On just our second day in Cuzance, we were back in full swing. We set off early to Martel to be there for when the bank opened. We didn’t have an appointment but we were ushered straight away into the manager’s office, where we remained for an hour to sort out the insurance for our newly acquired car. Anne-Marie, the manager, was utterly charming and, while she said her English was petite, we thought it was excellent. We soon discovered that we were not the only Australians organising car insurance as there was also a couple in recently from the nearby village of Saint-Sozy. This was reminiscent of last year, when we discovered from Kim, our real estate agent, that there were other Australians who were also buying houses in our département. Just like then, we rather liked to think we were special! In fact, we still find it hard to believe that there could have been so many other Australians doing something similar. As yet, though, we hadn’t met any — and certainly not heard the familiar accent in the markets or cafés. The truth is, though we knew could easily track down the couple in Saint-Sozy, we had absolutely no desire to. We were very much conscious that this was our ‘other life’, so much so that at times we even wondered how to blend both our lives into one when friends and family came to stay.
Anne-Marie took us smoothly through our range of insurance options, and we were impressed by how she tried all sorts of permutations to get us the best price, particularly when Stuart pointed out that for ten months of the year it wouldn’t be driven at all. To our astonishment, when Stuart was in the bank the next week, Anne-Marie told him she had been able to investigate further when she had a meeting with her manager and had got us a better rate. We were hugely impressed by such service. This seemed to be vastly at odds with all that we had been told or read about regarding France’s famous red tape and love of bureaucracy. In fact, we seriously doubted whether this would have happened at home: a reduction in insurance after we had already paid.
At the end of our appointment, she then warned us that registering the car at the Préfecture in Cahors would be a very challenging and bureaucratic process. Once again, we were grateful to Jean-Claude and Françoise, as they offered to accompany us and negotiate the potential bureaucratic minefield.
There was simply no time to celebrate the achievement of insuring the car — now why did that not surprise me? — as we then dashed to Souillac, twenty minutes away, before all the shops closed for lunch; we had to visit Orange to sort out our mobile. We quickly bought a new SIM card and set off to have our first lunch out in France. We collapsed gratefully into a nearby café and eagerly scanned the menu du jour. ‘Ah, we’re back,’ we sighed contently, raising a glass of rosé to celebrate the success of the morning before enjoying our favourite steak and frites. Not yet twelve and two major things on our list were already sorted.
The sun was warm one minute and the next we were pulling on our jackets again. Driving to Souillac it was eleven degrees, and when we finished lunch to head for Carrefour supermarché to buy an essential Sat Nav the temperature had more than doubled. Over lunch, however, to our alarm, we realised that all our numbers had been lost when we got a new SIM card. We waited until two and, to our huge relief, there was our tiny SIM card perched right on top of the wastepaper bin. If it had been emptied before lunch, then indeed all would have been lost.
That evening, we were invited to the village’s annual soirée, held at the sports stadium. No wonder Jean-Claude was full of mirth when, before leaving, I asked him via email what I should wear. He said:
For the big Méchoui, there is absolutely no dress code; in fact the difficulty is that some years it’s cold, and sometimes extremely hot under the plastic tent: one year, it was so hot they sprayed water on it to reduce the temperature … and there were leaks in the material so that some people got quite wet. Don’t worry; this is not a show for elegance in Cannes, nothing ‘grand’ about it, except the duration of the event that goes far into the night! The price must be fixed at under 20 euro per guest; I am sorry not to be more reliable concerning figures!
And he was right; it truly was a casual country affair, not at all the sophisticated French soirée I had originally imagined. Thank goodness it wasn’t, as by then the temperature had plummeted so dramatically that I had six layers of clothes on. And this was summer in France.
We joined Jean-Claude and Françoise for an apéritif at the Méchoui and were extremely glad we decided not to attend the dinner, which was held outside. We were even more relieved not to attend the dinner when we later found out that the meal was not served until 10.30 and continued until 2am. While we were very eager to fit in, as fully as possible, to life in Cuzance, late nights and renovating were not a perfect match.
