Our House is Definitely Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  The next day we wake late, as jubilant as school children on a half-term holiday. We have long learnt that the trick to celebrating our petite vacances is all in the position of our chambre door. Fully open means a rénovation day when the first slim shards of light tentatively creep through; shut is like a firmly closed, special occasion chocolat box — a rare treat. Time pings back and forth. The days merge, each somehow the same, yet every new one holds an infinitesimal difference.

  Pastis with Jean-Claude

  Training the grapevine

  Dessert delights

  Glenn and Renate’s Stay

  As well as planning their stay for our vide-grenier, another long-anticipated event, planned months in advance, is a bridge tournament in Souillac. At home in Australia, Stuart and Renate are bridge partners, so underpinning the two-day drive from Nuremberg is the excitement of playing bridge in France. It is a competition and they will be the only foreigners.

  Glenn and I are left in charge of the now long overdue delivery. We have a checklist to tick off: deux lengths of gutter, deux grande bags of sand, and dix bags of concrete. We have precise instructions how to direct the truck so it reverses cautiously through our narrow stone pillars and edges towards la grange. If the delivery doesn’t arrive by 4pm, we are to text Stuart. This is not bridge etiquette at all, to have your portable on. We hope that we don’t have to resort to such drastic measures, for we have no desire to break the sacred rules of bridge — especially in France. We also know that if it all fails utterly and we have to ring Stuart during the bridge competition, the cries of, ‘Merde, merde, merde,’ that echo from him will shatter the bucolic countryside from Souillac to Cuzance. It is quite possible that the summer-sleepy cows would stampede in panic at the ferocity of his expletives.

  The two who can speak French are not at Pied de la Croix. The two who can barely speak a word of French are left alone, with our fingers tightly crossed. We all hope that when the four of us meet up in Souillac for the apéritif hour that it will be a celebration for more reasons than one. Bridge and concrete; our country life is always a strange amalgam.

  Glenn and I while away the tense time of waiting for the impeding delivery, on which all future paving work hinges, by inspecting our maison and la grange. We pause to examine and discuss the details and possibilities. The soaring barn beams are like a sturdy wooden sailing ship, poised to take off on a voyage. Not everyone shows his passion and vision, and I’m glad he shares mine. It makes me realise how seldom I make the time to simply gaze at it and soak it all in. We reverentially admire the painstaking and enduring one-hundred-year-old construction, especially the artisan-crafted wooden dowels that secure it all. Our reverence is akin to the wonder usually reserved for the architectural feats of European cathedrals. As I stand there in awe I know that la grange is my cathedral.

  After much deliberation, on the dot of four we are forced to send the dreaded text. A mere matter of minutes later, an enormous Pont P truck careers past. From past delivery experiences, I know that I need to race out onto the road to flag it down. Glenn assures me that it will turn around in the village. I am not so sure. I set off in hot pursuit, ‘hot’ being the operative word. The humid air wraps its arms around me. I turn at the corner and call back to Glenn, ‘Text them and tell them it’s here!’

  Naturally, the village is out in droves preparing for Fête En Cuzance. Sometimes there are times you can walk through the village and not see a soul. Today is not one of those days. Jocelyn, le Maire’s wife, is standing next to the war memorial, with an amie. She is looking very official, for she is holding a detailed plan of where all the stalls will be on Sunday. I have already raced past some being set up, and a number of caravans are already in place for the village’s event of the year.

  It is the first time I have seen her this year. I ‘Bonjour, ça va?’ her and we exchange two kisses — one on each cheek, as is customary. Michel, the jovial main organiser, joins us. Another ‘Bonjour, ça va?’ and exchange of kisses. Jocelyn looks immaculate. I do not. I am highly conscious of the short robe that I usually only wear around the pool. I am also highly conscious that I am not wearing a bra … I have been swimming, after all. Still, this is far from the chic image I try so hard to cultivate.

