Our House is Definitely Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  The petite vacances week fades quickly in a haze of heat, apéritifs and a constant chorus of bon appétit. We end the week with déjeuner at our own village restaurant. It has long been our plan, but after a whole month it seems to be our first opportunity. With John and Joe’s departure imminent, it is time for the four of us to eat there. Indeed, it is everyone’s dream in France — and has long been ours — to simply saunter down in a mere minute to be seated under an enormous shady tree for menu du jour.

  John and Joe have wandered down several times for a bière and have told us about Chantelle, the new waitress. She is every bit as charming and friendly as they said. When we arrive, although it is literally just past twelve, there are already people eating their entrée. There is never a moment to be lost at the precious lunch hour — or two — in France. To my surprise, and I am sure to his, for the third time in a week, I see Monsieur Cadastre eating with his colleagues. We exchange warm, ‘Bonjour, ça vas?’ like old friends. I whisper to Joe that it may not have been such a convivial greeting if they had parked in the distance and observed our tip foray. After all, I had been conscious that my definition of ‘household rubbish’ was rather a broad one. Fortunately it is bonhomie all round. If he gives me any further thought at all, he may be somewhat puzzled by my range of guises; face mask on Monday, dishevelled rénovation clothes on Thursday, and chic robe and chapeau on Friday.

  Although every table is already full in the courtyard, Chantelle takes the time to correct our pronunciation when we order our choices from the blackboard menu du jour selections. Of course, I stumble over the simplest words. When I try again with the rolling ‘r’ sound for stuffed peppers — poivrons farcis — she praises me. How perfect; lunch and a French lesson all in one.

  Déjeuner is enormous, quite unlike the petite portions usually served in restaurants, a size that suits my appetite. This is hearty country fare, fit for farmers straight from the fields. I am replete after my generous serving of salade. Then the stuffed pepper arrives, surrounded by rice. To say it is grande is an understatement. I am daunted by the mere sight of it. This is confirmed when I tentatively slice into it and voilà, it is full to the brim with tightly packed minced country sausage. I can only manage a single bite. As I have only ever done once before in France, on the occasion of the infamous andouillette incident, I discreetly whisk it off my plate. I surreptitiously wrap it up to take home for dîner. Naturally, I am able to manage my last course of Pêche Melba.

  During our meal, a woman at the table next to us offers to take a photo of the group. On arrival, her group of amis had all greeted us with, ‘Bon appetite.’ It is these amicable exchanges that are all part of the rhythm of French life that I love. I am delighted, for I take photos constantly. I want to keep a meticulous record of our daily rénovation life in Cuzance. I have even taken to capturing my own photographic testimony of my progress in le jardin and all the events that unfold. Stuart rarely takes photos. I always have my camera on hand to preserve images of our amis when we are all gathered together.

  Once again, a chance encounter at our village restaurant is a fascinating vignette in my daily life in Cuzance. The woman, who is about my age, turns out to be a teacher of English in nearby Brive. Like many others we encounter, she is fascinated to find out we are from Australie. She tells us about the Irish band, The Booze, that will be playing on Friday right outside Le Bureau de Maires as the grande start to our three-day Fête en Cuzance. Clearly Monsieur Maire is keen to rival the other villages in our département. I am sure that he is determined to provide a more prestigious vide-grenier weekend for Cuzance’s long-standing, friendly rivalry with the nearby village of Gignac. In the past, the brightly coloured posters that are displayed throughout the département advertising each village’s vide-grenier have all remained prominently positioned on our village noticeboard — except the one for Gignac. Every year, the posters are all a different vivid colour. This year, ours is a bright pink, while Gignac’s is nasturtium orange. Needless to say, the nasturtium orange one mysteriously disappears as soon as it is posted.

  Soirée and Bière

  There is always at least one night that stands out in our French summers as being the most memorable. It is only halfway through our Cuzance sojourn that it seems to happen. It is the second-last night before Maxime, Patrick, John and Joe all leave. The dynamic is different across the generations, so we invite our younger French friends for apéritifs. Maxime arrives bearing three of his favourite bières.

