by Marisa Raoul
‘Sounds fabulous … an instant swimming pool!’ I add with glee, ignoring the part about the fish breeding, rather imagining myself bathing in pure spring waters on a balmy summer’s day before retiring to the shade of the nearby cherry tree for an afternoon siesta.
‘Steady on Marisa, we’re not swimming yet’, Jean replies; attempting to stifle my all too apparent excitement but my mind is already racing with endless possibilities.
Filou continues our guided tour, opening the door to a tiny but adorable, stone house built over two levels, which he explains is the porcherie. It is bordered by deep, cornflower-blue hydrangea and a rickety, wooden ladder leads to its lofty portal.
‘The Pig house,’ Jean translates immediately.
‘Good, God! It’s too gorgeous to be just for pigs. It would make a great little guesthouse … overlooking the new pool,’ I suggest with vigour.
‘Hold your horses, Marisa … never mind the guests; we’ve had enough of those over the past eight years … the poor little piggies have to sleep somewhere,’ Jean jokes.
‘Oh … and over there is the four à pain (bread oven),’ Filou continues, indicating the furthest building of the group.
He leads us around the lower side of the pêcherie, towards the most delightful of structures. It bears a rotting thatched roof, in desperate need of replacement, but its solid, stonewalls are otherwise sound. It must be the largest, freestanding bread oven we’ve ever seen.
‘It was not a private oven as such, it was for the entire village to use in the olden days,’ he explains, sliding its large, wooden door to one side. ‘They baked their loaves once a week and shared them out amongst the hamlet’s inhabitants. It is now a heritage-listed monument. You may even be eligible for a government grant,’ he adds.
‘Fantastic. And it still works?’ I ask, poking my head into its cavernous interior.
‘Bien sûr! We often cook Pizza and we roast chickens in it during the summer months. It works like a charm. Of course, I should have had it repaired years ago but I no longer have the courage to do so,’ he admits sadly.
We haven’t yet inspected the main farm building and I’m already head over heels in love. It may look like a heap of dirty stone and rubble to some, but to Jean and I, its restoration is already crystallizing in our mind’s eye.
We stroll to our final destination, where Filou produces a massive set of hand-beaten keys, trying them one by one in the giant lock. He struggles to make them fit, admitting he hasn’t visited in quite a while. The splintered, wooden doors of the main building are massive both in width and height, as they were built to accommodate the passage of a tractor rather than human visitors. Farm animals inhabited the lower levels of the dwelling, especially during calving and the colder winter months. It also housed the stacked hay bales and other farmyard tools. The human residents occupied only the very end of the building. Just a couple of small, easy to heat rooms over two levels. They say the massed heat from the housed cattle was enough to warm the living quarters on the coldest of winter days. The kitchen has the original flag stone floors, which have acquired a seamless patina from centuries of use and a substantially sized, stone fireplace stands proudly to one side. There are giant copper pots or ‘Chaudrons’ left ‘in situ’ on the hearth, just crying out for attention. There was never any plumbing as such, but the natural springs which criss-cross the property, poured freely into a large, stone vessel on the lower level kitchen then flowed via carved stone channels in the flagstone floors, to the exterior gardens.
Filou pushes with all his force against the crumbling, timber doors sending plumes of dust and rotting hay into the air. We cover our faces with our cupped hands, waiting for the ancient dust to settle a little, before entering the cavernous interior.
We stand in utter amazement at the enormity of space opening before us. The thatched ceilings, or remains of, soar at the vertiginous height of twelve metres and the open floor space measures at least twenty-five metres in length. Jean and I search each other’s eyes knowingly. This is to be our new project. This will undoubtedly be our next home.
We step carefully over rotting floorboards and creaking beams inspecting the space as best we can. A small wooden hatch on the opposite wall to the front entrance opens onto the garden and stunning countryside beyond. I perch by the opening and visualize vast panes of glass opening onto picturesque valleys and red sunsets. Filou suggests we take a closer look around and we appreciate his discretion in allowing us some private time to poke about.
