Following our two days in Lyon, we rented a house in a very small village, Puymule, for two weeks. It was a much-needed break from all our renovating in Australia and the hard work that was to follow in Cuzance. At times, both then and in the following year, I’ve had many moments to wonder whether we were utterly mad. It seemed like our life was just one long renovating saga: finish one house, look around and ask, What’s next?
As if buying a house, moving and renovating hadn’t been demanding and exhausting enough for the past ten years, we also had to buy a holiday house that just happened to be on the other side of the world. I wondered when there would ever be a real holiday and felt constantly torn between the romance of it all and the — at times — what felt like utter madness.
Despite having our own petite maison, we decided that going straight to Cuzance would mean the whole six weeks would be consumed by endless renovating. And we needed a break from renovating. This should have sounded alarm bells in itself. Part of me also thought this was a foolish decision, to rent a house in a country where we now had a house, but it turned out to be an inspired one.
PART ONE
Falling in Love with France
All Things French are Fabulous
Our love affair with France started in 2009 when we went for a six-week holiday there, starting with five days in Paris. Oh Paris, how we longed to return there. What was even more remarkable about this trip was that we had planned it for months in advance as a long-awaited adventure. Then, in an extraordinary coincidence of utter good fortune, I actually won a return trip to Paris for two as well as five nights in a four-star hotel. The fact that we had already planned to go there and the flights were booked and paid for was almost beyond our comprehension. Winning a trip to the very city that we were already going to … I’m quite sure that we are the only people in the whole world that this has happened to! It did mean that we were able to transfer our flights to the following year. And so, when our first trip finished and with another one the next year, it became inevitable that we would fall in love with France.
So many people have told us that they would never return to Paris or France, that all the myths were true about the arrogance and disdain of the French. Yet never once had we encountered anything except the utmost friendliness and helpfulness. In fact, even in Paris — especially in Paris — people were utterly charming and gracious. For instance, one blistering-hot day, I approached a young Parisian mother with a pram, attempting to ask her directions to a nearby supermarché so I could buy bottles of water. My miming attempts conveyed what I wanted so effectively that she reached into her baby’s pram and produced a new bottle of water, which she offered to me. It was encounters like this that cemented our love for France. There were times too when I wondered whether such an act of thoughtfulness would happen on the streets of any other of the world’s main cites. It was not even that I spoke French; my attempts to do so were really quite feeble. However, the few words that I could use, I used with the utmost charm and enthusiasm. My sense of the dramatic and ability to mime also improved enormously.
It’s hard to encapsulate why we were so captivated by France and consumed by a love affair with all that is French. I think to sum it up; I would have to say that there is a certain elegance in the way of life. Even in Paris the pace is not manic and frenetic. People don’t rush along the boulevards glued to their mobiles and devouring food on the run. There is a more leisurely way of life; it is celebrated in an entirely different way. The markets for instance take place twice a week in most towns. It is a way of life to saunter with your straw basket over your arm – examine the ripe, plump tomatoes, bury your nose in a sprig of flowers, tuck a pastry in your basket that will crumble with freshness, linger over the pungent display of fromage and choose the most aromatic peaches. Oh the cheese, there are enough to choose a different one for every day of the year in France. The market forays and daily meals are strongly connected to the seasons – life in France is a true celebration of food.
Strangely, at home food does not feature that highly in our lives. However, in France that is all completely different. I always remember a French friend, Martine, saying to me that the first thing a French person thinks of when they wake is, What will I eat today? Another strong memory is one of our first supermarché trips. Stuart and his brother were still outside collecting a trolley and I had already gone into the supermarket. The first aisle was devoted to French wine. I was so beside myself with excitement, especially when I saw the prices, that I ran outside to share the fabulous news. However, it turned out that it was through the emergency exit. The alarm whooped, whooped, whooped, and all heads swivelled to stare at the strange foreigner — whooping with excitement about wine.
The memories of meals and boulangeries resonated through the months afterwards. The ‘remember’ — the superb almond croissant sitting in the park in the small village on our way to Villefranche-de-Rouergue after the prohibitively expensive coffee. It was one of the few times we hadn’t checked the price. It was only afterwards, when we were in the little village shop buying food for our picnic lunch, and someone commented on the Paris plates on our car that we realised people had assumed that we were wealthy Parisians. Then there was the lunch in Souillac at a typical French workers’ café: a fantastically priced meal of tasty lamb chops and hearty fare. I especially loved eating at the places that catered for the everyday person and would choose one any day over a tourist restaurant. However, the most memorable thing about that lunch was that, just a mere seven months later, Souillac became our very own local town. There was no inkling on that cool damp day that such a momentous event would ever transpire.
Solde!
Prior to our trip, on our trip and on arrival, Stuart kept constantly repeating and trying to reinforce the one key sentence that he was insistent I learn. Knowing my ineptitude with language, it was the only French he truly wanted me to grasp.
Je suis désolé que c’est trop cher et je ne peux pas se permettre que les.
