’ and Jean-Claude repeats, ‘You know you are welcome here any time.’
Petite Vacances — Or Not
My body clock is soon restored towards the end of our week’s so-called petite vacances, for I start to rise hours before the rest of the slumbering household. I love the early morning light as much as that of the late evening. The sun creeps softly and slowly across le jardin in ever-fattening fingers of light. It touches the grass that is rapidly shooting green growth after the soaking rain.
As I open the creaking barn door, les lapins, b
ounding on the boundary, stop and stare at me, startled from their early morning playfulness. They are used to having the enormous jardin as their own playground for most of the year.
The apple trees seem to have become laden with petites pommes overnight. Already they lie scattered under its heavy bending boughs. The tiny russet brown pears are perfectly formed and decorate the tree like Noël ornaments. Over café, I soak up the fresh beauty of the start of a new Cuzance day and listen to the bees already busily at work. Not long ago, it was impossible to sit behind la grange. Just a mere year ago it was still a wasteland of rubble, dirt, stones and weeds. The harder we work, the more it is taking shape before our eyes. Day after day, week after week, we have donned our work clothes and been a team of two, ready to take on the world. Or at least, a rural rustique wilderness. To even have a garden bed with laurier and lavande is a magnificent achievement in itself. It’s true, that a year can make all the difference.
For the second morning in a row, despite it being a self-proclaimed petite vacances, le jardin has once again called its siren song to me. I simply can’t seem to resist its call. There is so much rénovation still to do — namely the empty gaping chasms in the crazy paving — that as in previous years, I am determined to tackle as much as I possibly can singlehanded. Accordingly, I collect plastique tubs from le cave to gather the pile of accumulated debris from the new rose bed I am working on. I load broken pieces of farmhouse fragments into my brouette. I then pile skeins of rusty wire on top of my wheelbarrow and assemble it all in the boot of what we call our ‘farm car’. It is perpetually full of grass, dirt and stones. Recently, Stuart has collected lengths of weed and moss-encased drainage channel that Jean-Claude has given us, to be placed behind la grange. La voiture has carried all manner of seemingly improbable items, including last year, Stuart’s big shiny red cement mixer. It is the complete opposite of Stuart’s car at home, the European sports car he has dreamt of since he was eleven years old.
Joe emerges at a perfect time to help me. We carefully place the crates on top of the pyramids of farm debris in the boot. Then it’s off to the ‘tip’ for us. We put on our matching IGA supermarché work shirts that I brought from home, and we are a formidable team.
As with most of my French undertakings, a straightforward exercise turns out to have an element of adventure. While only a few minutes’ drive past Le Stade, the commune stadium, and located right next to the road, I know that despite my keen scanning we have sailed right past it. Seriously, it’s right on the road, just like our little house. How can I have possibly missed it? ‘Sailed’ is again perhaps not the correct term to describe my approach to driving in France. It is in fact utterly appalling; crunching through the gears would be a more apt description.
After creeping along an exceptionally narrow lane, I know we have to turn back. I decide to head back to Le Stade, where a nouveau stadium is being built and I had spotted a single white van. When in doubt always ask for help, is my creed — in any language or country.
I know that if I take another twisting turn, before long we will be plunged into the depths of the remote rural wilderness. Since I also lack a sense of direction, this is not advisable. We will not only be lost, but will have onboard a cargo of farm debris. Voilà. The two men at the building site are in fact the very two from the Land Registry who turned up on the doorstep on Monday morning. We all express surprise at running into each other like this. I wonder what they must think of the strange ways of foreign women. One minute with a face mask plastered over my face, the next in my usual rénovation state of disarray. Not having checked the word for ‘tip’ prior to leaving, clearly thinking it was not at all necessary, I rely on my tried-and-true method of communicating in France; I open the boot and gesture to the contents.
‘Non, non,’ they emphatically declare. ‘You must go to Martel or Souillac.’ Since I couldn’t even seem to manage this simple trip, there is no way on earth that I’m going to attempt to navigate my way to either of these places — and locate the local tip. After all, Jean-Claude himself has told me that this is where local people take their household rubbish.
As Joe and I drive away, we spot a sign. Voilà. Here is the roadside tip at last. Yes, we had driven straight past it.
We toss everything out as rapidly as possible, feeling like bank robbers carrying out a heist. We watch gratefully as the white van disappears in a cloud of equally white dust. We still feel somewhat nervous and have misgivings about the gendarme appearing. Our possible getaway is somewhat impeded by the fact that I stall constantly and clash the gears. I simply can’t seem to get the hang of the button to automatically start the car — no key required.
