by Marisa Raoul
‘What the bloody hell … Jean, is that you?’ I called angrily.
‘Oui, Marisa…what’s wrong now?’
‘There aren’t any bloody towels or soap in this place … I can’t believe this. What’s he playing at?’
‘Calm down Marisa. Call him … he’s probably forgotten, that’s all,’ Jean replied, trying desperately to quell my anger.
‘My God … this is ridiculous. No bloody towels, no soap, no heating, no Mas… what’s next? No sheets on the bed?’
‘Maybe we had better take a look-see, just in case?’
We both yanked on the patterned bedspread, hoping we wouldn’t find a bare mattress.
‘Thank God for small mercies,’ I declared. ‘Aren’t they generous in Provence, they even gave us sheets to sleep on. Oh, and look … a thin, woollen blanket … how perfectly cosy!’
‘How on God’s earth did he get his star rating? He must have bribed the judge.’
‘I can’t see how else he could have ended up with such a high rating. It’s ludicrous. This place is unworthy of any rating in my books but Monsieur Pascal rates as the most unqualified host you’re bound to meet. Look, I’m going to call him and demand some towels. I’m freezing my butt off.’
‘Go-ahead darling, but please, try to stay calm.’
After explaining our complete and utter disappointment to the otherwise nonplussed Monsieur Pascal, I closed myself in the bathroom and ran the hot water.
‘Here are your towels, Chérie … oh, and some soap … though I think you’ll probably want to use your own. It’s just some cheap stuff. Doesn’t smell that nice.’
‘Bloody hell,’ I swore. Thank goodness I always come prepared. Too bad if you don’t.’
‘Oh … and by the way Marisa, he asked what time we wanted our breakfast delivered?’
‘Delivered? What do you mean … delivered?’
‘To the room. He said he brings it here.’
‘But there’s nowhere to eat in here. Not even a little dining table. You’re supposed to be served in a dining room when you go to a Bed and Breakfast…like we do at home.’
‘I know darling, but obviously that’s not what happens here.’
‘We’ll see about that.’ I declared, now hot with rage. ‘We’ll eat in the dining room if the last bloody thing I do!’
Jean knew better than to contradict me when I was in such a mood, so he closed the bathroom door and left me to my own devices. I huffed and puffed like a Mallee bull under the steaming, hot water. This self-serving bastard wasn’t going to get the better of me.
‘I’m going to drop in on our dear Monsieur Pascal for just a minute Jean,’ I said, as we approached the car.
‘Don’t go getting all worked up Marisa. It won’t do you any good.’
‘Don’t worry … I’m just going to sort out the breakfast arrangements. I promise you I’ll be quick.’
I rang the bell of the Mas and a softly spoken woman came to the door.
‘Bonjour Madame. Can I speak to Monsieur Pascal, please?’
‘Bien Sûr, Madame. Un moment, s’il vous plait. (Of course Madame. One moment please.)’
Monsieur Pascal approached the doorway hesitantly. He knows I’m mad, I thought.
‘Monsieur Pascal, I have a problem with our breakfast arrangements.’
‘What’s wrong now, Madame Raoul?’ he queried impatiently.
This man was really getting up my nose. And that wasn’t a good place to be!
‘Well, firstly, I expected to stay in a Mas, which apparently, I’m not. Secondly, I would expect the very minimum of fresh towels, soap and heating for the price you charge. But, I will by no means and under no circumstances, eat my breakfast perched on my knees in my bedroom. It’s outrageous. You are required by the standards set out in the manual of the ‘Gîtes de France’ to serve us in a dining room, and that’s where I want to and will … eat!’
‘But Madame, we never heat the dining room in winter, especially for just two people,’ he replied, expecting that to be a good enough excuse.
‘Too bad. You are making false economies here, Monsieur Pascal. Either you heat the dining room and serve us there, or we leave here and now, our full monies refunded’
‘Very well … very well,’ he consented. ‘What time would you like breakfast?’
‘8.30am would be fine, thank you. I’m glad you see my point of view,’ and with that, I turned and walked to the car, where Jean waited anxiously.