  I pant that I am pursuing the Pont P truck. I gesture at my somewhat wild appearance in a self-deprecating way. They all laugh at me — in the nicest way possible. Despite knowing that they think I am slightly mad — I am foreign, after all — I enjoy their gentle laughter. It means that we are accepted, despite our at times strange and perplexing ways.

  I continue to run madly, bouncing through the village. Pont P is nowhere in sight. It is my turn for a few heartfelt exclamations of ‘Merde’. I run to the end of the village, to where the road leads ominously to Souillac. I am not a marathon runner by any means. Finally, the truck appears in the heat-haze on the horizon. I wave my arms wildly. I had in fact already waved my arms wildly when I heard a heavy vehicle approaching round the corner. It was a false alarm. The jolly farmer, on his tractor, waved back and beamed at me. I am sure he had lots to tell his wife that evening over dîner; how a wild woman was flapping her arms on the side of the road in our petite village, on an oppressive summer afternoon.

  I step out in the road and stop the truck driver. He announces, ‘Pont P.’ I think, ‘Bonjour, yes I can see that on the side of your truck. Why else do you think I have stepped out into the road to stop you?’

  Naturally, in the flurry I forget the word for ‘straight ahead’ to direct him. I manage to stumble out, ‘Tout droit, gauche,’ and, ‘la grange.’ He takes off. I am left panting in the middle of the road. Sacré bleu again. He could have at least taken me with him.

  I race after him. He has stopped again. Jocelyn and Michel are explaining to him who I am and where I live when I catch up, gasping out, ‘Gauche, la grange.’ No-one takes any notice.

  Glenn is waiting by the stone pillars to direct him in. Monsieur Pont P can’t place everything in the barn like we wanted. Instead he uses his hydraulic hoist to manoeuvre the bags of concrete in front of la grange. We swing into action. Glenn carries all the concrete bags into the barn and then we cover the sand with plastique in case it rains. My black dress from Paris is streaked with dirt. I wonder yet again why I always choose to wear it on such inappropriate occasions. We close the heavy la grange doors and celebrate with a bière next to la piscine.

  When we all meet up in Souillac for dîner there are lots of stories to trade. We discover that Stuart in fact received a number of calls from Monsieur Pont P. Renate explained to their French bridge counterparts that it was critical to have le portable on. It transpired that Monsieur Pont P had called Stuart at the precise moment I was careering through Cuzance. He told him he was on the road to Souillac and simply could not find our petite maison. No wonder I virtually had to run there as well. Amazingly, at the very moment Stuart was talking to Monsieur Pont P in the midst of the very grave game of bridge, he told me that he could hear my voice in the background. How well he knows me, for he also tells me that when he heard my panting voice, he also knew that I was, indeed, flapping wildly.

  Despite Glenn and I speculating that they would be last in the competition, for the odds are presumably stacked against them on a number of counts in a foreign land — disruptive portable calls notwithstanding — they triumphantly tell us that they were actually third out of nine teams. Even more incredible is that after playing at the bridge club a year ago with Françoise, the players remembered Stuart.

  We eat dîner alfresco, overlooking an ancient still-in-use water pump. A parade of containers is lined up in a row, and as dusk falls villagers emerge one by one to work the ancient handle. The strain of the heat of the day shows in Madame’s weary face as she takes our order. The tables are crowded, mostly with locals. It is Friday night, after a day that soared to forty degrees. It is the third time we have eaten at Auberge du Puits and by now we feel like regulars. Once again we have taken d
elight in sharing one of our finds with friends and, even more so, the culinary pleasures of the blackboard menu that features produce both of our region and further afield.

  If only all of life’s decisions were reduced to such simplicity. What to choose tonight, knowing that the food will resonate with the customary French flair and finesse, the flavour and freshness comparable to none. Will it be cassoulet, a warming dish of duck and bean stew? From past experience I know this is hearty winter fare, preferably after a hard day as a farmer toiling in the fields. Or moules and frites? Mussels, with baguette dipped in the succulent sauce? No, a night like tonight, after the anxiety of awaiting our delivery and then pounding through the village in such an ignominious fashion, deserves only one choice. My best-loved dish of all: bifteck and frites. Steak, of course!

