Then the mobile rang and, though it was still early, it was already an exciting day as the furniture we bought a week ago would be delivered in the afternoon. Just as I was about to head off to the orchard, Poppy arrived and I served him an espresso. Unusually, he took a seat on the porch and used the other word he had learnt from me: ‘Okay.’ We now had two words in common. We had a brief chat about our Renault, if it’s automatic or diesel and whether it would stay in Cuzance. At least I think that’s what our conversation was about.
Off he headed, high up on the roof with the others, and I found it wonderful (well, as I still continued to think, at this point, of the romantic story I had conjured up) that the three generations were working together in such harmony. As my life often seemed to be constructed around fantasies that I had created, I imagined that Jordan had a girlfriend and that at night he chatted to her about the foreigners he was working for. I was sure, just as I wondered about their lives beyond the roof, they too must pause and wonder what had brought this Australian couple from the other side of the world to this little farmhouse in Cuzance. As I couldn’t communicate with Jordan the way I’d like to, I’d taken to giving him an affectionate pat on the shoulder. It’s exactly what I do with my teenage boys back at school in my other life. I knew that a simple, reassuring pat conveys a lot.
Jean-Claude dropped in for his morning visit with another Monsieur Bricolage catalogue for Stuart. He was even able to point out the page that showed decking and paving that were solde. A sale is a sale in any language. We discovered from him, just in time, that we would lose everything to the drought if we foolishly planted in summer, as we were planning to do very soon. So, too, we also found out just in time that the soil around the pool would significantly subside in the next twelve months. It meant that the paving work — and expense — would have been an utter waste of time. Another source of heartbreak avoided.
I got sidetracked as soon as I went out in the jardin. Instead of starting to move my ever-accumulating piles, I started another one. As it was much cooler, I worked for almost three hours and my pile grew steadily into a mountain. The brambles were so fierce they pierced through my gloves. However, I was also jubilant as I hacked and hacked and restored two oak trees that had been smothered on the boundary stone wall. I had to make a decision about something that looked like a rose but decided to sacrifice it. While I was quite familiar with the flowers and plants, this familiarity did not extend to my knowledge of French weeds. In my zealousness, however, I unfortunately destroyed two baby oaks and felt sad about their loss.
It was, as always, a race to do everything. I rushed inside as we needed to go to the twice-weekly fresh produce markets in Martel. We were several hours later than usual, and the whole atmosphere had changed in the space of a few weeks. It was hard to find a park in our little town, and it was evident straight away that the tourist influx had started. It was lively and bustling in the markets, and there were new stalls to cater for the tourist trade. We sampled some apéritif de noix and noix caramélisées — the flavour of walnut in both was splendid. Tasting a walnut in France, fresh and nutty, was like tasting a walnut for the first time. We were, after all, on the ‘Route de la Noix’: the trail of the walnuts. Just like melons, duck and foie gras, our département is known for its walnuts. Eating fraise here also made us feel as if we had never eaten a strawberry before. It was like a burst of summer in our mouths.
There were mounds of succulent macarons glistening in their pastel hues and bright yellow sunflowers in pails, nodding their heads, heavy with sunshine. We already had our favourite stall for fraise, the most tantalising strawberries we had ever tasted. It was also our favourite stall for pêche, cerise and tomatoes. The peaches dripped with gold while, this summer, the cherries were the reddest, fattest and juiciest I had ever seen or tasted. This week, all the produce had a carefully scripted little label. Apart from the cherries, which were from Spain, everything else was grown locally. We were given a golden slither of Quercy melon to sample. Of course, we decided to buy a couple. I loved that they enquired whether it was to be eaten today or tomorrow, as the stallholder’s selection for us would depend on our answer. With our French market basket overflowing, we set off to our favourite café for an espresso, stopping en route for the obligatory pastry to accompany it. We were thrilled to discover that there was a new array — no doubt ready for the tourist season now in full swing. I was ecstatic to find one of my absolute favourites, a plump almond croissant. I remarked that a true French woman would never, ever indulge in one, but would merely breathe in the tantalising aroma. I know there is much speculation about the wraith-like appearance of many French women and how they achieve it; indeed, there are books on the subject. I had made it a point to discreetly watch my French female friends when we shared a meal: their trick is to move their crisp pommes frites around their plate as they wave their fork slightly in the air during conversation to distract attention, and then, voilà, the meal is finished and the plate is whisked away. But the careful observer will note that the pommes frites have merely travelled round the plate. And so, like the French, we settled to watch the world go by. I didn’t feel guilty in the slightest about the size and sheer decadence of my croissant simply oozing with lusciousness.