  He extols the virtues and variety of bière in France. It seems no coincidence that he lives in Lyon — very close to a shop that stocks 900 varieties. There is no doubt that it is probably his favourite place in the world. His knowledge is so extensive that I dub him the ‘hero of le bière’. He is also equally persuasive in sharing the ones he has especially selected for our farewell gathering. It is clear to me that for the five men round the table it is their idea of nirvana.

  Maxime is voluble, charming, entertaining and full of stories about bière. He tells us about a bar in Ghent where the bière is served in enormous long steins. They are so full and heavy that it inevitably spills all over your face when you first tilt it. Most hilarious of all is when he tells us about a unique feature of the Ghent bar in Belgium. On arrival, you take off your shoes. I’m intrigued. I can’t possibly work out why they are placed in wicker baskets and then hauled up to the rafters. Maxime explains that the glasses are so highly prized that many patrons try to steal them by hiding them under their coats and sneaking out into the night. Now it makes sense. Even more amusing is when he recounts the time for departure. The baskets are lowered; the shoes are examined. Cries of, ‘Non, non,’ ring through the bar. After inordinate quantities of bière, it is virtually impossible for anyone to identify their shoes.

  Maxime pours everyone another bière to underline his story. Time ticks in a blur of laugher and more stories. I am concerned that Françoise and Jean-Claude are waiting for their return for dîner. Eventually our soirée ends as the sun subsides, and we all make plans for l’année prochaine; another highlight of our next summer to see them again in Cuzance. I am quite sure that John and Joe are going to make the bar in Ghent top of their future travel itinerary.

  As Patrick says in an email when we return home, we will have ‘un petit pastis (ou deux) au soleil’ in our next Cuzance summer when we are all together again. When we are with Patrick, the pastis is never simply poured once. In fact, I am quite sure it is more than the twice he has hinted at. And always, the apéritif hour — or two — is in the soft light of a golden summer’s evening. To have friendships in one French family, from the parents to their children, is something I never expected. It all adds to the richness of our other life.

  Not only is there a bonus vide-grenier on Saturday for Joe’s last day, there are in fact two — Strenquels and Vayrac. Once again Celeste makes the supreme teenage sacrifice to get up early to join us, and so the four off us set off to market. We all avidly count our euro before we leave on our expedition. Strenquels is yet another postcard-perfect village. Beautifully restored pale limestone maisons are wreathed with charming pink and red roses. Fat contented cows graze in nearby fields and ancient oaks shade the village square. I look expectantly over my shoulder as if to hear a director shout, ‘Cut!’

  We all meander and browse, examine and exclaim. In just one short summer, we have succeeded in injecting Joe and Celeste with our fervour for treasure hunting. My vintage eye has not deserted me. I swoop upon a red and white striped robe with a pleated skirt. I pull it on over my black and white spotted dress and declare it to be perfect. Madame also advises me about laver. For just two euro I also get advice on how to wash it; super.

  Purchases completed at Strenquels, we set off cross-country again. Châteaux perched loftily on limestone cliffs, coffee and toffee and brindle cows, horses sheltering under spreading elms with their tails steadily brushing the incessant flies away, green rolling hills that softly fold into each ot
her like batter in a mixing bowl. Freshly harvested bales of hay cartwheel across the burnished fields. Meticulously made centuries-old stone walls, covered in lichen, enclose the swaying corn. The names of villages — Branceilles, Curemonte, Carennac, Condat — are painted black on white wooden signs. They point east, west, north and south, like words rolling together in a French nursery rhyme. A grove of pines is sprouting eager growth in time for Noël. And high above, painting the scenery below, fluffy marshmallow clouds billow like sails.

  Vayrac is a brocante, so it is très cher. Scarves that I usually scoop up for a euro, discreetly displaying the coveted label ‘Paris’, are at least ten times the price. ‘Non, non,’ I shake my head as I pause to examine some in a basket under a table, usually the source of my best finds. Below eye level is my new trick of the summer that I have only recently learnt; not at Vayrac, however. The antique dealers are out in full force. Vayrac is a town and it tells. Tourists are attracted here; it is not a tiny, tucked-away rural village. So the dealers will deal, but those of us in the know will wait until the next day, for it is Gignac, the pinnacle of our personal vide-grenier season.