‘What the hell happened there? You looked pretty red faced.’
‘Red faced…that stupid hyena … he wouldn’t know how to run a B&B if it jumped up and bit him. Anyway, after a bit of gentle persuasion, he has agreed to serve us breakfast in the dining room … he’s even going to turn on the heater. Whoopee!’
‘Good girl Marisa. I’m proud of you. Bloody thieves, they don’t deserve to earn a living. They’d steal your well-earned Francs and give you nothing in return.’
‘Enough of that, darling … I hear the bubbles of the Kir Royals calling … let’s get out of here.’
The next morning, we awoke to a sun-soaked room and the sound of twittering birdsong. After a quick shower, we were both hungry for breakfast and made our way to the dining area at the far end of the unit complex. We had passed it the night before, so we knew exactly where to go.
We were surprised to see another couple already seated, as Monsieur Pascal had led me to believe that we were the only two guests. We took a table in the sun and awaited Monsieur Pascal’s arrival.
‘He must be cooking or making coffee, I suppose.’
‘Look, here he comes now. Why is he carrying a camping thermos?’ queried Jean. We both looked on in silence.
‘No … I don’t believe it. He’s serving those people with a thermos … not even a bloody coffee pot.’
‘Don’t look now, but it’s our turn,’ Jean joked.
‘Bonjour Monsieur et Madame Raoul. Lovely morning?’
‘Bonjour Monsieur Pascal,’ we replied, unimpressed with his false airs.
‘Would you like thé ou café with your breakfast?’
‘Café, I suppose. That is, if it’s real coffee?’ I asked, sarcastically.
‘Bien sûr, of course it is … I brewed it freshly this morning,’ he replied annoyed by my stinging remark.
‘All right then. Coffee for two.’
He promptly turned and disappeared into what we supposed was the kitchen. We took this time to inspect our surroundings. It was a pleasant enough room, but lacked the warmth and charm of a true Bed and Breakfast. It was light and sunny and fortunately had an agreeable outlook, but apart from that, the interior was as thrilling as the adjoining, lacklustre studios and was absent of any personal touches or interior design.
‘Pretty ordinary, isn’t it? It’s slightly prettier than our studio, but compared to our place in Treignac…it’s a dump.’
‘You’re right. Though I’d still prefer to eat in here, than on my knees in the other room. He could do with your help in the interior decorating, Chérie.’
‘Thanks,’ I blushed. ‘I must admit; give me twenty-four hours and a few thousand francs and I’d have this place looking like something out of … Provence. For example.’
‘Very funny Marisa. Though, you’re right … oh, look … here comes our pretty thermos of coffee.’
We sat in dumbfounded silence as Monsieur Pascal deftly laid a small, metal tray of pastries and bread on our table, accompanied by a tall, self-pouring thermos. Even the jams were shop bought. And the individually wrapped butters were cold and hard as chicken pellets.
Monsieur Pascal didn’t wait around for comment or question. He disappeared the moment he finished serving us our meagre breakfast, and I use the word ‘serve’ extremely loosely.
‘Did you notice how he took off in a rush? I think you really scared him yesterday.’
‘I darn well hope so. He deserves a swift kick as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Th
is coffee isn’t that bad … it’s drinkable. And the bread and pastries are fresh, though they’re nothing compared to René’s.’
‘Yes, it lacks that “Raoul” touch. No wonder we do so well, even in the back-hills of sleepy Corrèze.’
‘No more talk of business or home, we’re here to have a good time and I’m determined that’s what’s going to happen. Bon appetit!’ said Jean, raising his non-descript coffee cup in salute.
‘Bon appetit, darling. To better days!’
‘To better days!’
The following days were spent rambling through sinuous country lanes and byways. We touched on the main tourist sites to satisfy our curiosity, then ventured off the main roads into tiny hamlets and over ancient stone bridges. We picnicked by dormant lavender fields and dined in quaint, family-run restaurants. We had wonderfully animated conversations with jolly restaurateurs, who were thrilled with our winter patronage and invited us to take digestives en famille, by the fireside.