Just as well, to seize the moment, for once we returned to our petite maison, the day was still a long one for us. Today was a hard, hard day for Stuart. He returned after our shopping foray to struggle with the complexities of French wiring. He had bought some wire cutters to strip the wires to put in two double outlets for appliances in the kitchen. However, after carefully deciphering the instructions — this time in French, German and Portuguese — they still simply wouldn’t work. Gerard, when he dropped in, was equally baffled. They must be difficult to use, for, just like Stuart, Gerard is also an expert as he had just renovated their house in the village. So Stuart resorted to the old method that he knew would work. He used a lighter on the ends of the wires and then used pliers to splice them. He told me to remind him never to put in a double outlet in France again. Somehow, I didn’t think he would need reminding.
Meanwhile, the plombier still hadn’t come. The leak continued in the cellar, and the soil was becoming progressively damper. The high point of the day was when the furniture arrived. The armoire for our bedroom was more beautiful than I remembered, with teardrop-shaped handles for the long drawer at the top, and was delicately carved at the sides and along the bottom. At last, we could unpack our clothes and no longer live out of our suitcases. It was becoming more and more like a real home. The Chesterfield and two matching armchairs were magnificent and all that I dreamt of for our petite maison. However, it did indeed make the farmhouse seem even more petite, for they were enormous. They seemed absolutely huge once they were placed in our sitting room. We seemed to have bought so many things with La Forge in mind and the renovation of the far-distant future. Certainly it would look perfect one day in the grand proportions of the barn. The sofa was indeed very cracked. However, it was exceptionally comfortable and just the sort of thing to fling yourself upon after a hard day’s work in the fields, if one ever had the luxury of time to relax. The cracked leather added to yet another layer of French history and thoughts of the previous owners.
Gerard and Dominique dropped in to admire our new acquisitions. The first thing they did was walk over to the wall where Stuart had put up one of our most treasured finds, our carte de France. They immediately pointed out their home in Poitier on the map and their holiday home at the beach in Île d’Oléron. Straight away it was all that we had hoped for: a great talking point for all our friends who visited. We looked at each other and smiled.
We all had a noix digestif and used the huge old wooden bellows that we found last year as a coffee table for the very first time while we sat in our new — well, old — sofa and chairs. They invited us for dîner the next night but we had already been invited to a ‘grand dinner’ the next evening at Jean-Claude and Françoise’s, alo
ng with an English couple. For the moment, the house was furnished and we had guests. After another long, exhausting and exasperating day, their salute of ‘Bon courage’ was never more apt.
French Scouts on a Quest
My mind struggled to recall all the events of the day before. My back was aching so much I could barely lever myself up off the mattress. I was happy, though, when my eyes caught the armoire, perfectly placed in the corner of our room, right next to the beautiful old beam that was exposed last year when we stripped off the wallpaper and now ran through the centre of the wall. My hands and fingers were so sore from all my work in the orchard that my fingers couldn’t even unlatch the heavy metal catch on the kitchen window. My hands were swollen and my fingers were throbbing with splinters and thorns embedded from the nettles.
As we chatted last night for a few minutes before falling asleep in utter exhaustion we both admitted that this year had been far harder than last year. In a mere three weeks, Stuart had installed la cuisine — a record feat anywhere, let alone in a foreign country. Actually, it was probably less than three weeks, which was even more remarkable, but it was hard to work in an uninterrupted flow. People dropped in constantly; there were deliveries, frequent trips to the bricolage, trips to buy food and outings to look for furniture. As for the endless discussions and decisions, our days revolved around them.