  I leave with treasure of another kind, an armful of tall and stunning, bright and pastel, gladioli. The sun is indeed shining on me, for the fleur seller has given me twelve stems for the price of huit.

  On John and Joe’s last vacances afternoon, a hot dry wind whips across le jardin from the south of France. It is a startling and strange change. At home, it would be the portent of bushfires. Here, we are not so sure how to read the vagaries of the weather. The sky darkens, the air stills and becomes eerie. When the thunder finally rocks the sky, like the true country people we have become we rejoice as the raindrops bounce upon our thirsty land. It is, however, a mere sugar-dust sprinkling, for the sun bursts forth again with even greater fiery vengeance. The clouds rapidly disperse their threatening tones of grey and black, and become instead like whipped egg whites in an azure porcelain bowl.

  Le Jardin Takes Shape

  Each morning when I emerge from our petite maison I parade up and down my rows of tiny plants, like a mother duck inspecting and fussing over her newly-hatched ducklings, struggling in the harsh summer. As my first yellow fleurs peep through the sun-browned leaves, their soft petals are like the soft fuzz of petite canard vivant, little live ducklings.

  After weeks of les lapins and I looking at each other warily in the pearly light of early day, I finally notice something fascinating about them. They are not bounding aimlessly, as I have always thought. The rabbits are in fact playing games with each other before they hide in the heat of the day. One runs after the other; it hops, it jumps, it pauses, it turns. Then it races after its playful pursuer. Monsieur Lapin Deux then runs after the first; it hops, it jumps, it pauses, it turns. And so the game continues. Nevertheless, they still stare at me balefully for invading their private playground. It would seem that after several summers I am gaining a closer understanding of the habits of rabbits.

  Days simply dissolve. They are absorbed by domesticity, le jardin, rénovate, crazy paving, Martel and the markets, vide-grenier, amis, apéritifs, and déjeuners out with family and friends. It is a circle of beginnings and endings. Our last night as a family is upon us before we know it. We head out for a final dîner at Auberge des 7 Tours. It is a significant occasion, for Stuart is about to turn fifty, Joe twenty-one, and it is also the eve of our long-ago wedding in Istanbul. And now, we are all together at last in a tiny corner of France.

  As we leave Pied de la Croix to head to Martel, we pass Monsieur Chanteur returning from his evening promenade. As Stuart wishes him ‘Bonsoir,’ he gazes at us wistfully. Not so long ago, his wife was always by his side. I am always conscious, as I move from the blistering heat in le jardin to work in some welcome shade, that it is a metaphor for Monsieur Chanteur’s life; one day the sun is illuminating your days, then a permanent shadow is cast.

  Dîner is all I had hoped for and more. It is a magnifique symphony of exquisite textures and tastes. The much-maligned fois gras, a luscious buttery smooth pâté, tender lamb that our département is renowned for throughout France, while my dessert is a triumph of presentation and culinary delight. Three petite glasses on a large white plate with an artful swish of berry coulis. The panna cotta is served with passionfruit, raspberry and mango. Its silky smoothness is a song on my tastebuds.

  The stars are just peeping through the cathedral-vault sky when we return to our little French home.

  Le jardin takes shape

  Old pottery kilns, Souillac

  Beginnings and Endings

  Lying on our bed daydreaming one stormy Saturday afternoon, I hear Stuart call out, ‘There’s a wedding in the village.’ I leap up, grab my camera and race out. I don’t even pause to brush my hair. I simply don’t want to miss a moment of it. A well-dressed crowd patiently waits outside le mairie’s, looking up at the office where the white shutters are open wide. Only a small group of close friends and family can fit in the petite office upstairs. I am quite familiar with it from past years when Monday mornings started with a visit, dictionary in hand to complete official paperwork. Thankfully, those days are over. Whether there will be future visits for the complicated bureaucracy of la grange remains in the category of dreams.

