When they are in Cuzance from the middle of March to the middle of November, just like us, Jean-Claude and Françoise like to be a part of life in the village. The difference is, they have a twenty-year head start. As well as being the keeper of the keys for the church and locking the heavy wooden door at the end of each day, Jean-Claude also rings the bell in the village church opposite their house on special occasions. When I went with him one evening to lock the church, he told me some of its history. The main part was built in the twelfth century and the rest was added gradually in later centuries. In the late nineteenth century, a wealthy vicar considered a further addition but, on reflection, decided against it, as it would have prevented the sun from warming his house. In the clock tower is one of the oldest bells in France. Jean-Claude told me that, according to legend, some of the church bells were hidden in their garden during World War I. When they had their pool put in, the workmen dug very carefully, hoping to unearth the bells. While they didn’t find anything, the legend is another layer that makes life in a French village fascinating.
Mondays and Visits to the Mairie
For the third Monday in a row, my ‘working’ week started with a visit to the Mairie’s office in the village. Jean-Claude dropped in early with a message from the Maire that all our roof restoration work had been approved. We will absolutely never know how the complexities and intricacies of it all worked. One minute we were told it would take weeks and then, voilà, it was ready. Now, it seemed that if we didn’t collect the paperwork immediately, perhaps the work on the roof would suddenly stop again. We pondered, yet again, whether, in a small rural village, the Maire, Jean-Luc and the other roofer, Gilbert, had sorted it all over a pastis or two. Perhaps they simply decided that it would all go ahead regardless of the lack of formal documentation and approval? It is something we will never know.
Fortunately today could not possibly compare to the previous Monday, when Stuart and Erick laboured for twelve hours straight in forty-degree heat as they installed la cuisine. Or my efforts on the day of sugar-soaping the sitting room and endless cutting in round the window, doors, ceiling beams and staircase. Despite the intense heat, I was determined to match my hours of work to each of theirs.
Monday 27 June 2011 was the biggest day of my entire life. When we finally had time at the end of it to actually catch up over dinner, we both announced that we had come to the same conclusion. Stuart confirmed the date several times to imprint it in his memory. By the end of such days, it was hard to even recall all the details. I was up early, as usual — in fact, like a normal Monday morning anywhere in the world, and it was a calm start. I had managed to complete proofreading another few chapters of the very esoteric Colon Art for Jean-Claude before nine o’clock when it was time to, yet again, visit the Mairie. Never quite sure what to expect or what may arise, I felt quite anxious about the septic tank paperwork that I’d chosen not to complete and return. Even though we knew that the mandatory government inspection of our septic tank would take place at some point, we were trying to delay it for as long as possible. We were also trying to avoid, for as long as we could, the enormous expense involved in meeting the changed compliance law. However, whenever you tend to steel yourself for a difficult bureaucratic moment, it can turn out to be quite the opposite. The paperwork was all stamped and signed, waiting in an official brown envelope on the counter. I simply signed it, it was photocopied, and I was finished in a matter of minutes. Voilà! On the way out, I peeped into the two primary school classrooms downstairs, as there were no bags hanging on the hooks outside them like usual. They were tiny and sparse and empty for the two whole months of the long summer vacances.
So my Monday was off to a flying start. This morning I even dressed with care, feeling that, as it was an official visit, it was appropriate. When I arrived home in record time, we felt that the occasion was so significant that Stuart took a photo of me, triumphantly displaying the official brown envelope approving our roof restoration. Next on our agenda, Brigitte and Erick arrived with Erick’s son Maxime, a policeman who was home on leave for a few days. Despite the fact that it was their busy season at their chambre d’hôte and they were fully booked with guests, they had made the three-hour round trip so Erick could help Stuart finish the electric work in la cuisine. That task was also smoothly completed in just an hour, so we headed off to Martel to treat them to lunch at what was fast becoming our favourite local restaurant. We felt very pleased that, out of the three times we had already been there, it was our second visit with different French friends. We had dessert outside one balmy summer evening when Jean-Claude and Françoise invited us to meet them there as their guests. Martel took on a completely different feel at night when the heat of the day had dissipated and the lights flickered on at ten to illuminate the ancient stone buildings. The town was so exquisite, with the ancient covered market in the centre, that it was like a film set.