On Sunday, it was our first brocante for the season and we were, as always, very excited at the prospect of treasure. However, for a change, as we were still recovering from the flight and the first couple of days had already been non-stop, we had a leisurely start. We then headed off to two markets, one in Turenne and the other in Reyrevignes. Our parameters were that we would only go to markets within a fifty-minute drive or else it was simply too far. Visiting the vide-greniers — which literally means ‘clear out the attic’ — was a perfect way to explore the countryside and villages that we would otherwise not have stumbled upon.
To my delight, I found twenty-five pieces of cutlery that are over a hundred years old for a mere two euros; I was ecstatic. I then unearthed three pairs of trousers for a euro each and a gorgeous hand-knitted cardigan for Stuart, also for two euros. I was especially excited by my virtually new, shining, patent burgundy shoes for three euros, which I later paraded in to show Jean-Claude and Françoise on their next visit. We were off to a flying start for our brocante season.
After our customary picnic-style lunch, I managed an afternoon sleep while Stuart continued to assemble his cuisine. He woke me to let me know Jean-Claude and Françoise were on their way for a Sunday afternoon apéritif. They were impressed by his cuisine progress in such a short time, and I took great delight in sharing our brocante finds. To have impressed French friends with our treasure felt like a great achievement.
Monday morning was unlike any other Monday I had ever experienced. It was our version of our working week and, while our days here were profoundly busier than any at home, I knew which I preferred. Our barn roof came to a standstill several weeks previously and we had been told that it couldn’t continue unless we went to the Maire’s office to get the necessary paperwork approved. Every small community has a Mairie’s office; ours was just a two-minute walk away so it was easy to drop in to see le Maire, for so much rested in his hands. Jean-Claude rang to brief us that we needed to walk up the stairs and turn right as the school was on the lower level. There were backpacks hanging on hooks in the corridor: the only sign that there were children present, for even though the classrooms were right inside the entrance to the Mairie it was the quietest school I had ever been in — not a single sound emanated from any child.
The paperwork was less challenging than anticipated, which was a huge relief. Once again, Stuart impressed me with his fluency and ability to fill it all out in a foreign language. We were amazed to see our barn and land from the upstairs window of the Maire’s office — the vast expanse of weeds was apparent even from there. Yvette, the secretary, was very helpful, but we were rather dismayed when we were told that it might take up to fifteen days, perhaps longer, to get approval.
Next on my agenda was a call to Piscince Ambiance. A date to finish the pool was still to be confirmed despite the assurance that it would be finished for our arrival. And to think it had all been going so swimmingly. I was now told that Yannick would call me to make arrangements. We would see.
The ring of assurance from the first email I received from the president did not last long. Every time I emailed, it seemed to be someone else in the company who replied. Across the oceans I exchanged dozens of emails about the piscine, and I always found it extraordinary that, essentially, we arranged to have a pool put in by e
mail.
Next, we again returned to Martel for lunch; all our meals seemed to revolve around pain. Until the tourist season started, even the supermarché was shut on a Monday so we dropped into the little shop called Casino. In France, you quickly learned to remember that any shopping that needed doing must be done before the sacred lunch hour. It was on our return to Cuzance that I finally summoned the courage to drive in France. We dropped in to see Jean-Claude and Françoise before lunch to report on my significant achievement. As we were leaving, in a strange quirk of fate, Jean-Claude checked his post and there was a postcard from San Francisco from none other than the writer of the highbrow art book I had been proofreading for him at home. I had promised I would help finish it while I was here. Mental note to self: Make sure I make time to help Jean-Claude with this challenging task. After all, the least I could do in return was to help check his English translation from the original French.
