As seems to be a recurring experience in France, I told Stuart to run, to go as fast as he could and that I would catch up. I asked him to tell them I was right behind him and try to hold the train. I should have realised this was a futile suggestion, as one thing I remembered clearly about SNCF trains is that they depart not one second later than the schedule. In France, of all places where women are immaculate even when they travel, many complete with high heels, I was a dreadful spectacle, panting and struggling up the stairs, scarcely able to carry my suitcase. I made the fatal mistake of losing sight of Stuart, and the next fatal mistake of making a wrong turn. I collapsed in a heap on the platform to see the train imperiously departing into the distance. It all came down to a mere two minutes in a forty-two-hour journey. A few words were exchanged and then we went to see what we could do to remedy the situation. Very fortunately there was another train in two hours and, for a small fee, we were able to change the tickets. We then had to contact Jean-Claude, as we had arranged with him months ago to pick us up in Brive. Our organisation had again been so precise that we had even organised with him to stop at a supermarché to buy food for our first evening at Pied de la Croix. While on the plane, I had even written the list of what we needed to buy. My attention to detail meant that I had also written the extended shopping list for our first full day, when we would go to Martel to stock up properly.
As with many major occasions in our lives — like buying our house at auction two years ago — our mobile always let us down. Once again, we were thwarted by technology. Stuart had bought a French mobile when he bought our house. This is the sort of thing that he takes care of very calmly and competently, and always impresses me enormously. It is in the category of setting up our French bank account and organising for our rates, water and electricity bills to be automatically deducted — basically, all the things that I simply don’t have a clue how to do. However, it seemed that, because the phone hasn’t been used for twelve months, the number had been disconnected. Of course, none of the phones take euros so Stuart bought a phone card. For some reason, he couldn’t get through to either Jean-Claude’s home number or Françoise’s portable. We later discovered that Françoise had lost her mobile just two days before. We knew Jean-Claude would be waiting on the dot of six in Brive and it was imperative that we contact him.
Our next attempt to contact Jean-Claude was to try and find an internet café, but of course, in these days of laptops and wireless connections, such places are no longer as common. I then discovered a room at the station with a wireless internet connection and it was full of connected people. I frantically approached a friendly-looking young woman who was using her laptop and blurted out my dilemma. She was immediately simpatico and offered to let me use her laptop. I, however, cannot use one without a mouse. She then logged in to my email for me — I told her she now had my whole life in her hands, as she had my email password. I hastily dictated a short message to Jean-Claude to let him know our new arrival time. Next, she offered to also call Jean-Claude so that we had covered all possible bases. I raced back to get Stuart and our luggage, as he had the contact number on his redundant mobile. The lovely French woman whipped out her iPhone and dialled his number. No response. Then she checked his number on the internet and dialled again. This time she left him a message. We now felt fairly hopeful that he would be waiting on the platform at Brive. Surely we had covered all bases? Soon, the two extra hours of waiting slipped away and it was time to depart. We left without even learning the young woman’s name, and yet again we were astonished and warmed by the kindness of those we have encountered on our travels.
The four hours on the train passed comfortably and we had some much-needed sleep. Alas, there was no Jean-Claude to warmly greet us at the station. We had yet another dilemma. There were some taxis at the station, so we enquired about the cost to Cuzance. It was essential that we have some food for our arrival at our petite maison, so, still hopeful that Jean-Claude would actually arrive, Stuart set off in search of food in the deserted streets of Brive. As I was standing with the luggage, passengers waiting for a connection to Toulouse asked why on earth we had come all the way from Australia to the quiet, empty town of Brive rather than the Riveria. Forty minutes later, Stuart returned with two sad-looking, end-of-the-day baguettes. We were actually quite grateful for them, as they became our very late supper and, the next day, our stale breakfast; not quite what we imagined for our first meals in France. There was now no choice at all except to pay the exorbitant price for a taxi and so, finally, we were on the last leg of our ten-part trip.
After a very fast, very expensive, taxi ride, we arrived at Pied de la Croix several hours later than anticipated. There were shades of our arrival last year as our hearts didn’t quite beat with joy. No, there was a huge, green, flapping tarpaulin covering half the barn roof; there was a pile of rubble in front of the house where the roofer’s truck hit a water pipe; and, oh, the grass was very, very overgrown. Despite the meticulous checklist, somehow ringing Christian to cut the grass had been overlooked. To complete the picture-perfect romantic French idyll, there was a dead bird on the porch right outside the front door. Once inside, it was like a haunted house. The lingering smell of old fire smoke was extraordinarily strong and the house was festooned with cobwebs. Fortunately, there was some wine left from last year, so we rapidly downed a glass with our stale baguette and fell into bed, complete with a year of dust on the eiderdown. Welcome home to Cuzance.