Provence showed us its quieter, true self. The façade of summer falsities gone, it was the real face of Provence that we discovered, under a pale winter sun.
The names of villages and hamlets reel through my mind. Bonnieux, Gordes, Aix, St Rémy de Provence, St Paul de Vence and one of my personal favourites, Rousillon.
Rousillon is a tiny village of simplistic beauty and is surrounded by towering Cypress trees and rocky hills. It is within these same hills that Rousillon has found its fame over the centuries. They consist of the most incredible coloured earth, which is ground into age-old pigments, their potent powders used in paints or to colour the renders of villas and palaces alike.
I collected several paper bags of coloured earth myself, on the slippery, sandy slopes, determined to create a work of art for my own home back in Treignac. I would take my own little slice of ‘natural’ Provence home with me, in all its ochre, yellow and cobalt splendour.
I instantly understood why we associate all things Provençal with ochre and earthy colours. These have been the shades and nuances of the terroir for time and memorial. The people have lived on these ochre-riddled grounds for centuries and our flamboyant 21st century designers haven’t invented a thing.
Within days of our return to Corrèze, the much-maligned Monsieur Pascal now closeted in the back corridors of my mind, I commenced work on my art project.
I had noticed that every Provençal village and township we visited was adorned with the most delicately decorated sundials. They embellished the crumbling façades of homes and civic buildings alike and sat proudly on even the most modest of village squares. It was obvious that this ancient design of light and time was a culturally important symbol of the region. There were so many of them and their designs and colours varied with such enormity, that it made my choice a difficult one. In the end, I opted for a beautiful pattern that I found photographed in an architectural book. By adding some carefully chosen Latinate words, taken from an Italian love song I had learnt as a teenager, I managed to make the design, my very own.
A wide expanse of plastered wall in our formal lounge had remained sadly blank since our installation and I decided, with Jean’s accord, to make this my giant, indoor canvas. I know that sundials are meant to be outdoors, for obvious reasons, but it seemed such a shame to paint this beauty where it would be battered by the elements and left to fade into obscurity.
It took me a week to pencil sketch the actual design onto the wall, as it was larger and more intricate than I had imagined. I then threw myself into the unknown realm of mixing a water-based paint using my collection of powdered earth and ochre. It was trial and error at first, but as I progressed, I felt that every new brush-stroke drew the gentle Provençal sunshine into the granite walled rooms of our home.
I’m no artist and my attempt was nowhere as refined as the stunning examples I had seen in Provence and yet, the completed work was everything I had wished for. I only hope that its powdered beauty will remain untouched for decades to come. I pray sincerely, that those who are blessed to dwell in this glorious home, in years to come, feel the same warmth emanate from its surface and allow it a life infinite.
‘Nel sole, Nel vento, Nel sorriso, Nel pianto’
‘In the sun, in the wind, in a smile, in a tear’
My favourite French party drinks
KIR
1 part Crème de Cassis liqueur 3 parts dry white wine
KIR ROYALE
1 part Crème de Cassis liqueur
3 parts Champagne or Dry sparkling wine (if really necessary!)
And in winter
CARDINALE
1 part Crème de Cassis Liqueur
3 parts Dry red wine
CHAPTER 15
Afternoon Vipers and
Anniversary Surprises.
My passionate ‘Francophonie’ most certainly stems from my strong, European heritage and the pride my parents instilled in me as a small child.
My Italian father and English mother immigrated to Australia, with their respective families, as young adults, post World War 2. They have resided in the family home for some 40 years now and are happily ensconced in their little corner of southern, beachside Sydney.
Fortunately, due to my tri-national birth rite, I reside in France under the officialdom of my Italian passport. This allows me to traverse borders on whim and equally, to hold a non-visa, long-term residency status on European soil. It’s very handy but never ceases to bewilder the traffic Gendarmes when holding one of their regular car registration checks. I need only produce my French Residents Card with Birthplace, Sydney Australia, Nationality, Italian and place of residency, France to confuse them for the rest of the day. They inevitably wave me on as quickly as possible, no questions asked. Perhaps they imagine me as some local plant for Interpol or a female 007.
