Our House is Definitely Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  The rock wall has crumbled severely. Although I have unearthed pile after pile of limestone rocks while digging, I cannot for the life of me lay them properly in the wall. This seems to be another specialist skill that I lack. Coincidentally, a pamphlet is delivered that is offering a day-long workshop on dry stone laying and building. Though I am very much in need of this skill for our life in the country, not for a minute am I tempted. Instead, I keep digging. I know, though, that if I spend much longer on this project I am highly likely to dig through to the proverbial Great Wall of China. Perhaps I should, to see that consummate achievement of dry stone wall.

  At the outset of summer, when I grab my water bottle it is as hot as water poured straight from the kettle. By early August, however, the temperature has dropped by a massive twenty-five degrees. The rain becomes so steady and constant on some days that we are reluctantly forced to down tools. It is not until the sheets of icy rain beat upon our backs that we make this decision, particularly if it happens before the church clock strikes twelve. In our rénovation life, it’s unheard of to stop before déjeuner.

  Nevertheless, from his avid absorption in the weather channel, Stuart informs me that the Mediterranean Sea is twenty-five degrees. By now, my energy is at its lowest ebb. I let myself imagine floating on the warm, gentle waves, not a jardin implement in sight. With this thought, I drift away for a few hours. When I wake, the skies have cleared and Stuart has returned to work. He has spent the time placing the final pieces of paving along the side of la piscine, and sorted the remaining crazy paving onto just one pallet, down from our original six. It is these things that are a concrete measure of our progress and achievements.

  After a reviving espresso, I tear into les herbes in the rain-softened soil. To round off my labour before dîner, I start to attack the brambles that tower above the stone wall, running from my new bed down to the back corner of le jardin. They are spreading and invading and engulfing. They too must be banished from my Cuzance kingdom.

  It is, finally, a satisfying job that produces results. I grasp tentacles of blackberry with my secateurs; I cut, pull and drag towards me. Very soon I am surrounded by a satisfying pile of long strands, studded with ferocious thorns, ready to be hauled off to my ever-growing bonfire pile. I’m struck by the fact that my idea of fun may not quite be everyone’s. This task requires fierce concentration, or I will either tumble from the high wall where I perch precariously, or be stabbed repeatedly by the rapacious thorns. Attacking blackberries is now my sole focus and means I am utterly absorbed in my Cuzance life. Thoughts of Paris are simply not part of it all.

  Tips on Blackberries

  To while away the many hours consumed by this task and the blackberry invasion, I mentally compose tips for the novice French gardener:

  One: when there is only one wheelbarrow and it’s needed for the more important job of concreting, train yourself to tiptoe out to le jardin at first light so that you can use it.

  Two: wear deux pairs of gardening gloves. While cumbersome and unwieldy, thus rendering your fingers thick and clumsy, it prevents plunging needles into your fingers every night in your — often futile — attempts to extract thorns. This also has the added benefit that your hands no longer resemble a pin-cushion. In a country life, needles are by no means only for mending.

  Three: to avoid endless cat-like scratches on your face when extricating blackberry strands, always use your secateurs to drag them away from the direction of your face, as the strands have an inherent fondness for it.

  Four: do not be fooled in the markets by the plump appeal of seemingly luscious blackberries, nestling sweetly in their cardboard cartons. Their origin is nasty, vicious and will do anything in its power to prevent you exerting your will against its demise.

  Five: in your endless trips across le jardin to your bonfire, do not be tempted to pile your wheelbarrow too high in the foolish thought that you will have fewer trips. This way disaster lies. One lapin hole and your load is upended all over the ground, forcing you to start again. The trekking backwards and forwards is so endless that it is impossible to keep count — so don’t even try to.

  Six: wear thick, protective clothing. Just like your gloves, double layers are highly recommended, for like your hands and face, the thorns will plunge into any inch of exposed skin like a heat-seeking missile. The eradication of blackberrieswill be unlike any other gardening experience you may have had.