Our Reunion with Pied de la Croix
The long-awaited day was here — well, very late evening. We were back, after almost another year, at our beloved petite maison. Its arms embraced us warmly and there was a real sense of coming home. I remember vividly a Monday morning the previous year when my first task was to start ever so carefully peeling the wallpaper from an ancient wooden beam in the room that was to become la cuisine. I recall thinking I would much rather be doing this first thing on a Monday morning than the normal routine of work at home. Stuart was off on one of his many errands, sourcing bricolage needs and food, so I was alone, as I often was. While we have lived in many, many houses over the years, including two old terrace houses in Sydney, I had never felt such a palpable sense of warmth emanating from a house. I actually felt that our petite maison was thanking me for breathing life into it, indeed, bringing it back to life. Once I found out more about its history from Jean-Claude and the previous owners, it made even more sense. I truly felt their presence in a very warm way. They were glad we were pouring love into the house. Despite renovating our hundred-year-old terraces in Sydney, I had never experienced such a strong connection with the past. In fact, what was really interesting was that our second terrace in Newtown was in our ‘dream’ category. It was a magnificent, grand two-storey terrace in a line of about twelve similar ones on a wide, tree-lined street. When we lived around the corner in our smaller terrace, we would often walk past and admire them. We never dreamt that one day we would actually live in one. Yet we made that dream come true and, while the house was very grand, it always felt strangely distant and never embraced me in the way our little French farmhouse did almost straight away.
Our life was so extraordinary, in fact, that parts of it had become ‘secret’. Off we went to work, to our two ordinary jobs, and yet we had such astonishing things going on that somehow we felt we could no longer share it all, simply because it was in the realm of being too amazing. It was not what ordinary people do at all. It was a very strange way to feel, especially as, at the start of our marriage, life was such a struggle. I think that’s what makes what we have achieved even more astonishing. The fact that Stuart was unemployed for the first year of our marriage. The fact that we had to scrape the money together at the end of each fortnight before pay day to find enough money for bread and milk. And now look at us. We were living a life we didn’t even know enough about to even dare to dream of. So, in that sense, it was more than a dream come true because we never imagined that, in the realm of
our ordinary lives, we would ever have a house in France. What it did mean was that life felt perpetually surreal. That, for us, there was always another hidden dimension beyond the everyday routine.
I think that was why, in the end, we were so mindful of not talking about it too much. That somehow, we had found ourselves in this undreamt of position of being able to invite our family and friends to France to be a part of it and share the dream with us.
Back in Cuzance
The following morning, we woke to the cooing of wood doves and the utter quiet of the countryside. I opened the windows and then flung open the heavy wooden shutters. It was cool and damp and, to my joy, there were two rabbits, their bob tails a flash of white bouncing along the road. It is true that everything always looks better after a good night’s sleep, though perhaps not the fifth meal of pain in a row. As I couldn’t find the keys to open the door, I clambered over the stone windowsill to sit on the steps to have my morning café. The rabbits paused beside the stone pillars at the entrance to our jardin and silently contemplated the sight of someone sitting on the steps of the house that was usually shut up. Just at that moment, Stuart emerged from the bedroom and found me struggling to swing my legs back over the high sill. He was understandably bemused by what I was doing. The church bells rang at seven to signal the start of another day: our first new day back in Cuzance.
With perfect timing, Jean-Claude arrived just after we had our showers and he was hugely relieved to see us. Strangely, they had not received either of my messages. My email was blank and the message did not appear on their home phone. It was all very mysterious. Just like every single day in France, it was on with the day’s full program of events. Jean-Claude knew that, first of all, we desperately needed to go to the supermarché, since last night’s plan to do so with him had not eventuated. He whisked us off to La Vieux Prieuré to greet Françoise, with whom we also had a joyous reunion. Then we set off to Martel, our nearest town, a mere seven minutes away. As we rounded the corner we caught our first glimpse of it, enveloped in the soft green folds of the hills. While quite small, Martel is beautiful, distinctive for its seven large towers, and steeped in history. It was then that we felt we were truly home again in the Lot.
We at last had our first lunch in Pied de la Croix with all our beloved French fare: fromage, jambon, baguette and plump sweet cherries. After only a short respite, we returned to Jean-Claude and Françoise’s enchanted kingdom to see our new car. There were only a few minor scratches, and the colour was more beige than the anticipated green. We were very happy with our decision to make life so much easier by buying it through our exchange of emails, virtually unseen, apart from Stuart’s brief glimpse of it in the dark last year. Jean-Claude kindly allowed me to have a practice drive around his enormous garden as I attempted to gain my confidence in readiness for driving on the right-hand side. I spun around the grass in circles and manage to avoid the three enormous oak trees. Memories of last year in the sporty new Citroën and my driving far too close to the ditch returned. I was determined this year to at least manage the simple seven-minute drive to Martel to shop independently.
Then, that night — only our first ‘proper’ night — Stuart started to assemble the kitchen! I could scarcely believe that he was embarking on this challenge already. Oh, the joy of self-assembled IKEA.
La Piscine — or, the Long-Distance Pool
From the other side of the world we had embarked on the brave — or foolish — enterprise of having a pool installed by email. So, this year, we came back not only to a house we needed to renovate but also a roof that was half started and a pool that was underway. It was meant to be fini …
A few months after we had returned home, we entered into a series of email exchanges to make arrangements for the installation of the pool. Extraordinary as it seems, at no point were there any phone calls at all, despite the vital paperwork that mysteriously went astray. Yet again, events seemed to take on a life of their own and assumed another level of utter surrealism. Making the decision to have a pool is enormous in itself, let alone from the other side of the world.
