Our House is Definitely Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  Mondays are as profoundly different as they could possibly be from my life at home. I start my last one for the summer, by potting up petite walnuts that I have discovered under my pink rose that climbs against the side of our house. Squirrels have buried the nuts there for the winter, but they have sprung into life. While walnut trees take decades to flourish, I am still determined to try to plant them out on our return.

  I then head to the orchard as the first of the sun washes through it. I clamber up the ladder with my pruning saw and secateurs to cut off dead limbs. They are as uncooperative as reluctant Monday morning schoolchildren. I circle each tree, positioning my ladder carefully every time on the stony ground. Reach, grab, stretch, saw. Step down and repeat my circling of each apple and pear tree.

  Stuart dashes off yet again to Martel to sort out our plummeting euro situation. I take the opportunity in between his concreting to grab the wheelbarrow and move my piles of branches. It is only when you step back that you can see how much you have achieved. It is a start to my working week that is like no other. Alone in my French orchard, the only sounds are that of melodious birdsong and the soft braying of a donkey in the distance, while the leaves overhead swish softly in the light breeze.

  After countless trips in rapide succession with the teetering brouette, by only nine the full surge of the sun has returned. I huff and puff in a way that would rival The Three Little Pigs. While Stuart can measure his rénovation weeks by his progress with the paving, so too can I see my work in le jardin by the size of my now mountainous bonfire pile. Then it’s off to spray les herbes yet again. By now they are openly mocking me, so stealthy and sure-footed is their bid to out-manoeuvre me and win the battle. As I don my mask, I am again quite sure that no-one in my other life would recognise me. Like Mondays everywhere, though, it takes a while to pick up the pace and resume my rhythm.

  Stuart returns and ends his morning on a victorious note by cementing in the last piece of crazy paving along the side of la piscine. Now the three sides are fini. The paving, however, is still not fully finished for there is still the intricate art of cementing between each piece, not to mention the drainage channel that still needs to be installed. Still, with four years of hard rénovation now under our belts, we can afford to stop at the déjeuner hour and break for the afternoon. Well, perhaps somewhat later than the twelve o’clock tolling, when it is particularly imperious. Often, while still labouring away, I feel like telling it, ‘Yes, I know. I’m not quite ready to down tools yet, merci beaucoup for letting me know it is lunchtime.’

  As for my blackberry foe, I’m tempted to call in A. A. I. D. — a special operations tactical unit of the French gendarme. Despite my measures to cover up, my scratches are now so criss-crossed they represent a map of the national autoroutes of France. The week continues in a relentless blackberry battle and a never-ending round of pruning and spraying. With no friends to stay for a while and no absurdly late dîners, my body is truly in tune with a life on the land.

  Then it’s back to the wall, literally. Despite my throbbing, swollen fingers pierced with thorns that somehow still slip through despite the gloves, and my perpetually aching back, this is a job I love. Unlike many other jardin tasks, this is one that has instant results. Crunch, snap; the blackberry strands lie in pleasing piles. My moss-covered limestone wall peeps out more as I move further along our boundary, ripping down years of growth. I curse the blackberries profusely pushing against the wall from Monsieur Chanteur’s jardin in their bid to gain new territory.

  Next, on with the relentless spraying. It is my least favourite job. The industrial spray bottle weighs heavily on my shoulder and the only effective way to spray les herbes is to stoop. I can only manage one spraying session a day. The weeds seem to know this, for they appear to flourish and spread gleefully overnight. I am full of excitement, however, as Stuart has now finished his paving until next year. This means I have full access to the wheelbarrow.

  My country life is so condensed, that such things as a brouette become the full focus of a Cuzance day. After déjeuner, it’s a quick dash to the nursery. Three of my ground covers are struggling and I feel very disappointed with their lack-lustre performance. Don’t they realise they are planted in the premier row and are supposed to be ready for a standing ovation?