Today was the first time we’d eaten inside Le Jardin des Saveurs. We were surprised by how elegantly it was furnished and styled, with crisp beige tablecloths, dark brown serviettes on the tables as a stylish contrast and tasteful photos of food hung on the simple, white plaster walls. The menu was magnificent value, and we enjoyed a delicious lunch of local duck with a crisp breadcrumb topping served in brown pottery dishes straight from the oven. It was a rare treat to relax on a Monday and enjoy a delightful lunch in the company of wonderful friends.
That afternoon I walked down to visit Jean-Claude and return the manuscript that I had helped him with. By chance, as it turned out, I missed Jean-Claude as he had just come out the front of their house without hearing me as I walked up the through their jardin at the back of their property. I left the manuscript carefully anchored with a stone on the table outside their back door. Much to my surprise, a few minutes later when I was home again, Jean-Claude was standing on our rounded front steps chatting to Stuart and Christian the gardener. The timing could not have been more perfect as I took the opportunity to have an impromptu discussion of how to plan the planting in the jardin as Jean-Claude was able to rapidly translate for me. I was utterly impressed by his ability to so fluently switch between the two languages. I was also vastly relieved and happy that Christian was able to so quickly take on board my design ideas. He was able to convey that my concepts were for a formal jardin, whereas, apparently, ours was a rustique garden. Not that it should really have been a surprise, for there were few remnants of what might have once been a garden. Certainly I knew that I would never have anything to compare to the grandeur and beauty of Jean-Claude’s sweeping, park-like jardin, which he lavishes hours and hours of care on. I indicated my desire for a tree — despite Jean-Claude’s constant translation, I used a lot of animated gestures — that would provide shade outside our forge for our imagined terrace of the future. I was dismayed to find out that after breaking his lawnmower tyre on our rough terrain, Christian now had to buy a new lawnmower. Jean-Claude told me it was very old, but nevertheless I felt somewhat responsible. Actually, now I think about it, perhaps that was factored in to what was later a very exorbitant fee for a few hours’ work. At last, though, everything seemed to be coming together in our long-abandoned jardin.
After this, I went back with Jean-Claude to ring my mother, who had just arrived in England and would soon be on her way to Cuzance. He and I then had an apéritif and chatted together under the pine tree on their elevated terrace. The view over their jardin took my breath away every time I saw it. Françoise returned home from her daily church duties, this time changing the flowers, in the nearby village of Cressensac. As we caught up, Jean-Claude disappeared to his library high up in his attic and returned with Les 3000 Meilleures Plante de Jardin: a book that has 3000 plants for the garden. As always, I was moved by his kindness; he was lending it to me as a reference for when I had further discussions with Christian about our jardin design. Perhaps ‘design’ was rather an ambitious description of my plans; ‘layout’ was possibly more accurate. I was always
amazed that I was so familiar with so many of the trees and plants in France. A quick look through the book showed that that there are indeed many of the same shrubs, plants and flowers that we have at home. I then asked Françoise for yet another favour. On Friday night we were having our very first visitor to stay in our petite maison, our French friend Sylvie, whom we met in India, and her son Axel. I asked Françoise if it was possible to borrow a very old tablecloth as I’d not yet had a chance to buy one. While we didn’t use one at home, I was aware that it is the custom in France, especially as pain is not placed on a plate but rather on the tablecloth. Françoise willingly lent me one, as indeed they helped with absolutely anything that we ever asked for help with. She returned with one that was perfect for our little old farmhouse: delightful red and white checks. When she told me it was a wedding present forty years ago, I was touched and honoured to be lent such a piece of the history of their lives. With Françoise’s superb skills in her petite cuisine, I was sure the tablecloth could tell many marvellous stories. So, once again I walked back through the village laden with a book and tablecloth from our generous, kind friends.