We open two doors on the central level, one leads to a room, which was probably a bedroom for the entire family. It’s of good proportions and I see it as a perfect second bedroom. The other door leads to a slightly smaller space with a delightful French window overlooking the gardens and valley below. The new bathroom and a toilette with a view … perfect.
Above us is a large loft area under the pointed roofline. We can’t reach it, as there isn’t a ladder tall enough, but on present observation, its size and height will be ample space for creating a romantic, attic bedroom hovering, mezzanine style, over the vast living spaces below.
Down a timber staircase and we discover the ground floor kitchen and large adjoining cellar and pantry space. Rotting timber shelves are piled high with empty preserve jars and dusty opened wine bottles. I suppose we’ll inherit those as well. As we venture outside onto a grassy patio-like area, we find yet another timber door leading to a large, semi-subterranean room, spanning the entire width of the building. It’s cool inside and I imagine it as the ideal summer sitting room. Once Jean has rebuilt that crumbling stonewall outside, it’ll be fabulous. I’m already planning our first evening ‘al fresco’, as I wander from space to space, garden room to garden room. The final interior space at the far end of the building has a larger double door, which intrigues us. Inside, we discover a magnificent stone trough, which was sculpted as a feed trough for the animals in winter. What a wonderful addition. I’ll find a use for that, for certain.
Everything we discover, we love and as we wander back upstairs to Filou, we are in no doubt of our intentions.
‘How much are you asking for the property, Filou?’ Jean enquires calmly, attempting to hide any glimmer of excitement in his voice.
‘Well, originally I asked one hundred and twenty … especially seeing those bastards wanted to bulldoze the entire thing and build some ugly, modern monstrosity in its place, les salauds … but now … if you were to promise me you would restore it, I will drop the price, to let’s say … ninety.’
‘Uh hmm … ninety … thousand … Francs?’ Jean repeated, his throat dry in utter disbelief.
‘Oui … Je regrette (I’m sorry) … but I refuse to go any lower,’ he replied, proudly.
‘Oui, bien sûr … I was just a little surprised at the price,’ said Jean, thinking old Filou would soon come to his senses and up the price by several tens of thousands.
‘Oui, c’est vrai (yes, it’s true) … it’s perhaps a little expensive considering its present condition but as I told you, it was my family home and I refuse to give it away,’ he continued, visibly determined.
Little did he realise, that as far as Jean and I were concerned, that was exactly what he was doing. In our currency, at today’s rate of exchange, it stood around $30,000 Australian dollars for the entire lot. Small but charming parcel of farmland, three soon-to-become-magnificent 17th century buildings and a Utopian view to boot. A complete 20th century steal.
‘We love it Filou, and we’d like to buy it. We promise we’ll restore it … we’ll try to retain its original charm as much as possible. Every stone will stay exactly where it is … well almost,’ Jean declared sincerely.
‘Really … you’ll buy it? You’ll pay the full price? Ca alors! (Fancy that!)’ Filou exclaimed, quite honestly surprised by our snap decision.
‘Let’s shake on it,’ Jean declared, hoping the old fellow wouldn’t suddenly reconsider, leaving us heartbroken.
‘Done!’ F
ilou cheered, smiling widely in sheer delight and grabbing Jean’s hand in a solid shake. ‘You must come for l’apéritif to seal the deal, oh and meet the wife, bien sûr (of course). We’ll sign papers and the rest later. We’ll discuss things over a little Porto or maybe a Kir. You like Kir, don’t you?’
‘Merci beaucoup Filou and yes, we like Kir very much,’ I beamed, shaking his hand firmly then turning to hug Jean. As I stood wrapped in his arms, I stared wide-eyed at our latest acquisition.
‘You’re very welcome, Madame Raoul,’ he giggled, his belly jiggling beneath his flannel shirt. ‘I’m happy my home will be in such good hands. It’s a great comfort to me.’
‘I’m so glad, Filou. We’ll take good care of it.’
‘Well, here we go again,’ Jean whispered in my ear.