  Seven: be aware of getting carried away when clambering up stone walls in your relentless pursuit of invading blackberries. It is not until you pause and peer down that you realise you seem to have climbed as high as the Eiffel Tower. Climbing up is the easy part; getting back down can be somewhat trickier.

  Eight: when you at last take the time to step back and assess your work, a magnificent stone wall may well be revealed. While ours has significantly subsided in places, the painstakingly revealed stretches of limestone wall are well worth the throbbing back and fingers that still seem to have somehow been stabbed by thorns. It is my Cuzance equivalent of conquering Everest.

  Finally, vary assault tactics. Take your enemy by surprise. Use a front attack position for the initial assault on blackberries, followed by rear manoeuvres. Keep blackberries on their toes at all times and then go in for the kill. Drag, chop, dissect, spray. The final step in the battle plan is to forcefully spray the area with les herbes deterrent.

  I am battered and bruised, scratched and sore, exhausted, but also exhilarated. Last but not least, avoid texting your friend at home to tell him what you are doing. Dave replies, ‘Get a goat or two. All your work will be done for you.’ I let him know he should arrange to immediately have some express delivered.

  All these setbacks can be easily avoided. This is a refined art that I have taught myself from bitter experience, having been attacked by the grasping, greedy claws of blackberries on more occasions than I like to recall. There is far more to French country life than a novice may ever assume; it is not always a romantic vision of endless apéritifs and champagne at sunset each day.

  Sand in an Hourglass

  The endless beaucoup travail is finally over for another week. Saturday starts with domesticity. However, even the prosaic task of washing has an altogether different ring to it when you announce you are off to le cave to à laver. The mundane undertaking of hanging linen on the line even has a different air, for they are heavy French linen sheets embroidered with the sweeping curve of initials from a long-lost trousseau. After they have dried in the summer sun, they feel like puffs of cloud on the bed.

  With the linen flapping, I take the opportunity to wander slowly round the garden. Two tiny rose bushes that I have recently saved from being smothered by blackberries are already yielding petite buds. As I make my way to the far back corner, the first hint of sun for days makes a fleeting appearance, as if deciding whether to finally grace our days again. I stand back and admire the wall that I have wrenched the blackberries away from. At last, it all seems to be taking shape — and there will truly be days to come when there is time to simply smell the roses.

  It is not until we have been back for weeks that our Saturday market trip to Martel is leisurely and all that it should be. Instead of our usual frantic, hectic, rush, rush, rush, we are able for the first time to simply stroll. A stop at the boulangerie is our first priority. Since it is Saturday, the queue stretches even further out the door. Women emerge carrying glossy boxes tied with white shiny ribbon. Inside I know there will be sumptuous chocolat gâteaux or perhaps a tart adorned with fresh fraise.

  Pastries and pain chosen, there is time today for an espresso. After waiting, we get a front table, a perfect vantage point to watch the French world saunter past, many with a chien accompanying them. Dogs seem to be able to go everywhere in France; cafés, restaurants, shops, banks, trains and even planes.

  Despite our holiday feeling, reality still seeps in for we have to go to La Poste to send a cheque to the plombier as well as a visit to Bank Popu
laire. In the bank we learn a new term, historic, which is a record of all our withdrawals. We both visibly blanch at the figure. We hastily head to the park next to the petite bibliothèque where we can get WiFi access, as we need to transfer money from home. Stuart checks the dollar against the euro. This time we have even more reason to grow pale.

  Then it’s off to the market to forget responsibilities for a while, as we fill our pannier with the tastes of a French summer.

  Since it is the weekend we have a more leisurely lunch at the table behind la grange. When I return to our petite maison with the lunch tray, there is a young French man standing on our très joli steps. I think that he must be a salesman, perhaps of agricultural equipment, farm machinery — or even a new portable deal. He introduces himself as Francois and tells us that it was his uncle who we bought the house from. He tells us that he is off to Australie in a few months, and if it’s convenient can we share any useful information with him? We sit on our petite porch, and in my best schoolteacher manner I discuss his options with him. He is courteous and charming, and I let him know to get in touch when he arrives.