  It is in every possible way as different to my life at home as could be imagined. From my life as a librarian, to each summer summonsing reserves of strength and energy I didn’t know I had. I often think of my students and how they would be utterly astonished if they could have a window into my days in Cuzance. For now, blackberry remains my mightiest foe. I use all the might and fight I can muster, even against one single, thick old stem. I keep re-defining my combat method. It now encompasses a highly unusual blend of Pilates, yoga and kick-boxing. This is a new strategy I have just developed. It involves lifting and then kicking my legs at the recalcitrant blackberries. It has proved to be very effective and I can highly recommend it on the blackberry front.

  I am ecstatic when I unearth what I think is an old fig tree at the far end of the boundary. How it has possibly survived when it has been smothered for years amazes me. It is gnarled and its ancient knots are strewn with moss, as it twists along the wall, searching for light. To bring it fully back to life will have to be a careful operation, for its canopy is completely consumed by blackberry.

  I fetch the stepladder to reach high enough and, in a delicate manoeuvre, use the secateurs to peel away the greedy blackberry claws. Despite my joy in this discovery, I have to be realistic at this point in my jardin endeavours. The weeks of sheer physical toil have caught up with me. I need to remember that one swallow does not a summer make. As the elderberry has started to flower, it is a sign that our Cuzance summer is almost at an end.

  Parisian Neighbours and the Assumption of Mary

  The name ‘Place Du Bicentenair 1789’ is on a plaque outside Le Bureau de Maires. It is a very grand name for the few places that our village contains: the mayor’s office, the war memorial, the church and restaurant. Despite the absence of any shops, including a longed-for boulangerie so that fresh pain could be the order of every day, it is still the hub of the village. When the restaurant shuts for a week’s vacances, an unnatural hush falls over the village, for there is nowhere for the locals to gather. It is even stranger not to hear Monsieur Arnal’s strident voice echoing through the quiet village.

  One night I walk down to buy some postcards. A petite group of women is clustered outside Monsieur Paris’ house. They have lost power and yet seem to be the only ones in Cuzance not to have electricity. I convey désolé and offer candles if they need them. Monsieur Paris comes stomping out of his maison, a surly look on his face. He glares at me in a belligerent way as if it is all my fault. His wife murmurs to him in a soothing tone that I am Australie. What this is meant to convey I am not quite sure. Madame Paris pats my arm in a placating manner and rolls her eyes behind his back. Clearly she is attempting to apologise for his abruptness. I am simply left wondering how on earth I could have possibly offended him. I am also left confused by the apparent explanation that my behaviour is because I am Australian, innocent and well-meaning as I was. All I had said after all was, ‘Bonsoir, sorry you don’t have electricity and would you like some candles?’ No wonder people in the country think that people from Paris are aloof. I’ll be glad when he takes his Parisian ways back there. To make amends for his abruptness, Brigitte Dal makes a point of showing me that she has potted up the geranium I gave her for a gift. I again think that her kind, gentle nature is the essence of Cuzance for me.

  The following day is the Assumption of Mary, August 15. It is one of many religious days in the French calendar, and also a public holiday. This year it falls on a Thursday, at the end of our last working week. I am torn between my boundary wall and the lure of a vide-grenier that I remember as being a particularly magnifique one. Rather than miss out on one of our final treasure hunts for the summer, we decide to co
mpromise and work for a few hours before setting off.

  There is an especially festive air at La Chapelle-aux-Saints. The setting is another picture-perfect one; a small stream burbling, picnic tables next to a grove of poplars and the stalls set out in avenues under shady trees. Plough horses are demonstrating their ancient art and I wonder, in this age of sophisticated farm machinery, how many more years they will practise their craft. While you can in fact choose a three-course lunch, for us it is the standard vide-grenier fare, a crispy baguette with sausage, frites and a< bière. In the after-lunch quietness, we wander slowly, eager to see if any treasure is still lurking. When I pause at a stall, Monsieur Vide-Grenier says he noticed us both in the queue for déjeuner. He tells me we both look très chic in our chapeau. It is the third time I have been complimented in France this summer and now both of us for our fashionable hats. These moments make me float and make up for the fatigue that by now consumes me after our long weeks of beaucoup travail. Like many other words that enter my vocabulary, this is one I learnt very quickly to explain my perpetually tired appearance. As I glide away, I try to gloss over the fact that Monsieur Vide-Grenier had a glass of red wine in his hand at the time and was perhaps slightly unsteady on his feet. Midday sun and vin rouge may possibly colour your outlook on chapeau and looking très chic.