  The Cuzance wedding I went to see in the church last summer was clearly a country affair; famers, their wives and children in their Sunday best. This time, men and even some of the young boys are in smart suits, even blanc ones for two tiny boys. The women are coiffed and manicured, groomed and chic. Pretty petite girls are in party frocks. When the hour-long ceremony with le Maire concludes, there is a lengthy church service. It is just a short walk round the corner to our church, beautifully adorned with bouquets of fresh fleurs. After the nuptials are fin, the wedding guests follow the bride and groom, voiture horns beating a crescendo of celebration.

  Now home again, I race to my chambre window to watch the celebratory parade pass our petite maison. So a new journey begins, part of life’s ever-evolving cycle, echoed in our own village; Jean-Claude has told me that it was a harsh winter and many of the old villagers did not wake for another Cuzance spring.

  Every day for us is a new chapter, an adventure waiting to unfold. Just a single Sunday morning contains three vignettes. The first is dramatic, the next is entertaining and the third is the pulse of true village life. In essence, life in Cuzance is a real-life soap opera. Underlying many of our daily events and adventures is that most of it is not actively sought. A straightforward drive early Sunday morning to drop John and Joe at Brive-la-Gaillarde gare turns into high drama and near disaster. The train times have been duly checked at the Martel Office de Tourisme. Trains to Limoges, to the airport for their flight home, are infrequent on a Sunday. There are two choices. Nine in the morning, or one in the afternoon, which is too late for the connection. It therefore has to be the first option, a long and convoluted trip that means changing at Perigeux and is three times longer than usual.

  Everyone is up early. They leave for the station with plenty of time to spare. They arrive early. All is on track — except for the train. The ticket counter is not open. The information counter is. They check and confirm the time of the train. The computer is duly checked for the timetable. Non, non, there is not a train at 9am on a Sunday. How can this be possible?

  ‘There was one at 8am or there is another at 12.50pm,’ they are informed. Obviously the one at eight has long departed. The only other choice means that they will be highly unlikely to connect with their flight. There is the cry of, ‘Merde!’ all round. The three of them huddle in bewilderment and consternation, assessing the very limited options. Stuart knows that the roadworks are still continuing on the autoroute and had held him up considerably when he drove there to collect them. So it seems that it is also impossible for him to embark on the long round-trip to Limoges.

  John approaches a taxi driver. He returns from his faltering conversation. The fare to Limoges also h
as to cover the taxi driver’s two-hour return trip. There is little likelihood he will pick up a fare from Limoges to Brive. The cost is très, très cher. It is out of the question. It seems like they will have to return home and catch the 1pm train. This would then mean a thirty-minute dash through the streets of Limoges to the airport.

  Stuart tends to travel to a fine timeframe; far too fine for my liking. Even to him, however, this seems to be an absurd plan. There seems to be no other choice, despite delays that the roadworks on the autoroute may well involve. As it is, even driving — and that’s taking into account his typical Grand Prix style — may not connect with the flight in time. It is just as they are about to return to our petite maison that Stuart suggests it would be a good idea to at least buy a ticket in readiness while they are waiting. Indeed. What if the train is fully booked? It is now 9.05am. They turn. The ticket counter is now open. There is one person ahead of them in the queue. It is clear that it has only been open a matter of minutes. They step up to the counter. John asks to buy a ticket in advance. The ticket seller declares, ‘The train leaves in two minutes; you’d better hurry!’ Incroyable. How can it be that his SNCF colleague provided completely different information?

  Stuart and Joe race to the platform, while John gets the tickets. It is the very train that has already been standing at the platform. Merde. While the three of them had been having an espresso and discussing their options, they had in fact been watching a steady stream of passengers board for the past twenty minutes. Literally thirty seconds remain. Joe gets on with the valises. Stuart asks the conductor to hold the train. This is unheard of in France. If you are late, you are late. Voilà, SNCF prides itself on trains leaving on the precise second.