We leave far faster than we approached the tip. I pick up speed and we zoom through our stone gates to pick up our second load. Mission accomplished. Despite the plummeting euro in our account, I don’t even for a moment plan a raid on Bank Populaire. There is no doubt in my mind that I would stall right outside and voilà, the gendarme would descend, sirens blazing.
On our return, we discover Stuart placing the weed matting round the new plants. Like many elements of our Cuzance life, this is not quite the straightforward matter it would seem to be. Non. It is an intricate process that involves cutting a hole round each plant, then replacing each long stretch of weed matting that was already in place. Next, it has to all be anchored down with stones from the land. There are two reasons for revisiting this task: les lapins and les herbes. While the weed matting had been previously laid, we have since discovered that the plants have to be protected as closely and tightly to their base as possible. It is a long and laborious task and, like many other rénovation projects, consumes far more time than it should. After all, the lists still exist.
I join Stuart to help on the final stretch. The sun beats down in its mocking relentlessness, as les herbes jeer from the sidelines, for their invasion has continued to be ruthless.
The church bell strikes once, twice, and then erupts into its déjeuner cacophony. And still we are not fin. John and Joe depart to walk down to our village restaurant. We continue working. We are too close to the finishing line to stop now.
At last, another tick on our list. Now we can relax, for a while at least. Like true English men on vacances, John and Joe drink bière and sunbake in the blistering solei. We shelter in the shade behind la grange. No more work until the alarm on Monday, we declare, for strike trois on the paving project. Let the real petite vacances start, albeit much shorter than intended.
After a late afternoon siesta, I wander out of our petite maison in a sleep-heat daze. A convoy of bike riders is passing by, not an unusual sight in itself, except for the priest accompanying the children, his heavy black cassock flapping round his ankles. Celeste has joined Joe playing with the soccer ball in la piscine. She has spent her afternoon doing chores for Françoise to earn euro to join us on our next vide-grenier outing. At just eleven, she is more mature, sophisticated and world-wise than many adults.
The children’s laughter rings across le jardin. The endless summer days sparkle and shine with blue and gold. Another Cuzance summer to store in my treasure trove of precious memories.
Cuzance Days
I love creeping out early, leaving the household slumbering, to greet another Cuzance day. Petite birds dash and dart, squirrels scamper, huge black and white magpies hop across the dew-covered grass, bunnies bound, a lone donkey brays; the whole Cuzance world wakes with me. I open the barn doors with anticipation. The bed we have laboured on long and hard stretches out magnificently in front of me. The endless hours of daylight always hold infinite promise.
I pause as always to soak in the early morning beauty. I stand, entranced by a tantalising vision of the future. I muse: will this one day be the doorway of my nouveau cuisine in la grange? After all, the jardin bed is perfectly placed just beyond where I dream the kitchen will be; fleurs to gaze upon while slowly stirring a simmering pot.
We have had another improbably late dîner
, as always alfresco, this time next to la piscine in the glowing embers of the last of the sun. The sun had still been blazing upon us at nine. When it finally goes to bed, the heat still hangs like a blanket. We all have a late night swim, my first for the summer. It is sensational; the temperature is now like a tepid bath and holds none of the icy shock of the sea at home.
An air of mystery still hovers over Pied de la Croix. Overnight, John has left his beloved Akubra hat, bought on his first trip to Australia many years ago, on the mosaic table next to la piscine. It has disappeared. Combined with the mysterious footprints embedded in the wet cement, it is not only puzzling but perturbing. After all, the table is strategically positioned and well-hidden behind la grange. John searches the entire jardin. He scrutinises the far-flung limite. Since it is leather, surely it is too heavy to have simply blown away? His chapeau is nowhere to be found, not even in the lane behind our land. It is all very odd.
Today, after everyone emerges, I do not allow myself to be seduced by the lure of the garden. For now, the magnetic pull of le jardin does not drag me into its lure. It’s off to market again.
The markets are like a Matisse painting — a vibrant array of deep-purple aubergine, glossy vine tomate, gnarled walnuts, chalky goat’s cheese, the tantalising aroma of paella, glistening poisson with scales silver in the sunlight, petite strings of onions, a soft-pink blush on the pêche, ruby-red strawberries like a sultan’s ring, dark-cerise plump cherries and warm-from-the-earth melons.
The tourists stand out, avidly capturing with their cameras this quintessential market scene. It is one that is unfolding throughout France, on Saturday morning in every village or nearby town. Its timelessness holds the echo of centuries and generations. It is a life richly drawn from the land and the seasons. It changes only with the cloak of winter, with hats pulled down to ward off the icy wind, and the changing array of produce, from the jewel-like summer berries to the crops dug from deep within the snow-covered ground.
Our House is Definitely Not in Paris Page 13