The evening finished with yet another late meal followed by a walk through our village and its surrounds. There are many walking tracks around Cuzance. However, as always, there simply hadn’t been the time to explore them. Though it was time for bed, we were tempted to follow the sign to ‘Fontaine’ and we found ourselves deep in the country; sure enough, there was an ancient well. We continued along the rocky path and marvelled at the walnut orchards and rolling fields. Although the path came out in the village right opposite Gerard and Dominique’s, it was far too late to visit. A quick apéritif de noix on our little steps and we fell into bed.
I slept in the next morning and my day started in a way that I knew I would never have again in my life. A one-off Cuzance morning. As I flung the creaky shutters open — an act in itself that I always found symbolic every single day — the roofer had just arrived and was outside to greet me with a cheery ‘Hello’. In just a few weeks, Jean-Luc had started to use this greeting with us instead of his customary ‘Bonjour’. The process had been very much two-way; I was sure they were as fascinated by us as we were by them. Still, it’s not often in life that you wearily wake up to the sight of French roofers just outside your window. It was now just Jean-Luc and his teenage son Jordan. Les vacances had started and I was impressed by Jordan’s ability to work steadfastly all day. He worked alone, high up on the roof, while Jean-Luc continued work on the pigsty roof that adjoined the barn. Later in the day, Poppy joined them and I could see the business was being passed from generation to generation. Jordan gave me a cheeky, typical teenage grin as I captured his image while he put the ridge capping on. When the roofers left after five weeks and we ran into Jean-Luc at a vide-grenier, I found out — well, Stuart did, as my skills didn’t run to understanding — that the little scenario I had vividly constructed about the family of roofers was completely wrong. Jean-Luc, in fact, has three daughters; Poppy is the owner of the business and not his father; Jordan is not his son. I preferred my three-generation family of roofers that I had imaginatively constructed. What I did know in the two-way trade of bonjour and hello was that, like all the roofers, I adopted the use of Poppy too — and they all seemed to like it, including old Poppy.
I had a late start working in the orchard and once again marvelled at the fact that I actually had my own orchard to even work in. Stuart continued his labour on la cuisine and grappled with the fact that the door hinges were the wrong size yet again. Ah, IKEA. I had now progressed to taking the ladder down to the orchard and perched precariously, hacking off old limbs with my pruning saw. I lost myself in the solitude and felt immense satisfaction as I saw my mounds of dead branches and suffocating ivy piling up far beneath me. I briefly contemplated borrowing Jean-Claude’s chainsaw for the big branches that I couldn’t manage with my little pruning saw. However, as I was getting older, I seemed to be becoming increasingly clumsy and I realised that way disaster lies.
Life continued to be busy and demanding, and our days were still consumed by endless lists and notes. There were simply so many things to do and remember that I’d taken to taping (with a piece of masking tape) the most pressing demands for the day to the inside of the front door as a constant reminder. Today’s was ‘Turn water off overnight’ as by now the water system in the cellar had sprung a leak and we were afraid it might explode in the night and flood the cellar.
Stuart’s note for the morning — placed right where I knew he’d see it when he had his petit déjeuner — was to remind the roofer to repair the ridge capping on the outbuilding as we knew he’d be finishing in a few days. I was the queen of notes and lists. They gave me some sense of control in our days of ever-spiralling events, decisions and sheer hard work.