However, things seemed to unfold all by themselves in an arabesque of, at times, very charming emails. The one I loved the most was from the president of Piscine Ambiance, who declared:
Dear Mrs Cutsforth,
I am the President of Piscine Ambiance.
First of all, I want to thank you for your confidence.
Don’t worry, the concrete blocks of your pool are okay and you will have no problem with them. Of course they are not ‘beautiful’ but once they are assembled, everything will be all right. We have built thousands of pools and we never face any problems with the blocks. And we have a 10 year guarantee and insurance to cover everything.
I hope this mail will reassure you.
If not, do not hesitate to let me know or call me on my mobile.
Best regards,
Frederic Lorfanfant, President
Piscince Ambiance
I absolutely loved that email for its charisma and sense of ceremony. It was followed shortly after by another email for which I also felt delight, due to its charming tone and comforting reassurance:
Dear Mrs Cutsforth,
I fully understand the challenge and stress it can be for you!
We are very proud to build our first pool for Australian people!
I strongly believe you have done the good choice by selecting Piscine Ambiance as we take care of everything about your pool with no sub-contracting.
As you certainly know, we started the pool on March 10, but the mayor ask us to stop because he has not yet signed the ‘works agreement – autorisation de travaux’ (famous French administration …)
Nicolas has taken care of it and we should receive the final agreement in the coming days.
When we have it, we will re-start the works.
When do you come to Cuzance next time?
PS: please Yannick try to send some pictures of the pool to Susan during the works.
Frederic Lorfanfant
President
Piscince Ambiance
We could have signed the paperwork in Cuzance the very afternoon following the morning when we visited the company to view the pools. As luck would have it, one of their representatives who spoke English was available for an appointment at our house. Mind you, I had conveyed the urgency of a site inspection and quote as soon as possible, as it was just a couple of days before we were to fly home. Nevertheless, this was not quite what we had planned and, as seemed to be becoming a frequent occurrence, events seemed to have taken on a life of their own. We actually drove back into the village off the motorway from Brive, right behind Nicholas’s car, so I jumped out and got him to follow us. We had drawn a little map but, as there is no street name or house number for Pied de la Croix, it would have been rather challenging to find us.
After a quick inspection of the land behind the barn and a discussion of the position of the pool, in just forty-five minutes Nicholas printed a quote. It all seemed far too easy to be possible. And yet, easy it was. I’ve spent more time making momentous decisions about what pair of shoes to buy than about getting a pool put in for what was indeed truly becoming another life. Yet again, though, there were very few people we felt that we could actually share all this with. Somehow, it all felt like the lives of the rich and famous, not the life of two very ordinary people who kept taking more and more risks (and borrowing more and more money).
The strange thing about the pool and the company was that we started our communication with Nicolas, who just dropped out of sight without any explanation for quite a long time; then Yannick entered the picture for a while, then it was back to Nicolas. These emails were interspersed with a few in April from the president, who seemed to just make a brief and grand appearance to assure me to trust the company and as an acknowledgment of the stress of such an undertaking across the many miles. To tell you the truth, everything always seemed so remote and distant from
my everyday life at home that I never actually felt stressed at all, which is unlike how I usually am in my ‘real’ life.
So, below are some of the emails that trace the unfolding of the pool. Fortunately for us, in yet another strange quirk of fate, Jean-Claude and Françoise returned to Cuzance at exactly the same time that the work on the pool started. While it seems this was precisely the way we carefully planned it, so that Jean-Claude would step in as our de facto manger, it was, in fact, a coincidence. Yet again we had reason to feel profoundly grateful to him, for without his emails there were long periods when we had absolutely no idea what was happening with the pool and its progress, if any at all. As things got underway, we would race home to check our emails from him to see what was happening. There were quite a few disquieting moments to say the least.
By early April, we heard again from Monsieur Lorfanfant, who declared:
Susan,
We have received the authorization from the Mayor! We will re-start no later than mid-May in order to have your pool finished for mid-June when you return.
Thanks to Jean-Claude, we were able to see it all unfolding as he sent lots of photos to show us what was happening. It was all absolutely astonishing, from the enormous gaping cavity dug out behind the barn — in, yes, exactly the right place — to the dismay about the crack in the concrete after it was poured, and then the long silence from Piscine Ambiance and an inexplicable delay with progress. Once more, it was Jean-Claude to the rescue to explain that the paperwork had not been lodged with the Mairie, although we had thought from our initial emails that this had happened at the outset. Jean-Claude now became even more entwined in the proceedings and invaluable to us in shooting emails back and forth to us, explaining that the he had spoken to both the company and the Maire on our behalf. I think he loved both the drama of it and being an advocate for the Australian couple. And so it was resolved — again, without any calls from us, but we don’t know how on earth we would have ever been able to overcome the language barriers if we had tried to call to unravel the cause of the delay.
Our House is Not in Paris Page 8