After slowly eating my petit déjeuner, I once again ventured forth to the orchard and I reflected on the fact that ‘gardening’ was a euphemism, an utter understatement. It was not planting out petunias or languidly deadheading roses. No, it was yanking, pulling, heaving, bending, lugging and scrabbling in coarse, dry gravel with my mini mattock to literally attack tenacious and ferocious weeds. As I toiled and toiled in the jardin, I also reflected on the fact that I’d been invited to a German film in Souillac with Françoise and Dominique. My choice was to ‘garden’ rather than spend the afternoon relaxing with friends. Is this why I came to Cuzance?
I often reflected, too, on the luxury of our rented house in Puymule last year. My long, lazy days of perfect indulgence, lying next to the pool, reading all day long and gazing at the beautiful garden. My perfect day, my perfect holiday. And so I sometimes wondered if we had done the right thing in taking on so much in such a short, short time. I had these thoughts more and more often. Yet I also knew that, had we rented a house every year in France, we would never have the rich layers of the friendships that we had formed. In fact, what is even more extraordinary is that we had introduced Gerard and Dominique to Jean-Claude and Françoise. I also knew, from all that I had read about France, that these friendships are a privilege, a gift, for the French do not take new people lightly into their lives. Indeed, it is often the friends they had made during their schooldays who remain their friends for life.
This morning, as I opened the shutters — a recurring symbolic moment for me to start each day by flinging them open, despite enormous weariness — I smiled to myself at the sight of the baby bunny we first spotted last night; it was the cutest, smallest bunny that I had ever seen. It was racing round and round in crazy circles. What also made me smile was that it was chasing a bird that was also hopping round in circles. The blackbird hopped round on the dry brown grass, feasting on the bittersweet plums that had fallen. However, I felt sad for it, as it didn’t seem to have a mother. Stuart told me that it was highly likely it was someone’s tasty rabbit stew. I didn’t join in his laughter. The French baby rabbit had quite captivated me.
To ward off the incessant swarming flies, we had now resorted to strips of flypaper in several places. It was completely hideous, dangling down over the kitchen sink as well as in the fireplace, but it worked. As I laboured outside or hung the washing out on the line in the carport, I frequently glanced next door at the neighbours.
I constantly admired the old man, Monsieur Chanteur. Today he had his ancient wooden workbench out in the garden and was working under the shade of the enormous spreading walnut tree. I was always impressed by his incessant hard work and I grabbed my camera. Again, with very few shared words, I managed to convey my admiration and indicated that I’d love to take his photo. He continued working, and then his wife appeared from their maison. I gestured that I would like to take a photo of them together under the curved stone archway of their house; ‘1882’ is carved above the doorway of their grand home. In a language that was universal, they indicated that they were not properly dressed to be captured in a photo. They also told me that soon they were going to la plage in Normandy. I wished them ‘Bonne vacances’ and pictured them side by side, holding hands, in matching striped deckchairs on a pebbly beach.
And so, as I returned to continue toiling away in the jardin, Stuart embarked on his last electrical endeavour in la cuisine. He had carefully assessed it last thing before we went to bed the previous night to avoid waking in the middle of the night worrying about it. He always tells me that half the work in renovating is the thinking and reflecting time. The more planning that takes place, the more meticulous the appraisal; the more likely it is that the job will go smoothly. As I have worked by his side renovating for many years now, I know that this approach is usually effective. Today I was working on the succulent border (the cactus variety, that is, not tasty) in the stone wall outside our bedroom: the wall that was the boundary with the Chanteurs. It is the only part of the enormous garden that holds any remnants of its former self. There was a rose climbing on the wall — and, yes, it was a rose — and when I stood back at last to look at my progress I felt hugely pleased by the artistic display of succulents crowning the stone wall. I also slid my hand behind moss-covered stone when I glimpsed some shards of ancient pottery. I gathered enough dark brown pieces, including two broken handles, that when I laid them out on the ground I was sure it must have been a terrine for the thick, country style campagne — pâté — of the region. I also thought that, as the pieces were so deeply buried, they wouldn’t simply have been tossed there but used in a deliberate way within the wall. It seemed to be an old form of recycling, to find another use for a broken household item. As I carefully placed the pieces as a display on the front porch, I once again thought about who once lived here and what their life story was. I was glad to have a fragment of it, no matter how small.