Regardless of how well rooted we become in our newly established home, my father, Saverio, constantly pesters Jean and I to return to our real ‘home’ in Australia, but as I regularly remind him – ‘This, is our home now, Dad. I don’t even have a bank account, let alone a home in Australia.’
This sentimental, Latin man rejects my excuses, advising me that, it’s simply an extended holiday I’m on, and I should seriously think about getting back to normality. He just misses us dearly … that’s the true dilemma.
My parents are avid and well-seasoned travellers, who return to their ancestral roots in old mother Europe whenever financially viable. We once travelled as a family, through France, when I was just fifteen years old. I remember it like it was yesterday.
We headed north from our home base in Italy, via the Alps and the Rhône valley, in a lavender-blue, 1950’s Citroën 2CV; those cute-as-a-button convertibles that epitomise quirky, French style and engineering. My cousin Rocco had lent it to us with the sole condition, that he was to accompany us, one way to Paris.
Unfortunately, what the French manufacturers fail to explain in their well-produced manuals, is, that as a 2CV passenger you should never sit, for extended periods, in the centre of the back seat. Why? Because there’s a bloody, great bar that runs under the vinyl and it prods you up the nether regions, every time the car hits even the most minor bump. As the youngest of our travelling party, I was destined to travel half way across the European continent with a very sore and bruised backside. It was a constant source of amusement to the rest of the family … but not for me. As much as I love my cousin, I was glad to see the back of him on our arrival in the French capital. Anyway, those days are long past and Mum and Dad have made the trip to Paris via Bangkok, their intention, to discover Corrèze. They are presently speeding down the Nationale 20, Jean at the wheel of our Citroën BX, destination Treignac-sur-Vézère.
I’m excited and nervous all at once, wondering what they’ll make of our adopted village and new provincial existence. Considering their life-long yearning for ‘la dolce vita’, I’m positively certain they’re going to love Corrèze, as dearly as we do.
Jean and I have a million an
d one things planned for their stay; their well-shoed feet won’t touch the ground. And what’s truly exciting is that they will be celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary on French soil. We couldn’t possibly let such an auspicious occasion pass, without substantial celebration. But this calls for something exceptional.
A weekend at the romantic, 18th century Chateau Chauvac near Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne, is what I’ve concocted, after much deliberation and magazine browsing. I dearly hope my choice of venue and fabulous surprise sends them reeling. I’ve pre-booked and pre-paid the entire weekend, chilled Möet et Chandon and très romantique, gourmet dinner inclusive. All they’ll have to do is turn up on time and indulge.
In the meantime, there are places to visit and gossip to tell. Wine to drink, cheeses to devour. I’ve stocked the kitchen larder with every, local delicacy I can think of and our 13th century cellar is bursting at the seams with rare, aged wines and crated Champagnes. Not to mention the odd jar of foie gras and my own preserved mushrooms. I hope my Dad’s cholesterol level is at a manageable level, because I’m positive it’ll take a right pounding during their two-month stay.
This first week has been joyfully hectic and having close family around, has filled these ancient walls with more love than they have felt in decades. We spend our time talking about food, buying food, cooking food and eating … what else? Food! And as soon as we’ve finished, we start all over again.
Thank goodness for balmy, evening strolls by the river and busy market-day outings. We haven’t ventured far as yet; there are oodles of time and they’re still acclimatising themselves to the unfamiliar, Corrèzien timetable and dietary regime.
We take cooling aperitifs in our perfumed Curé’s (Pastor’s) garden, laughing over times past and dreaming over days to come. Mum and Dad appreciate the care and attention we have taken in creating this delightful walled garden. Years spent as florists back in a 1960s Kings Cross, have left them with a love of all things botanical. I’m glad the wisteria is still in flower, I contemplate, as its delicate perfume descends upon us from above.