Yes, I did indeed fully grasp that he wanted me to convey on as many occasions as possible, especially in Paris, that. no, I was sorry, it was simply too expensive and I couldn’t possibly afford it. It worked. On no occasion did I buy anything expensive — so much so that it was on our first trip that I learnt the word solde. If there is a single word that a woman will learn in any language, surely it is the word for ‘sale’?
In fact, what became a recurring feature of all our trips to France was my ability to fly at high speed around my favourite shop, Etam, in forty minutes. The first time was in Paris and, like men the world over, Stuart drummed his heels relentlessly on Rue de Passy. I have re-enacted this scene a few times now and there is little variation on the theme: race up the stairs, identify racks of what I’m searching for, usually pantalons and your classic French T-shirts and jackets, and pile my arms as high as is feasible. I then frantically try on as many items as possible in as short a time as possible.
The first time this happened, thrilled with my collection of fabulous French bargains, I queued with all the other eager women at the sale and waited and waited. Solde season is an international temptation. Time was ticking; time in Paris was precious and I knew Stuart would be waiting impatiently. Finally, voilà, it was my turn. Then, to my utter dismay — and due to my inability to read the prominently displayed sign — it was cash only. Naturally I only had my credit card on me and Stuart had all the cash. I was determined not to abandon the first French clothes that I was ever about to buy. Absolutely not.
So I had to pile my precious clothes on the counter, hoping my ploy would work and that they didn’t assume I was abandoning them. I flew down the stairs, frantically searched for Stuart, gasped my request for cash, flew upstairs again … and queued again. Fortunately I still love my hard-won first French clothes.
However, who was it on our very first day in Paris at Porte de Clignancourt, the enormous antique market, that bought a vintage leather motorbike jacket? It certain
ly wasn’t me.
Rennes and the Rented Car
Like couples the world over, we tend to argue the most on car trips. This is never a pleasant experience, but it’s particularly unpleasant when it occurs in a foreign country. We had organised to pick up our hire car from Rennes, a few hours from Paris on the TGV. Originally, Stuart had planned to collect a hire car in Paris and start our trip from there. This was one of the few occasions I decided to override his decision. I could picture it clearly: Our first drive in France would be in one of the most chaotic, challenging cities in the world. Stuart was already very fond of saying merde whenever possible. It didn’t take much stretch of the imagination to predict the excessive use of merde and the escalating arguments from the moment the car was in first gear.
After our five days of luxury in the Melia Colbert Boutique Hotel, a style to which we were definitely not accustomed, we set off on the Métro with several changes before catching the train to Rennes. By then we had already accumulated a lot of extra luggage. Sometimes we behave like novice travellers. We arrived in Paris with suitcases already packed to the brim. What were we thinking? That we wouldn’t shop once on our six-week trip?
We of course arrived in Rennes in time for the two-hour déjeuner break. Laden with luggage, we ensconced ourselves in a café near the station for a few hours. By early afternoon, as we crammed ourselves on a bus headed for the industrial outskirts to collect our Citroën, the sun was beating down ferociously. There were many instances of Excusez-moi, merci beaucoup as we gripped our assorted pieces of luggage and swayed in the aisles while afternoon commuters attempted to get past us.
Finally, the car rental company. This was just one of many occasions on which I was both naïve and the source of considerable amusement. We were shown the red safety cones that we were to display on the side of the road in case of a breakdown, emergency or accident. I grasped that; it certainly made sense. Then there were the bright yellow safety jackets. I foolishly — and a better grasp of French may have been a considerable advantage — assumed that we were to wear them in the car at all times so we could be identified as tourists. I was surprised that Stuart didn’t try to convince me that, indeed, it was just the passenger who was to wear it at all times.
Finally, after the extensive instructions about our Citroën, we attached our friend Dave Toogood’s borrowed Sat Nav to the dashboard and we were on our way to our rented house in Rignac in the Lot. We looked forward to our apéritif in the jardin once we arrived in a couple of hours. It would in fact be five hours before we arrived.
We had got lost. We got lost at the very first roundabout. We continued to get lost; very lost. The miles ticked away, the hours ticked away, the tempers rose in equal proportion. This is where we were different; very different. Stuart is always determined to do everything with complete independence. He rarely asks for help. This includes all our many renovations, when I had to help lift and haul and hold any number of items such as huge slabs of concrete. Me? I always ask for help whenever I possibly can and for whatever I need. Invariably my technique works.
By this point, as the sun was sinking in the sky, I was adamant that his way was not working. We needed help and we needed it soon. There were no service stations, no villages; we were in the middle of nowhere. There were cars, however. And so we pulled over to the side of the road. Once again, my improvising and dramatic skills came to the fore. I grabbed the large road map, stood behind the car, pointed at the map, raised my free hand in the air and gesticulated wildly to indicate that we were lost and needed help. The eighth car pulled over. The driver had two squabbling young children in the back seat but conveyed that, if we followed him, he would indicate the road that we should have been on. I gathered that we were quite close to Rignac after all. How I grasped all this, I’m not quite sure, because once again I certainly didn’t have the French to convey our predicament and the driver did not speak English.