The afternoon was spent madly packing in as much as possible, on just our third day, to get life up and running in Cuzance. I dashed around the jardin in a frenzy, tackling the first of the prolific weeds while Stuart kept assembling his cuisine jigsaw puzzle. I also fitted in going back to the Mairie, as I realised I needed to have a photocopy of all our paperwork. It was evident that the children were not in the school, as there was a sign on the classroom door that even I could tell said they had gone to the pool in Souillac: Excursion piscine Souillac. Yvette called out from the upstairs window of the Maire’s office, ‘Madame Cutsforth!’ and dashed down the stairs with my receipt. Before I left her office, she gave me a magazine about Cuzance and I’d quickly glanced through it. In my stumbling French, and with much pointing at the photos, I attempted to convey to the Maire’s secretary ‘renovee’, like the photos showing others renovating in our village, and then, in the photos of the lycée, I tried to indicate that I’m a teacher.
I then repeated my simple little show-and-tell at the Hotel Arnal with George and Chantelle when I dropped in to say bonjour. Monsieur Arnal seemed jubilant that he now knew and remembered my name. He just kept warmly smiling and repeating, ‘Susannah.’ The Maire was seated right inside the doorway, perched high on a stool having his afternoon espresso, with two men standing either side of him. He looked like he was holding court and they were his subjects. I individually bonjour-ed each of them in turn, conscious of being extremely polite, then turned formally to the Maire to shake his hand and ‘Bonjour, ça va?’ Monsieur Arnal was behind the bar, working the espresso machine, and, to add to the stage-set-like scene, he was not only serving the Maire but also an older woman I didn’t recognise. Then, further along the counter were a mother and her young daughter, also having their café. As I left, George offered me the use of the hotel pool until ours was finished. I returned full of jubilation to report to Stuart that, not only was the paperwork copied, but I also now had two pools in my own village that I could use — and soon my own! I had accomplished all this alone and felt inordinately proud of myself. It was a day of firsts: driving and the Mairie singlehanded.
The Lists — Again
The lists were endless. Every day, a new one was written, which was constantly added to. Sometimes there were several lists all at once — supermarché, bricolage, and lists for what to do on the house, who was to tackle which task and in what order. The piles of paperwork were scattered across every surface, and there were layers of books, maps, plates and all the debris of everyday living that had accumulated, along with the endless piles of tools and materials that we needed for renovating. There was an enormous degree of creativity required to both live and work in a renovating site. One day, the table was piled with a random assortment of objects: the kitchen sink, poised expectantly in its pristine porcelain state; a pot of abricot jam; magazines from Jean-Claude, including two glossy piscine magazines that he kindly bought us to help design our pool surround; glasses, keys, notebook, calendar … you name it; the table resembled an eclectic, avant-garde artwork. To add to the element of surrealism that no-one could have deliberately created in all its chaotic confusion, huge tractors lumbered past right outside the kitchen window that overlooks the road.
The following day was a hugely significant one. We actually slept in, and as we were having a late breakfast we glanced out the window to witness a procession of trucks carrying slate and roofers. To say we were astonished is an understatement. We turned to each other with one question: What has happened? We knew better than to enquire or turn French artisans away simply because we were not sure that the paperwork had been approved. It was just the day before that we were told it could take weeks, and now, well, who knew what had taken place in less than twenty-four hours? Stuart later saw the Maire drive past; no-one could fail to see the work on the roof, for all the rafters were off and three trucks were parked at the front of our petite maison. The whole world could quite clearly see that there was a massive rénovée underway.
And so, we speculated on the wonder of it all. Did the Maire and Jean-Luc, the main roofer, go to school together? After all, Cuzance is a small village. Was it all signed off over an apéritif or two the night before? We will always be in the dark. What we do know is that we were profoundly grateful. What we also knew with a profound certainty is that we were not going to question our good luck. Oh no, let the work continue!