  To prolong our holiday mood, we head to the quiet, picturesque banks of le Dordogne near Floriac. The drives through the rural landscape are like driving through the lines of a French poem, for the names of villages are like rippling lines of verse: Branceilles, Curemonte, Gines, Loulier, Sourdoire and Saint-Michel-de-Bannières. The drive takes us through the depths of fertile farmland. Fields of corn sway at full height and sunflowers tilt their happy faces. The river curls along serenely under the sheer limestone cliffs and kayaks full of children float past. The end of summer is drawing near and the fête day for the Assumption of Mary has been graced by an endless blue basin of sky and sunshine that still holds the promise of more such days to follow. There are significant stone farm houses dotted here and there, surrounded by rich green fields and bountiful orchards. The road plunges and dips through hamlets and woodlands, where the dappled sun plays with the shadows. One-way bridges open up to the sight of families, stopped by the roadside to picnic in farmers’ fields. No matter how petite a hamlet is, a huge stone church is always the dominant feature, to bring the farming families together to both celebrate and mourn, just like the seasons, the passages of life. As we climb higher, panoramic views open up over toy land farms below in the verdant valleys.

  Our meander takes us to Meyssac, where we encounter a brocante full of dealers and their expensive wares. The town is a stunning discovery for it is full of ornate maisons built from the same unique red stone as nearby Collonges-la-Rouge. Despite the dealers’ très cher prices, it is always pleasurable to pore over expensive pieces of furniture, antique oil paintings and old, delicate porcelain. Some of the dealers have set out their furniture and other goods to resemble a salon. There are sofas and lights, fragile glass and art works. It must all take hours to set up and then dismantle at the end of each market. I marvel at their hard work and commitment, Sunday after Sunday each summer.

  On our wending way home, we stop on a high, quiet country road to admire a très belle maison; it is the house, garden and setting of French fantasies. It is completely alone, sitting and dreaming in the soft sunshine, surrounded by expansive lush lawns and enormous elms. The tall black wrought iron gates are flung open and the broad gravel drive is flanked by profusely flowering pink hydrangeas. I venture just outside the gates and peep over the stone wall. Set on arise, it overlooks the pretty town of Turenne in the distance and in the nearby fields, fat white cows, a breed called Charolais, placidly graze. As we reluctantly drive away, I have sold Pied de la Croix in my mind and moved in. The utter silence of the complete rural landscape is palpable. It has tugged on my heartstrings and I know it will linger for a long time in my memory. It is indeed the idyllic French countryside and gracious home that dreams are made of.

  Working Vacances — Fini

  For the fourth year, we declare our working holiday to be finished. Like an athlete at the final hurdle, I muster my remaining strength and put in a medal-winning performance. The very last day of our working vacances, I work away vigorously on my wall. The limbs of the fig tree spread so low to the ground that I am compelled to be like a gymnast; the difference is that my parallel bar is on the ground. I am forced to lie on the ground to stretch fully under it to reach the ubiquitous blackberry. While sprawled on the ground, I also have to take care not to be speared in the eye by a javelin-like piece of piercing blackberry. In an act of symbolism, to underscore that enough is enough, my ripped work shoes that have gaping holes, finally fall apart on the very last day. And so I throw my faithful work shoes away that have seen me through thick and thin for the past few summers.

  There is still the lavande to cut back yet this is a delight not an arduous task, to fill my straw basket with graceful purple wands that have brought beauty to our Cuzance summer. I think about an email from Jean-Claude that filled in more gaps in my knowledge, for like most people, I thought that it was only Provence that was famous for its endless purple fields of lavender:

  I have just come into a piece of information that will interest a landscape lover like you. In Martel, in the meadow below the XVIIIth century wall (next to the parking lot) they are now pulling down a derelict piece of equipment: an industrial lavender distillery that was built in the sixties for the lavender growers who were apparently quite numerous in the area; just imagine the fields around Cuzance all lavender blue! This practice went out of use at the end of the seventies … probably in favour of walnut trees! What a pity!