When we went to Brive for the afternoon for yet another bricolage expedition, we let Jean-Luc know that the plombier might come. He tore the end off a box of crochet hooks (roof nails) and wrote a note. We left it taped to the front door, along with a note of our own, to tell the plombier about the problem in the cellar. We then set off with our long list of bricolage needs. Yes, our notes and lists had taken over our lives and were now consuming us. And so followed one of the worst afternoons of my life. Four hours of bricolage after bricolage in the burning heat combined with fraying tempers. Some women love hardware shops; let’s just say, quite simply, I loathe them. There were protracted discussions about what type of decking we would get and minute examinations of the type of hose suitable for the jardin. The cheap option, bought previously, proved to be exactly what it was: cheap. An inferior option that already had flaws in it, as it was too thin, and when we got it home and rolled it out to use, it simply kinked and was not strong enough to lay out across the rough ground. We then finally found a piece of decking that we were able to agree on. By now it was forty degrees and, for some reason, I forgot to bring my hat and, of course, all the timber was outside. There was a small sample, so we went to pay for it. But no … they thought that we had broken it off and refused to either let us have it or pay for it. For me it was the last straw, especially as we knew it would simply get thrown out. My temper definitely now matched the ever-increasing temperature. Sadly, the plombier still hadn’t come by the time we got home late in the afternoon. Another note for the next day.
Jean-Claude arrived for his customary apéritif with us and I told him all about my hideous afternoon. I hate bricolage, both here and at home. I told him I was determined not to go on any further expeditions to them, no matter what. He confided that he felt the same way about Françoise’s daily involvement with the church, and we shared a much-needed laugh. By the time Jean-Claude left, Stuart and I had found a moment to relax with a glass of chilled rosé in the rubble by the pool. It was so late that we couldn’t even be bothered with our planned meal of a simple barbecue. Instead we had the only meal available. Yes, the daily baguette and fromage. But it was France, after all; the evening was cooling down, the sky was tinged with sunset hues, the moon was in its first quarter, and even the frantic squealing of pigs at feeding time didn’t really matter. The wonder of being here was that every single day brought surprises, and most of them were superb. I had found a small shard of creamy earthenware and Jean-Claude — who always seemed to know absolutely everything — immediately identified it as a part of a soup tureen handle. I placed it on our little white wrought-iron table as a reminder of both the past and why we were here.
The Markets in Martel
Every single day when I woke up there was an element of surprise and excited expectation about what the day might bring. The rhythm of every single day was full of the unexpected. Without Gilbert the roofer on site, we no longer had a long-range weather forecast. If he told us that the day would be cloudy and then sunny the next, he would always be absolutely accurate. I suppose his livelihood as a roofer depended on his intimate knowledge of the weather.
The drought had set
tled on the village and surrounding fields. It was quite hard to believe that the landscape was so similar to at home in summer. The grass was dry and brown while the leaves on many of the trees had now turned yellow and were falling in clouds onto the grass. Their carpet of gold looked more like autumn. Yesterday there was another first: the tap, tap, tap of a woodpecker on a pear tree in our orchard.
The day began with lifting the heavy oven into place. Of course, as we well knew by now, after having done it for about ten years, renovating never goes quite as smoothly as planned or hoped for. The fit was not flush with the benchtop and cupboard. Stuart summed it up perfectly by stating, ‘A two-minute job turns into a two-hour job.’ Another merde or two was uttered.
As I sat briefly at the table, looking out our tall windows next to our long wooden dining table, three delicate pink roses from Françoise’s splendid jardin brought a sense of grace and beauty to our petite maison. Then my gaze drifted to our garden; the complete opposite. My first job today was to haul all the cut branches to the far corner of our property, to be piled up out of sight. Jean-Luc and Jordan arrived as we were having our café on our little terrace — and so the day officially began. Meanwhile, in the background, as I gathered my gardening tools, I heard Stuart’s constant refrain, ‘Merde, merde,’ as he grappled with the jigsaw to cut the kitchen bench to fit the oven. Such was Jean-Luc’s attention to what was happening in our daily lives that he enquired whether the plombier had come the previous day. We could only reply, ‘Non, non.’
Our House is Not in Paris Page 15