I then moved on to the bottom of the jardin to finally move all my piles of dead branches. When I later stood back to look at my mountainous pile in the corner, I was utterly amazed that I had dragged, right across the land, half a dead tree. Seriously, I didn’t know I had that sort of strength. Yet what I did know is that a sort of feverish madness seemed to possess me when I set myself seemingly impossible goals. Every day, I was driven by the one thought: ‘I need to do more!’
I actually thought I was all alone in my remote rural wilderness when four heads appeared above my crumbling stone wall in the lane behind. They were schoolchildren with their young leader, and all the teams were on a quest to find and exchange objects. At first, when they held up a packet (it was lunchtime), I thought they wanted to come into the house for some boiled water for what I imagined was dried noodles. However, I finally understood and, fortunately, the directions to our house are left, left, left — ‘À gauche’ is all I ever seem to remember for directions and never the right word for ‘right’. I ran into the house to gather up what I could find, and all I could come up with for the band of half a dozen shy, young boys were a few empty cardboard boxes and paper bags, though I did also offer them fruit from the orchard. I later found out that Jean-Claude and Françoise were given a wine stopper in return for a pottery bowl. It seemed I didn’t quite grasp the concept of the quest. No wonder when the second leader and his group joined the first one in our garden, when I gathered them all together for a photo, he seemed to have rather a superior attitude towards me about my gifts. I simply didn’t understand. After all, I was given, at the outset, a petite box of chocolat-flavoured petit déjeuner cereal. Anyway, thank you, quest boys; it came in handy when Sylvie and Axel c
ame to stay, as I gave it to Axel for his breakfast.
The Grand Soirée
We were invited to a grand dinner at Jean-Claude and Françoise’s with an older and charming English couple, John and Angela Hone. We had come with a scarlet fuchsia to add our touch to the garden. We knew that in France, though we did take champagne on some occasions when we were invited to dinner with our friends, it is not the custom to take a bottle of wine (as we were so used to doing at home). We had, in fact, read that it is instead the custom to arrange to have flowers delivered the day before, so that, on arrival, if you come bearing flowers, the hostess will not be distracted by finding a vase and tending to them rather than her guests. We had also learnt that it is polite to have a box of significant chocolat or macarons to present to your hosts. Another astonishing fact that we were aware of is that if the occasion is particularly grand, apéritifs are not served until all the guests have arrived. We had heard of unwary newcomers into French circles who had been not been aware of this and people had been gathered waiting for an hour before a single apéritif was poured. Fortunately, it was all far more relaxed with our new friends. Just as well, as at least on one occasion when Jean-Claude and Françoise had been invited to our petite maison, time had somehow slipped away from me in the jardin and I was still in a very dishevelled state.
The last time we had dîner with them was an impromptu simple Sunday supper of salad, omelettes and homemade bread. I was dressed in my wet swimsuit and borrowed cardigan. This time we were dressed suitably for the occasion and, when we arrived, the table was indeed set for a grand soirée. It was beautifully decorated with antique silverware, sparkling crystal glasses and adorned with a centrepiece that was a brightly coloured eighteenth-century soup tureen. These touches always made me feel full of amazement that such a significant piece of history was gracing the table. My perpetual sense of wonder about being in a country that is brimming with history and treasure was deepened when I found out that the tablecloth was made by Françoise’s grandmother. It was a cool, crisp summer evening yet still perfect for sitting outside on their terrace with our apéritifs, overlooking their glorious jardin. A sublime meal followed, as Françoise is passionate about cooking and loves entertaining. How she managed to conjure up such marvellous dishes in her petite cuisine is quite a feat. One night, I sat on the chair tucked in the corner of her kitchen to chat to her as she prepared a meal. It was placed there exactly for that purpose. While their home is grand, spanning over seven floors, the kitchen is the opposite and everything has its precise place. Françoise reached and stretched and placed and performed conjuring tricks in her tiny space. She asked me to set the table once and I was told the pewter goblets were on a rack above the kitchen door. In such a small space there is always a lot to gaze at — the wooden shelf up high with jewel-coloured homemade jams, the family silver cleverly displayed on a piece of old ironing board found when they were renovating their home many years ago, and, if you’re lucky, your eyes will fall upon a tarte aux pommes, freshly baked and placed on the petite counter. The fragrance of the apples in their crisp buttery pastry is another fragment that makes being in their home a privilege and a treat.
Our House is Not in Paris Page 16