The Essence of Cuzance
So many elements of our ‘story’ are just that: a story. Meeting Jean-Claude meant that he had become not only our friend but also our guide and mentor. The three of us went on walks around the village. In just a few short promenades with him as our tour guide, our petite village turned out to be a set for an Agatha Christie. There was no way we would have discovered that the wife in one particular house tried to poison her husband — and Jean-Claude assured us he knew this in good faith, as a gendarme had told him. Or that Estelle Loomis, a wealthy elderly lady who owns lots of properties, huddles in her fireplace to keep warm in winter.
I had heard about Anne Barnes, who would have been our next-door neighbour, before we went to our house. Kim and I had entered into an email relationship after Stuart met her and bought our petite maison. Shortly after he returned, Kim told me that Anne, who had worked for the United Nations, had died in the hurricane in Haiti and her funeral was going to be in the village church. So, even before we went to Cuzance, I had a sense of this woman I had never met yet was just a few years older than me and whom, after having heard so much about her, I felt I would have become friends with. When I first met Kim, it was uncanny to be told that I looked similar to Anne Barnes. Then, shortly after meeting Jean-Claude, he told me that he and Françoise had been very good friends with her and he would often help her. It seemed that, in some strange way, we had come into their lives when Anne had gone. The first time we had apéritifs together, they served the rum that Anne had brought them from Haiti every year upon returning to Cuzance. With our new friends, Stuart and I toasted the memory of someone we had not met. And, yet, I had already heard so much about her, I felt I did know her.
I was touched by Anne’s memory and felt tearful. Then one day, as we were working, an agent came to open her house. He invited us to have a look before the prospective buyers arrived. It was a beautiful, large house; the garden by now was sadly overgrown, yet the roses bloomed profusely around the doorway. This time I wept for Anne Barnes — for she always seemed to be referred to by her full name — when I saw her slippers placed side by side next to her bed, and her book, with its bookmark in place, waiting for someone who would never finish it.
Later, Jean-Claude told me about her funeral. Apparently Anne Barnes’ French boyfriend was despised by her sister, and he was forbidden to attend the funeral. He organised his own service for her in the village, ran into the church and seized the ashes. I don’t know the rest of the story but this moved me very much and was yet another example of how Jean-Claude provided us with glimpses into the lives of those around us in the village.
There have been so many occasions when, at home in Australia, we reflect on how very different our experience would be without the friendship of Jean-Claude and Françoise. One early evening, Françoise appeared to inspect our progress after hearing Jean-Claude’s daily reports about our frenetic activity. She took one look at me and was horrified to see how tired I looked. When she asked what we had been having for dinner, I had to confess that it was often only pain. This horrified her even further and so, there and then, we were again whisked away to the comfort of their home and a delicious dîner.
It is all very strange for us — but utterly wonderful — to think that we were in the very privileged position of having another life on the other side of the world.
La Piscine
This brings us to the decision regarding our pool. When we look back, the adrenaline that fuelled us and the pace we worked at seem beyond belief. What would have taken months at home, we often achieved in a few hours. Even more astonishing is that my French was virtually nonexistent but I was very expressive and, as a teacher who tends to be very dramatic, I think this quality may have helped on many occasions. So, with just a few days left, we decided to look at piscines. The plan was to maybe one day, way down the track, put in a pool — again, in the ‘dream’ category. So off we went to Brive-la-Gaillarde, just for an initial reconnoitre: one pool place and one appointment that afternoon, then ten months later, across the other side of the world, we had a pool going in. Well, we did try to go to another pool company but it turned out to only sell pool supplies. Not our usual style at all to do so little research, especially for such a major undertaking. Our rationalisation? Let’s enjoy it now rather than in the future. Second rationalisation: It will help us to relax every year and not just simply have an extended working holiday that would stretch on ad infinitum. As anyone who has ever renovated knows, it simply never stops — turn around, and there’s another task waiting. As we have also come to know only too well with all our renovating projects, every job always takes much, much longer than anticipated.
The pool truly has been in the ‘surreal’ subset of all that had been unfolding. The company had someone available that very afternoon who spoke English and could come to our house to look at the site. By now we had our table from the fabulous Troc in Brive and so Nicolas set up his laptop, inspected the site, did his calculations and, voilà, printed a quote. If we had been so inclined we could have signed there and then. Not quite our style. I must say, though, that our usual considered, meticulous approach seemed to be flying out the window. Perhaps we were starting to live an altogether different life. I didn’t think it was really our style to go ahead and make the momentous decision a mere few months later, either, setting the wheels in motion to actually have a piscine the following year.
What was exceptionally fascinating about the entire process was that there were not any phone calls at all to make the arrangements, very few emails exchanged with the company and, at the end of the process, no emails at all for weeks.
In fact, we were almost entirely in the dark as far as the company, Piscine Ambiance, was concerned — which shows either a huge degree of trust on our behalf, or a staggering degree of naïvety; I’m not quite sure which. Without Jean-Claude, our ‘man on the ground’, we would simply have had no idea at all about what had been happening. So he became our de facto manager (without the pay) and it was simply sheer good luck that he and Françoise returned to Cuzance exactly when our pool started to go in.