  I simply cannot imagine our working rural landscape sweeping endlessly to the horizon in a mauve haze.

  When we return home, in one of his emails Jean-Claude fills me in on events in the village that astonish me. He lets us know that someone running our local cooperative has been caught embezzling money. It revolves around leasing farm equipment to his cronies and not keeping proper records. While we may well walk past the people caught up in this scandal on one of our future promenades, it is likely that we will never know who they are. That is, unless Jean-Claude and Henriette happen to be accompanying us. Then he will delight in pointing out to us the members of our village who got caught up in the high drama of a court case centred on the apparently lucrative trade of leasing agricultural machinery. Now there’s a possible retirement plan.

  There are times when exhaustion dogs our every footstep and laps at the edges of our days. There are times when still we question the enormity of what we have taken on in a foreign land, for one short summer each year. Still however, an apartment in Paris does not truly tempt us. For when the day closes, and we relax with our apéritifs, gazing out over the orchard, we marvel at all that we have achieved in a mere four years. And despite the relentless, all-consuming, sheer beaucoup travail, there is not a hint of regret. It is our precious, petite corner of rural France and we embrace all that it has enriched our lives with.

  We know our Cuzance summer chapter is reaching its finale when we start to count the days and not the weeks. Sadness permeates our everyday actions in our petite maison. Each simple task has an air of finality that is echoed in the church bells that will soon ring without us.

  I am already conscious that when old age looms there will be a myriad of ‘last times’. The markets in Martel — how to soak up every nuance and make the memories last forever; the locals’ café for espresso — one final lingering look to imprint the faces — our beloved boulangerie, our favourite restaurants, the church bells that have marked the steady progression of our unfurling Cuzance summer days. It will be the last lists, the final goodbyes, the closing au revoirs on this, the most magnifique time of our lives. It is all too unbearably poignant to even contemplate.

  I will take out the brightly coloured beads from my jewelle
ry box of memoirs. They will be a string of shining summer memories. I shall gaze at them with equal measures of awe, sadness and sweeping nostalgia. Their shimmering colours will reflect a thousand memories that will never dim with the fleeting passage of time. The brilliance of the beads will reflect back all that was splendid and glorious about our other French life.

  For now, we are fortunate enough to look forward to many more French summers, far from Paris. As the years pass, so too will the beaucoup travail diminish. Now, on our last evening in Août, the light fades ever earlier and we close the shutters one final time. For now, we know that next year there will be another Cuzance summer chapter, and once again, with joy, we will fling wide the shutters.

  The Sinking Sun

  The sun sinks discernibly earlier than on our arrival at the start of summer. Soon we will return home to spring. When Jean-Claude visits for the last time until l’année prochaine, he tells us that in winter it can be as low as minus ten in the day. It is a season of extreme bitterness and invasive iciness that we simply cannot begin to imagine, nor is it one that we have any desire to experience. On that note, it makes our imminent parting from Pied de la Croix just that little bit less sad. His parting words are more information about our commune, for Jean-Claude tells us that all the grande maisons in our département were built sixty years ago from truffle money. I yearn to find my own secret source to restore la grange. Such suggestions are met with laughter, for he assures me that most of the truffles to be found in the woodlands virtually disappeared long ago. Now they are cultivated and closely guarded behind high fences. Since they are so expensive, tales are rife of people trying to steal them from others’ land. Only a handful of people are in the know about the buried caches, who sell them in the special truffle markets in Martel each Novembre. It is when chefs descend from far and wide to buy what is known as black gold. They are petite, black gnarled lumps that look like small rocks. They are highly prized, adding a taste of the exotic as thin shavings over an omelette, or in a rich luscious sauce. It is the stuff of dreams, and dreams are what made our French life come true.