Nevertheless, it worked. We followed him a short distance along the main road, turned off and stopped at a church where he pointed us in the right direction. He turned around and headed back to the main road to continue his journey. Once again I was astonished by the kindness of strangers, for I had assumed that he was going the same way as us. Non, he had gone out of his way to help us.
And so we arrived in Rignac.
The Loire Valley and the Chef
After our fortnight in Rignac, before we headed for the Pyrenees to stay with Sylvie Bernard, we had organised to stay with Martine Dubois at her home in the Loire Valley. The four of us met when we were all travelling in India. As our trip was unfolding at home and all the months of planning were taking place, one of the first things we did was buy a road atlas of France. On the cover was a stunning château. Strangely, the inside of the cover did not give the name of it. Nevertheless, Stuart was determined that seeing it was going to be a highlight of our holiday. In yet another strange quirk of fate, I stumbled across a book in my school library published in the fifties. Voilà, within its pages, was a photo of Château de Chenonceau. When we emailed Martine to organise our stay, we found out that it is literally on her doorstep.
On our first morning, we indeed visited it: our first château in France and where I learned one of my first French words. I only ever seem to be able to grasp a word when I need it in a context. Fortunately, champagne is a universal word.
It was a splendid summer’s day so we set off suitably attired. As we were wandering through the beautiful jardin, I realised that my hat had blown off and disappeared. I asked Martine the word for ‘hat’ so I could go back to search for it. I repeated the word over and over to myself as I raced through the crowds in search of my chapeau. And voilà, there it was, lying under the rosebushes. After admiring the artworks and splendour of Château de Chenonceau, Martine took us to meet her daughter Melanie at her workplace, an interior design shop. Then we were off for a treat. Melanie had a friend, Philippe DeBritt, who ran the restaurant L’Escargot, and we retired thankfully under the shade of a striped outside awning to order déjeuner and an, as always, welcome apéritif. The canard and cherry sauce was divine; duck had never tasted this delicious before. Then the moment I always wait for. The pièce de résistance: dessert. Or, in my case on this special occasion, I was served all three as I simply couldn’t choose between them. Our holiday photos do seem to show me on quite a few occasions posing with a gâteau or two.
We then spent a languid afternoon in Martine’s jardin as we had been invited that evening to Philippe’s home for dinner. This was a true honour, being invited not only to a French home but the maison of a chef, no less. Late in the afternoon, Martine and I sauntered off to the produce markets and the pâtisserie to buy a gift to take for dinner. On the way, Martine had another surprise for me. All my friends know how much I love second-hand treasure and vintage clothes, and she was delighted that she could take me to a second-hand shop that had just opened. It was a measure of her friendship to take me there. As I walked in I was immediately captivated by a beautiful handmade fifties frock in light blue tulle. After years of collecting vintage frocks, I have the ability to know how clothes can work with the right shoes on the right occasion. I tried it on and fell in love with it. I waltzed around in it and showed it to Martine. Her response was to laugh and laugh and exclaim, ‘Oh, Susannah.’ Not deterred at all by her mirth, I scooped it up and imagined a soirée in my Loire Valley frock.
In the pâtisserie I started to select the pastries to take to Philippe’s. Martine gently intervened and I learned that, when you are invited to dîner, it is customary not to take an everyday choice but rather an exquisite selection. So the fruit tarts, glossy in their glaze, and powder-puff choux pastries were carefully chosen, placed in a shiny white box and tied with a gold ribbon.
Then it was off to our first French soirée. We were ushered in by Philippe, accompanied by Melanie, to his courtyard, which looked like a stage set. There were flickering candles placed everywhere, including in all the wall ni
ches. The table was beautifully decorated and a procession of delicious dishes was served. Escargot dripping with butter and garlic, a salmon wrapped in foil that was delicately apportioned at the table, and a medley of summer vegetables. Over digestifs to finish our wonderful evening, Melanie provided our entertainment with a hilarious display of belly dancing.
The night is one of those special occasions that linger for a long time in your memory. A combination of an exceptionally late night and a copious amount of wine was not, however, a very auspicious start to the following morning, when we set off early for the Pyrenees.
The Perfect Gîte
So many of the wonderful things that unfold in life hinge on sheer chance. And so it was in finding the perfect gîte. It all stemmed from the serendipity of finding a car park.
After our few days in the Pyrenees, we were heading for Figeac, a town Stuart had fallen in love with, when we had to collect Liz’s car. She had broken down there on the night she was driving to stay with us in Rignac. (Liz Campbell is another friend we have gathered on our travels. While she lives in Wales, we also met her when we were on our trip to India.) The drive back through the Pyrenees had been spectacular but it had also been a long, hot day. We had stopped for lunch in Albi and thought we may stay there a night, but the blistering heat deterred us from searching for very long. We decided to press on. By five we were weary and, as we were driving through a town I spotted a single car space next to the river. Even more fortuitously, it was next to a restaurant. Café at last. Sipping our café I then noticed an Office du Tourisme just across the Aveyron river.
Our House is Not in Paris Page 2