Trips to IKEA and the Trocs
Oh, IKEA. We just love IKEA, as do Brigitte and Erick who make regular trips there for their chambre d’hôte. Setting up house of course meant spending bucketloads of euros, but it was so much fun! Another doona cover, throw it in the trolley. Tea towels, towels, kitchen equipment — you name it, we bought it. Yes, the French debit card Stuart had set up had a limit that we exceeded rather considerably. This meant that, in the Bordeaux IKEA on our way back from Martine’s, we were the people holding up the very long queue and attracting the sort of looks you try to avoid, especially in another country. We then had to use our Australian credit card as well, which of course attracted a huge fee.
The Trocs, or second-hand shops, are our idea of heaven, and we were thrilled to find two in nearby Brive. They were full of the most wonderful treasure imaginable: tables, chairs, lights, sofas, dinner sets and artworks. It was in one of them that we found our dining table, complete with two drawers that are used to sweep the bread crumbs into after a meal. There was also a minute scrap of old newspaper; when Jean-Claude examined it, he was able to pronounce that its vintage was around the Second World War.
We had both read The Caves of Perigord by Martin Walker before our trip, and it added another layer of insight into the area surrounding Cuzance and the history that resonates in the French countryside. The nearby village of Cressensac was on the route of the German soldiers marching to Paris. Now, whenever we whiz along in our Renault, I imagine the drumming of soldiers’ feet and the fear in the hearts of the villagers.
We also found a magnificent table and lots of other treasure, such as the soufflet (bellows) that Stuart, with his great eye for ‘transforming’ pieces, thought would be a brilliant coffee table for the barn one day. On another trip, we stumbled across the absolutely perfect table and sideboard for the barn. While new, they l
ook old and are made of oak and modelled on the style used in monasteries. While this was almost enough money for a car in itself, we couldn’t resist it. We thought that, when the day came to search for furniture for the barn, it would be our benchmark and we’d never find anything like it again – so, that was our justification.
Another trip to IKEA took place during our three weeks of intensive renovating. It was yet another huge buying spree, but this time with all the measurements for the kitchen we’d chosen. Part of the planning had been to put Post-it notes up on the wall and move them around, trying to get the placement of everything right. Very fortunately, while everything was sitting ready in boxes for his first project the next year, Stuart found time to put one piece together. Just as well, as the top, which the catalogue had clearly stated should be included, was missing. He used all his mobile credit trying to sort it out with IKEA; without success. We then turned to Erick to check when he would be having another IKEA trip. Erick swung into action and went there to buy us the missing piece and made another round trip to deliver it to us — keeping in mind that it was their busy summer season, with numerous bookings and guests. Stuart was prepared to wait until the following year to get the missing piece but I felt that it might go out of stock. Thank goodness for Erick, especially when he made the delivery and also appeared with two cushions for us to use on our stone steps. That transformed our level of comfort to no end.
Days of Renovating
The long days continued but the hard work was immensely rewarding. Stuart’s mornings were usually consumed by bricolage and supermarché trips, to the point that I actually did all the sanding of the beams and window and doorframes. I also rapidly developed new renovating skills, such as stripping paint off wood — very challenging indeed. One of my best memories was a Monday morning when Stuart was out and my first task was to take the wallpaper and plaster down. As I did, I uncovered some beautiful old wooden beams. It was a very exciting moment to carefully peel it all away and bring the old farmhouse back to life. It was also lovely to find out the old owners, who stayed in the house into their eighties, were both very much liked and respected in the village. Perhaps that’s why there was such a warm feeling in the house, and it also felt that the petite maison itself felt happy being brought back to life.
On the last few days of our first trip, we started to frantically tackle the garden. A huge job was wrenching all the ivy and growth off the back of the barn. Meanwhile, I cleared some of the beds and unearthed some struggling little roses behind the barn. No trips to garden centres were needed, though; instant mulch was the hay stored on top of the carport while I just gathered moss-covered old rocks to edge my beds. Much to my horror, I encountered a snake while pruning the wisteria outside the barn. While not venomous, it was still hugely unnerving — especially as I’ve had more than my fair share of ‘close snake’ encounters at home, including in our house! Who else has come home from work to the utter horror of discovering a snake curled up inside a rug? As if that wasn’t terrifying enough, I’m sure that I am the only person in the world to go on holiday and then find, to their utter horror, a snake curled under the rim of the toilet. Mind you, I also gave up the offer of an afternoon relaxing by Jean-Claude and Françoise’s pool to continue my feverish work. And so, on our very last day of frantic activity, a snake to taint our piece of paradise.
The days here are punctuated by the village church bells, marking the rhythm of the day in a markedly different way than at home. The bells start at seven and finish at ten. What is particularly lovely is that there is a longer pealing at midday to signal the downing of tools at the start of the oh-so-very civilised two-hour lunch break. This happens again at five to mark the end of the working day. Or, in our case, a glass of delicious French wine to revive us to continue working. Some nights we laboured so long and hard — and here we were in the land of the most phenomenal food imaginable — that often our evening meal was bread-on-the-run and another glass of rosé. Hard to believe looking back, but so frenetically where we working that it seemed simply too hard to prepare a meal.