‘It’s a doozie,’ I answered, stepping carefully over the planked floors and just out of Filou’s earshot, ‘People will think we’re mad. It feels like we’ve only just got over the last project and this one is far more complicated as far as I can see. I’m a little concerned about a few of these walls. They seem ready to keel over at any moment.’
‘Not if I have my way. Don’t worry Marisa … everything is going to be fine,’ Jean said, cradling me reassuringly.
‘I can see the potential, for sure. It has so much character and the space is fantastic. I see a New York, loft-type conversion coming on,’ I said dreamily, as my eyes surveyed the vast interiors.
‘I know exactly what you mean, Chérie. Mezzanines, loft bedrooms, split level living areas and skylights … lots of timber…so different to our Treignac house.’
‘So we’re here to stay then? Our second home in France already? Wait until I phone Mum and Dad with the news. They’ll think we’ve taken to the Absinthe.’
‘Your Dad will probably cry. He’ll think we’re never going back to Australia.’
‘I know, I hate upsetting him but … well, maybe we’re not. Maybe this is it, this time. We may never go back.’
‘Never say, never, Chérie.’
‘You’re right. One chapter finishes … another begins. Who knows where this one will end. Mauranges… it’s a lovely name, isn’t it? Sounds like “more angels”, you know anges, angels,’ I translated out loud.
‘Yes, I think we could do with a few angels around here. The odd saint wouldn’t go astray either. Get a look at those walls. It might very well take some divine intervention to salvage them,’ Jean laughed unperturbed.
‘Praying is one thing I do really well. I’ve had loads of practice over the years. You know, I’ve always thought I had a guardian angel … someone like my Gran. A presence of some description who watches over me but maybe these walls will be too much of a challenge even for my darling Granny, bless her Devonshire soul. I’ll start praying for some French angels tonight. I promise.’
I would recall years later, my dear friend Daniel declaring he had never encountered such a crystalline, blue sky anywhere but in the high mountains of Nepal during one of his many treks. I often lay prostrate on the grass, staring wide-eyed into the perfect china-blue heavens above Mauranges, in pure wonderment. I love the way its crisp blue clashes against the waving heads of the vibrant, red opium poppies. To me, they represent the colours of France. Perhaps the gentle snowflakes, which will fall this coming winter, are the white, which separates them. Pure and pristine.
Searching the horizon, I experience a surge of relief and feel a great weight lift from me. The expanse of splendid countryside, which sprawls beneath me, draws my eyes beyond and into oblivion. My soul soars.
No more do I constantly gaze upon the granite stone walls of the village square or rejoice at the sound of the chapel bells as they toll the hour.
Instead, I waken to birdsong and whispering wind, the ‘Ee-aw’ of a grey donkey in the neighbouring paddock. The golden hue of sunrise bouncing off the blue-grey needles of the pine trees. This is the peace I craved. To lose myself, just a while, in the enveloping gentleness, of this magnificent country.
No regrets. Sublime memories. Unfolding destinies.
Fin
Treignac –sur-Vézère
A BRIEF HISTORY
The delightful village of Treignac-sur-Vézère is located in the Limousin region of France, in the upper valley of the Vézère River, in the Département of Corrèze.
It is situated 60 km southeast of Limoges and 40 km north of Tulle. It has approximately 1,520 permanent inhabitants but its numbers swell over the summer months.
Treignac is the gateway to the Monédières, the southernmost part of the Limousin Mountains with a maximum elevation of 919m at the Puy de la Monédière.
The Vézère River, which runs through Treignac, is renowned for its raging waters, which are used to produce hydro-electricity. Also due to its man-made lakes and dams, it has become a popular spot for water sports and was the chosen site for the 2000 World Championships in River Canoe and Kayak. National competitions are held yearly at this site and draw huge crowds.
Treignac’s houses are made of local granite and roofed with black slates taken from the quarry of Travassac. The village is a member of the association ‘Les plus beaux village de France’ or ‘The most beautiful villages in France’.