Yannick had not called, as anticipated; echoes of his not replying to my emails. Now there’s a surprise. Hmm, here was our taste of French red tape. A call was made to the president, who in April had absolutely promised it would be finished for our arrival. But, oh another surprise: Monsieur Frederic Lorfanfant no longer worked for Piscine Ambiance. I was assured, however, that the work on the pool would resume on Friday. The liner and filter would indeed be put in and Yannick would indeed call. It was a great surprise when, in fact, several hours later, he did call and assured me that a ‘big’ team would come on Friday and that the following Tuesday the tile edging as well as the filling up of the pool would be done. It all would be fini! I would wait and see.
Meanwhile, on another water-related front, we had huge septic problems. The new challenge was trying to get a plumber as well as trying to get in touch with Christian to mow the grass, which was now wildly out of control. Pied de la Croix truly looked like a building site. There was rubble in the front garden from the burst pipe, trucks, roof rafters in haphazard piles, and grass that was so long we could barely glimpse our voiture. I had left Christian two messages and, once again, with all things artisan, I wasn’t sure what was going on. Christian then magically appeared in the afternoon. Suddenly, it had indeed been a red-letter day: the pool, roofers, garden — and a plumber to come.
With Christian now hard at work on his ride-on mower and the roofers in full flight, Stuart set off again for the bank in Martel to finalise our insurance paperwork. Time was always a scarce commodity, so I stayed and worked on the jardin. By now it was very hot — the temperature had increased to the high twenties — but I worked steadily away, wrenching out weeds and moving rocks from the front jardin where we drove in. The last thing we needed right now was a punctured tyre.
Was there time to stop after all this frenetic activity? Time to pause and reflect on all that had been achieved and was underway in just a few short days? Well, the simple answer was no. Next, I was off to sweep out all the cobwebs from the 120-year-old cellar beams. I had my longed-for washing machine installed down in the cellar yet I barely had time to glance at it, let alone attempt to work out our instruction book in French. How did the washing machine even make its way to the cellar from the petite maison? Once again it was Jean-Claude to the rescue with his ingenious solution of moving it on his wheelbarrow. And so the day ended with my first load of washing to celebrate another happy day in Cuzance.
I looked out with satisfaction to see the transformation of neatly mown grass and roofers energetically at work. That they were here again, their second day, was a huge relief — and an ongoing mystery. Today’s agenda was to start sanding
the sitting room walls in preparation for the cleaning and undercoating. At home this would be quite a straightforward job and I was an old hand at painting. Here, like everything, a somewhat different approach was needed. The room was a strange amalgamation of colour schemes and wallpaper — possibly seventies, when it would have certainly been très chic. What remnants of wallpaper should remain as a tribute to the house? Well, this time, possibly none at all. The strange tartan above the fireplace or floral that was a feature on the opposite wall? As for the two paint colours that had been so meticulously applied (dark brown below then carefully edged to delineate the green above), well, that was not a difficult decision. It would all be white. Plain, simple, striking white. The room was dominated by huge, old, thick, dark ceiling beams — some were suspiciously dark, in fact; there seemed to have been a fire inside at some point. And so another day unfolded, centred round sanding and cleaning and undercoating while Stuart’s cuisine took shape more and more every day.
Our reward was our first proper meal for days when we went to Martel for dinner. We devoured with delight duck confit in a delicious fig sauce and a glass of rosé. However, the soft summer evening and the ambience of the town square was marred by a raucous heavy metal band in the undercover ancient market that was right next to the cluster of restaurants. It utterly spoiled the atmosphere and anticipated relaxation. Then, as was often the case, Jean-Claude and Françoise saved the day. They had invited us to meet them for a treat: coffee and dessert at one of their favourite restaurants. While just nearby, it was sufficiently removed from the band that had been pounding in my head, and we had an exquisite dessert of my absolute favourite indulgence in the whole world: crème brûlée. It was actually band night in Martel but, this time, to accompany the song of silky smooth crème brûlée, there was a choir right next to us, an utterly different experience and a perfect end to another hectic day.
Our House is Not in Paris Page 10