  The image of a blackboard menu is another that resonates when I return to my other life. Tonight on offer is the usual eclectic array that we find at all the restaurants we discover. At the end of our long dîner that we have lingered over for hours in typical French fashion, we introduce our friends to the culinary delight of the home-made tarte tatin. There is a hush over the table as we all savour what must be one of the most truly delicious desserts in the world.

  We return from Souillac to find cars already parked in front of our maison in readiness for the start of Cuzance En Fête. We wander down to listen to the Booze Band. Despite the late hour, the village square is full of people patiently waiting for them to start. We are all mystified by how an Irish punk band has come to perform in our petite village in the depths of the country.

  We say, ‘Bon soirée,’ to all those we know, including the assistant from Intermarché. There is no doubt she remembers us, for it is she who served us when our cash card didn’t work. Jocelyn shares a laugh with me about my Pont P escapade. She remarks on my transformation, for I am now wearing a chic black and white robe. Once again, I am grateful that the villagers do not always see me in a state of utter dishevelment. Brigitte Dal, who must be in her seventies, looks positively radiant. I comment on her nouveau coiffure, for clearly she has been to the hairdresser, ready for the event of the year in Cuzance. She beams at me.

  At nearly midnight, we sit on our petite porch, sipping a final digestif. Nature provides the most spectacular light show any of us have ever seen. We walk to the rise beyond our house to take in the full extraordinary display of jagged lightning that illuminates the stormy clouds.

  Saint-Céré

  After a very late soirée, we still all wake early to set off to a prized Saturday vide-grenier. It is a magnifique drive through farmland and scattered châteaux that showcases our département to Glenn and Renate, all with the trademark limestone cliffs as a dramatic backdrop. Saint-Céré is a movie director’s dream. A statue of Canrobert, a Marcheral who was in charge of a battalion of the French Foreign Legion, dominates the town square. The square is surrounded by cafés under striped awnings, and chic shops nestled in the cobblestones of side streets. It is bordered by the Céré River, lined with pretty stone maisons and linked by wooden bridges to the town. The first patrons of the day are sipping their espresso, watching the world wake up. There is no evidence, however, of the vide-grenier, the start of the ten-euro competition that Glenn and I planned in Australie.

  We head to the Office de Tourisme to enquire. It starts at two. We have never known a market not to start when the day does. To counter our disappointment, we stroll the cobbled streets, admiring the architecture, which is quite different to our region. It is not the limestone construction of le Lot but more of an Elizabethan style, as the houses have wooden cross-beams on their exteriors. It is another splendid photo opportunity; wooden windows framed with lace curtains and hanging baskets of fleurs.

  We decide to head to nearby Loubressac for lunch, to a restaurant we well remember from our stay at nearby Puymule four years previously. Stuart recalls the way and he drives up the winding hillside. The sides drop away to reveal a valley of hamlets enfolded in the lee of the hills. The trees arch gracefully and grasp each other’s limbs over the road, while flickering sunlight dapples our drive. It is always his ambition to arrive just before twelve to try to get the best possible table — and invariably he does. The tiny picture-perfect Loubressac, with stone-built maisons, is perched on a hilltop and has a très bien view over the panoramic valley.

  As always, perusing the menu is a reverential affair. If food was a god, it would reign supreme in France. Will it be Salad Nicoise, featuring tuna, boiled eggs, tomate and lettuce? This is a perfect light déjeuner option. Perhaps instead the tastier choice of Confit de Canard? Perhaps duck cooked in its own fat, accompanied by heart-warming duck-fat-fried potatoes? Despite how saturated in fat this may sound, it is a superb dish. And, of course, there is never any debate whether dessert will be an option. The way a glass of wine with your meal in France is virtually a national law, life is simply not worth living without a French dessert. What to choose today? No hesitation here at all; French lemon tart for four, a sweet concluding note.