The first medieval settlement in Treignac dates back to 800AD. A fortress was built around 1000AD on a spur dominating a meander of the Vézère River.
A wall with three gates, La Porte Chabirande, being the only one to survive into modern times, surrounded the village that developed near the castle.
Treignac was an important trading place, which received municipal rights in 1284. The Gothic Bridge on the Vézère River was built in the 15th century and probably replaced an older Roman Bridge.
The castle and domain of Treignac belonged to the local Comborn family but were transferred in the beginning of the 16th century to the Pompadour family.
In 1626, Phillipe de Pompadour, Baron de Treignac, ordered the building of Notre Dame de la Paix Chapel, which stands on the Place de la Mairie. The chapel is famous for its twisted (tors) bell-tower. There are only 81 such bell-towers in Europe, 38 being in France.
‘trina ostia trina suburbia trina castella’
‘Three gates three suburbs three castles’
Acknowledgements
My sincerest and heartfelt thanks go to the following people:
My loving husband Jean, the instigator of all my adventures, the guardian of my memories and my one true love.
My Dad, Saverio and my Gran, Marie, who have pushed, guided, protected and enlightened me, from the beyond. Nothing would exist without you.
My Mother, Anne who is always there to love and guide me and who happens to be my proudest fan! I love you Mum.
My sister, Giulia, for playing a precious part in my life. Thank you for being proud of me.
My dearest friends, Jeanne, Maurie, Daniel and Elsie, for your unwavering kindness, endless generosity and constant laughter. What would we do without you?
Pam and Andrew, you have helped me in so many ways and have given your time and knowledge unselfishly, to this project. Thank you Pam, for your impeccable spell-checks, intelligent editing and constructive criticism.
Antoinette, my oldest and dearest friend, for seeking me out, no matter how far I’ve roamed and sharing every high and low with me.
Kathryn, my childhood friend, who serendipitously returned to my life, just in time to share her countless knowledge, wisdom and precious time with me, once again. You have played a major role in my writing and I thank you.
My ‘Peninsula’ friends, in particular, Helen, Cliffy and Elizabeth. Your unfaltering encouragement and generosity have made my life in Tasmania so much better.
My cousin David, for reading my stories since day one and being enchanted by them. Thank you.
The Tasmanian Writer’s Centre, in particular, ex-director Joe Bugden, for his guidance and patience.
Peter Bishop from Varuna, for his gentle push in the right direction. W
hat a difference that made!
My gracious publisher, Barry Scott of Transit Lounge, for loving my story enough, to risk it! A huge thank you for your guidance, encouragement, ‘savoir faire’ and for pulling all stops, to get me on the shelves. I’m eternally grateful.
The team at Transit Lounge, for their creative skills and input into this project.
And finally,
To the wonderful people of France, who shared their lives, their loves, their idiosyncrasies and above all, their incredibly beautiful country with me, for so many blissful years!
Merci beaucoup!
PS: A little thank you to Asia, my little ball of fluff who keeps my lap warm and washes my keyboard, whether I like it or not.
About Marisa Raoul
Marisa Raoul was born in Sydney in 1961 to an Italian father and English mother. Her mixed heritage led to her intense passion for travel, foreign languages and diverse cultures. She spent her sixteenth year living in Rome and travelling throughout Europe with her parents.
Most of her early professional life was spent working in the Sales department of Qantas Airways, then onto Cabin Crew where she met her husband. She has travelled to 25 countries.
Marisa left Australia in 1991 to reside in France for a ten-year period where she ran a successful Bed and Breakfast and worked as an Interpreter and English teacher for the ‘Limoges Chamber of Commerce and Industry’.
On her return to Australia, she became involved in the field of Indigenous Arts. She moved to Alice Springs where she worked within that field and on her return to the east coast, continued to promote this art as a freelance consultant.
She now writes full time from her home in Tasmania. She specialises in the fields of children’s novels and non-fictional adult works. She also enjoys writing freelance articles for various magazines and community newspapers.
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