  For the first time for weeks, we go out to dîner alone to our new favourite find in the fourth summer we have frequented Souillac. Madame greets us like favoured customers. As her pen hovers to take our order, she anticipates our dessert and states ‘tarte tatin’, promising to see if there is some left in the kitchen. It was only on the menu the first time we went for dinner, but by now we know to ask if there is any left from lunch still tucked away. After my first mouthful of warm, home-made apple pie with home-made vanille glacée, it was put straight at the top of my dessert list. To replace crème brûlée as the only other dessert I ever usually favour means that it is indeed magnifique. It is the taste of France that you conjure up when you are far away. It was a defining moment in my French life, when Madame greeted me on arrival each time after as Madame Tarte Tatin.

  Unfolding Days

  Jean-Claude continues to drop in nearly every day, his beloved Henriette always by his side. He is utterly devoted to her. He usually has a story or two to share, including the continuing sad saga of Monsieur Chanteur, his famille and financial woes. In France, death duties are extortionate. Hence, well-off families put every possible measure in place to avoid them. They are determined that government bureaucracy will not consume their lifetime of accumulated wealth.

  Jean-Claude tells us that as well as his Lyon apartment they own three garages, a studio and a flat in the same building. We assume these are from the days when bourgeois families had servants. He wants to pass these assets onto his children. As his mère is still alive — at one hundred — he has to ask her permission to do so. Presumably she still owns the Lyon apartment. French inheritance laws are notoriously complex and all the generations are involved in matters of family property. Reaching an agreement is not always a straightforward matter.

  This leads to the latest events in Monsieur Chanteur’s life. Apparently, he and his wife both had private means, but Monsieur Chanteur passed his onto his wife. Now that she is gone, according to French law, the children are entitled to half of her assets. In the telling of the tale, it is reinforced that his son is mean-spirited and malignant. He has now succeeded in alienating the daughter as well as the grandchildren from Monsieur Chanteur. Now he can no longer even visit them. Despite the fact that he helped his daughter buy her nearby farm and has given money to the other two, they are all determined to gain access to the family wealth.

  When Madame Chanteur was alive, when they were sitting together in their jardin their daughter would drive past without stopping, but would simply wave. Now she doesn’t even do that. I often think of the sad, grey cloud that at the end of his life he is living under. The spirit of Cuzance that fills us with peace is an altogether different place for him.

  Despite the physical proximity of our maisons, our lives could not be any more different. The only point of intersection is that we live in the same petite rural village and share a stone wall. The machinations of law, bureaucracy and avarice have wrapped their tentacles around him as tightly as ivy engulfs many maisons in our département.

  Conversation moves on to lighter matters when I ask Jean-Claude how to go about hiring a tractor. This is definitely something my deficient language skills will not extend to. Impatient as always, I want to move on in digging up the land that has been churned up by heavy machinery and is now a haven for weeds.

  Our Last Summer Visitors

  Two of our oldest, closest friends from home, Lynette and Michael, come to stay at the end of our second-last week. It is Michael’s idea of heaven to be in France, for one of the things he most loves in life is vin rouge. He is also passionate about driving. However, when they finally drive in through our stone pillars, they stumble out of the car with tales of Souillac, the viaduct and a goat track. They have programmed the Sat Nav for the shortest route, not the fastest, and have had a seemingly impossible cross-country adventure.

  Lynette exclaims, ‘You told us the village restaurant was called Hotel Arnal!’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I reply, unable not to laugh. ‘They’ve changed the name since we’ve been here and I forgot to tell you.’

  That was something of an oversight. Fortunately, they finally came across Brigitte Dal in her customary place on her bench outside her maison, her beloved Verdi by her side, watching the world go by. They enquired, ‘Susan and Stuart, Australie?’ Michael tells us she would have been prepared to throw a rope around their car and tow them round the corner to our house, so determined was she to help them find us.