Another delightful measure of each day is that, as the sacrosanct lunch hour approaches, the white vans of all the local tradesmen start whizzing by in search of the nearest village restaurant at which to relax and enjoy their lunch. Many times we would be working away and, if we glanced out the window while up a ladder or stripping wallpaper, we would see the scurrying convoy of white vans and know without checking that it was nearly time for lunch. Brigitte and Erick, who are from the south of France, told us the tradition was dying out there and it is now only prevalent in rural areas. Long live the two-hour lunch break, we say. Not that we were always able to take advantage of it, but the mere thought of it is one of the most enchanting aspects of a culture so very different to ours. And, oh, the days when we could enjoy it and go to a restaurant were special days indeed. The delight of plat du jour or the fixed-price three-course menu (which often included a glass of wine) never ceased to fill us with pleasure. Are there any more splendid words in the world than ‘Bon appétit’?
The end of the day can be measured too by a neighbour calling her cat. Again, no clocks were needed as, on the dot of 10pm, we would hear her call, ‘Pooki, Pooki,’ — or something very similar. We have yet to see either our neighbour or her cat. On most evenings, too, someone nearby would play the piano, its sound drifting across the garden.
The Madness of Foreigners
There were many times when I felt conscious that I was playing to perfection the role of a mad foreign woman tackling a massive renovation in a foreign county. Marie-France had given me a pair of traditional blue work overalls made of a strange light material and with a zip up the front. I knew they were ripped and becoming more so every day. Yet, without a mirror in our petite maison, I couldn’t fully see nor fully realise the state they were in until I saw the photos when I got home. Let’s just say I was mortified when I saw how terribly torn they were in completely unacceptable places. I was also not at all happy with Stuart for allowing me to dash out of the house to meet roofers and other artisans when they came to give us quotes. No wonder their eyes nearly dropped out of their heads.
Most mornings I was up before Stuart and, after my petit déjeuner of muesli and fresh strawberries from the markets, I would dash around le jardin with a pair of secateurs, trying to tackle anything in sight that I could possible manage by myself. I was very conscious that anyone watching would observe a truly demented person, randomly running around, pulling ivy off the barn wall one minute, the next tackling the ivy engulfing the silver birch, the next deadheading the roses. I knew what I was doing but couldn’t seem to stop myself. I just wanted to make every single minute count and get as much done as possible in our limited, precious time. As soon as Stuart woke up I would dash back inside, make him a cup of tea and then tackle my next job in the little house. However, even the simple act of getting breakfast was challenging: our only surface, the table, was cluttered with packets of food, paperwork, tape measure, tools, notebook camera, pens, our two bowls, two mugs and some cutlery. One of our first purchases was a filter coffee machine, the type found in most French homes, as neither of us can function in the morning without our two cups of café. This was placed precariously next to the small kitchen sink. We were grateful to at least have a sink and basic bathroom. When you have to, it’s amazing how you can get by without all the things you take for granted at home and how you can manage to juggle everything. I got it down to a fine art of having the water in the machine and the café in the filter ready to switch on as soon as I got up, and the two bowls we owned and the two spoons lined up ready for petit déjeuner. Time, time, time … there simply was never enough of it.
As for where I found the reserves of energy for sixteen-hour days, I simply don’t know, considering at home I’m often in bed by 8.30. Every single day I was fuelled by a burning desire to get as much done as possible. And as for the lists, well, our days were devoured by endless lists.
Life in the Village
I thought that I would miss the relentless rolling of the surf that provides the backdrop to daily life at home and lulls us to sleep at night, yet the countryside in Cuzance has a rhythm all of its own. There are many magical moments, such as being up a ladder, brush laden with paint for the ancient walls that hungrily soak it up, then glancing out to see a squirrel scampering along the road and shooting up a tree opposite the kitchen doors. Or, on several summer Saturday afternoons, the clip-clopping of a horse-drawn carriage carrying a bride on her way to the village church. Then there was the jaw-dropping moment of disbelief when a tractor with a bucket containing two men just appeared to attach a string of flags to the gable on our house to signal the forthcoming village brocante. No words were exchanged at all and, while we were bitterly disappointed to miss our very own village brocante, we felt happy that in some small way we were a part of it.
There are already so many things that we now love about our house in such a short time. The beautiful, wide, old walnut floorboards that dip with age and the wear of thousands of steps trodden upon them. The fact that, as Jean-Claude, the bearer of many stories, told us, apparently Madame la Croix had stuffed old pieces of bread in the gaps to ward off the icy winter draughts. More modern evidence of a season we would never know is the newspaper jammed into the skirting boards and the sides of the stairs. The rounded steps as you enter our little house are a unique feature, as is the carved piece of curved stone over the door, bearing the date 1884, encased in a small stone-carved heart. The huge fire-blackened beams tell the story of generations of meals and a very faint hint of smoke still lingers in the air. There are few remnants of the garden but our dining table is now placed to look out over the trees in it. The humble old farmhouse resonates with a palpable warmth that many, far grander houses will never hold.
Our House is Not in Paris Page 5