  I tiptoe into a church after lunch and, finding myself unexpectedly alone, linger to absorb the serenity. I sit in a wicker chair, one in a row of twenty placed in readiness for Sunday morning prayers, in a staunch Catholic land. The ceiling soars; the rich dark-blue vault is faded, but painted stars still peep out to shine on the decorative walls and saints below. Shards of light from the stained glass windows fall upon the flagstones, worn by centuries of worship. For a petite village, it is ornate and opulent. It gives me a glimpse into the role of religion over the centuries, for just a few moments of quiet contemplation suffuses me with a sense of peace. I light a candle in appreciation of my life. I watch the votive burning brightly and then leave it steadily burning as I make my way back out into the bright light. As I leave, I glance to my right where the heroic figure of Joan of Arc stands.

  It is my second moving church experience of the day. In Saint-Céré I was also tempted by the open door of a church as I found myself alone in our wanderings. Inside, I came across a tiny old woman arranging vases of fleurs in readiness for Mass. I admired the magnificent long stems of hydrangea, deducing that they were from her own jardin, for just the other day when I had been visiting Françoise, also a devotee of the church, she was picking her splendid roses to adorn the village church.

  Madame Flore de Bolliere was joined by an equally small, bent-over-with-age friend. It was clearly a task they have devoted themselves to for years and years, working side by side in the sort of amiable silence that only grows from decades of friendship. Women like them are the backbones of their communes, living their entire life there through the cycles of marriage, children and grandchildren. Madame de Bolliere was keen to point out to me the statue of St Fleur, a female saint of flowers. It is touching that a saint of fleurs watches over these women, who are now the guardians of the flowers in their village church. These are the memories that linger and resonate.

  After our exploration of Loubressac, our tour leads us to another of the One Hundred Most Beautiful Villages of France — Autoire — and the drive takes us through the type of rural landscape that is all you remember most fondly when you are far from France. Tumbledown pigeonnier from which the pigeons once used in cuisine have long flown, creamy-coloured cows grazing in the long lush grass and mown fields rolling to infinity in their endless burnished gold.

  We return to Saint-Céré for the vide-grenier. It is a bitter disappointment, for it is tiny and laid out in a car park, where by now the heat bounces off the asphalt and hits you with the full force of its searing intensity. I am sapped by the heat. My usual fervour has deserted me. I wander round in a desultory manner, my heart not in it. The quest is off to a very lack-lustre start, for neither Glenn nor I find a single item. He and I have long planned our competition. We will each have ten euros to stretch as far as possible on eclectic items for our petite maison. There will be no robe or chapeau purchases for me. Our finds are to be judged by Stuart and Renate. The i
dentity of the buyer must not be discernible in any way. I know that Glenn is keen to find a set of decorative deer antlers, a strange yet common find at country markets. Even stranger are those that have been crafted into salad servers — complete with the hide still adorning them. If he presents us with such a find, I already plan to banish them to le cave.

  Our own vide-grenier in the morning had better be brimming with treasure. I have a slight advantage, for despite my still dismal French I discover that Glenn doesn’t even know the simple phrase, ‘Combien est-il s’il vous plaît?’ to ask the price. I feel momentarily jubilant about what seems to be my distinct advantage. However, the problem remains that while I know how to enquire about the price, I am still baffled by the response. Perhaps it’s a level playing field after all.

  We head home for a much needed few hours next to la piscine. The heat in itself is enough to deplete your energy. How we ever manage to work so hard and so relentlessly in such searing temperatures is at times hard to believe. The clink-clink of a boules game in the lane behind is the only sound to stir the blanket of heat. Then at six, in the prelude to the evening’s Maxi-Disco, music flares up from the village square. It is an absurdly discordant sound in the otherwise hushed French summer landscape. The regular-as-clockwork pigs’ feeding frenzy at seven is even more high-pitched than usual. Their squealing seems to be a competitive battle with the steady thrum of disco music. It is definitely not a Parisian evening on the banks of the Seine. The sun dips its brush in its glorious palette for the day’s final wash of gold.