  Much later over dîner on our petite porch, when we ask about their travels in France and the people they have met, Michael says the encounter with Brigitte Dal was one of the most appealing. Just like Glenn a few weeks before, he too seems to have fallen for her gentle charisma.

  Their visit, planned for months, is all I hoped for. Lynette is exuberant about the charm of our petite maison and she too falls under the warmth of its spell.

  The next morning, Michael helps to restore part of our crumbling wall before we all set off to one of the biggest vide-grenier of the season, Turenne en Gare. It is their first visit to a second-hand market and Lynette wants to scoop up every piece of Limoges china in sight. Instead, she buys a brown petite colander that stands on three legs, as a gift for our cuisine that I can wash berries in that I buy from the markets.

  We soon wilt in the searing heat. Yet we have overlooked a critical fact: never plan lunch out on a Sunday in France. This is a lesson that we had previously learnt, but in our desire to plan a perfect itinerary for our friends we seem to have forgotten — places are either closed or a booking is essential. Until we recall this, we head for the stunning town of Meyssac, determined to showcase as much of our region as possible, to a café we discovered just a few days before and are excited about sharing with them. Non, déjeuner is not served on Sunday.

  It is now even hotter, and getting late. We head for Martel in the hope that our local café will be open and serve pizza on a Sunday. Michael has a prodigious appetite; late though it is, we hope this will satisfy him. This time the drive does not seem quite as enchanting when hunger pangs pervade the surrounding pastoral delights. The roads are all empty and quiet, the little towns we pass through are deserted. Sundays in the country are reserved for lunch at home. For farmers at the peak of their season it is a rare respite to spend precious time with their family gathered round them.

  There are sighs of relief all round; the café is open, they are still serving lunch. All we have to do is wait — and wait — in the blazing sun until a table is available. Finally, when we eat pizza that is the same temperature as the day, it is at the time we would usually be having our afternoon espresso and glacée.

  Lynette and Michael leave for Avignon on a rainy Monday morning, negotiating a flock of sheep outside Pied de la Croix. It is an incongruous farewell touch, for they are being herded by two attractive teenage girls, one eye on
their charges while both chat away on their portables.

  Our last week passes in a haze of both happiness and sadness. Happiness — and a celebration of our considerable achievements. Sadness — at our imminent departure and a return to reality and responsibility. Somehow, despite our sheer hard work, life at Pied de la Croix is not the everday world.

  The weather thwarts the start of our final petite vacances, just like our previous summer. Despite our very best intentions, we find ourselves pulling on our work clothes yet again. Each time I mark the occasion, thinking this will be the last time as I wash and pack them away, yet it never seems to be. We set to and move more rocks in readiness for another bed we are preparing next to la piscine where my jardin ambitions now extend to planting another row of lavande.

  The shadows change and move as the sun slips away ever earlier to go to bed in its eiderdown clouds. The trees start to turn to autumn tones. The wind picks up, the clouds mass, the full moon peeps through the lofty pines in the opposite jardin. We create precious time to read and relax and promenade along the roads of Cuzance. On our last Friday we will meet Lynette and Michael on their return to Martel, at Relais St Anne, for déjeuner.

  Reality and surrealism overlap, for the next time we join them will be in Australia for a weekend at their beach house. There is so much to reflect on and, most of all, so much to be grateful for.

  Last Working Week

  No matter how many weeks we have in our French summer, time passes as quickly as the flapping of a pigeon’s wings. We have learnt the hard way over the years to be more pragmatic and realistic in our approach to the relentless demands of rénovation. No matter what point we are up to, we declare that tools must be downed for our last precious week in our petite maison. We know what we are like. It will be rakes and shovels at dawn on our last day unless we declare, ‘Enough is enough.’ The lure of the jardin is an ever-present tugboat, waiting to tow us indefinitely in its wake.