The following morning, I woke late, but it was to the sound of heavy clunking machinery. As I struggled from sleep, still slowly recovering from an arduous month of strenuous physical work, though I’d not noticed it before, I assumed that the loud noise was the nearby communal bins being emptied. However, I heard Stuart tell Mum that Christian, the gardener, had arrived. Not only was there a truck and huge trailer parked outside our bedroom window, but there was also a white van in the front garden. Christian, armed with a heavy-duty whipper snipper, and Pierre, on his ride-on mower, set to work clearing all the brambles and nettles, mowing and sawing off more dead limbs from the orchard trees. Their young apprentice, Dominic, started hauling my enormous pile of dead trees and other garden debris to start a gigantic fire. We’d been tempted to do the same — in fact, we had seen our neighbours have a huge fire in their garden — but we knew from our experiences in Australia, when we were clearing the land of invasive bamboo, that no doubt a neighbour in France would similarly call the pompier. It had been bad enough when the fire brigade came racing up our fifty-nine steps at Austinmer, let alone imagining the consequences if we attempted to do the same in a tiny French village. Mind you, the exorbitant fee we paid for a few hours’ work was probably far more than any fine for an illegal fire in France.
Soon, my month of relentless toil was a roaring blaze and then, in no time at all, the only remnant of four weeks of my life was a smouldering pile of grey ashes. What three men achieved in three hours — at an exorbitant cost, I might add — was phenomenal. It was one of the few times we didn’t actually check the cost before a job and it was at our expense (literally). To some extent, my spirits matched the fading grey embers. Four weeks of work quite literally up in smoke. I reflected ruefully on what other renovating work I might have been able to achieve in the petite maison instead. Mind you, the staggering cost was only revealed at the end of the work, and it’s quite possible that if we’d known what it would have been at the outset, we — or rather, Stuart — would have decided it was far too expensive anyway and my singlehanded struggles would have continued. And, after all, I was no match for three vigorous men, especially with all the right equipment. No wonder Poppy, the old roofer, used to shake his head in disbelief when he saw me dashing round with my feeble pruning saw, acting like a human bulldozer.
The time had come too to make the final decisions about our planting choices and jardin design to be done for our return next year. Just as I was about to run down the road to get Jean-Claude to act as our interpreter yet again, he magically appeared, complete with an ancient scythe in hand. His intention this time was to retrieve treasure that was possibly lurking in the brambles that had now been cleared. He told us that similar tools had been used in the French Revolution, the purpose of which I could only begin to imagine. So another three-way discussion took place regarding our simple landscaping plans. It would be simply wonderful to return to see a hedge planted for privacy for the piscine and a sweeping bed of lavender. Hopefully, too, one day there would be a magnificent tree at the end of the barn to provide shade and privacy. Ironically, the severe slashing of brambles on the stone boundary walls had reduced our privacy significantly — something we particularly cherish. The perils of my constant miming: my attempts to convey what I wanted had been somewhat misinterpreted. C’est la vie. Indeed, such is life.
Albert the Gardener
There was some degree of confusion when we decided to get a new gardener. We decided that Christian was très cher. His business seemed to be more suitable for a grande jardin rather than our very rustique affair.
On our return home, I received an email that caused me some degree of dismay. I assumed it was from the Mairie requesting payment for our land, a payment that I found puzzling. As we received all our other rates notices by post, I was both confused and alarmed. So, as always, I shot the email off to Jean-Claude for an explanation.
In reply he told me that he had received a phone call from Mr Sainte Marie who said that his first ‘quote’ wasn’t really one at all. Jean-Claude then received the ‘real quote’. I had no idea what was going on.
As always, yet again, Jean-Claude insisted that I shouldn’t hesitate to contact him if there was
… anything you don’t understand, just ask me … even though I know your mind is made up in favour of Albert! Yours faithfully, always at your service!
JCC
So it transpired that Christian’s full name was Mr Sainte Marie. Hence my confusion about the Maire and who the email was actually from, as well as my alarm at what was actually in fact a truly très cher quote. No, it was not from the mayor of our village after all.
Finally, to my enormous relief, work was about to begin when I heard from Albert at the end of September. At the end of our holiday, with only a few days remaining, I returned home from lunch in Martel with Liz to find Albert’s card tucked in the door. It had been placed there courtesy of Jean-Claude. He was Angela and John’s gardener and had been working next door to Jean-Claude that day. In his inimitable style, Jean-Claude hastened round that afternoon and urged me to call Albert immediately to arrange for him to come and give me a quote. With the days ebbing, Jean-Claude knew I had to get onto it right away. And so Albert arrived on our second-last day in Cuzance.
We walked around our rustique jardin and I pointed out all that I had done. I recall very clearly that Albert politely pointed out that it was not a job for a woman to take on singlehanded. I had prepared my list of all that I wanted Albert to do in the future and the planting I wanted him to give me a quote for. My very last point was that I wanted the grass to eventually look like a meadow — just like next door. In another strange piece of serendipity, not only did he understand perfectly what I wanted, but it transpired that he had also in fact been Anne Barnes’ gardener. And so we paused for a moment to reflect on her and the impact she had on those who had known and loved her.
Then, across the miles and oceans, I launched into yet another series of emails. Truly, I found it fascinating to even consider that I now had a gardener in France.
I visited your garden in Cuzance yesterday to have a look at the situation. Until now it was much too hot to spray weed killer, but the temperature is coming down now.
As you can see from the photos, mowing is very much needed at first. I expect to spend about 5 hours on that.
Further I think I need to spend one hour spraying weed killer. Can I go ahead next week?
Albert
I immediately emailed Albert to let him know that, absolutely, he should go ahead. I was determined to avoid my long hard labour of my previous summer at any cost. Well, perhaps not quite at any cost; but certainly a reasonable one. Finding a gardener — especially one I could email in English — was essential for my sanity.
Then events picked up speed and there were more developments.
Further, I expect to mow — depending on weather conditions — approximately five times per year. Spraying weeds will be twice a year (in spring and autumn).
Planting/sowing weeds will be end of October/ beginning of November. Will let you know prices etc. in the next weeks.
Albert
There was no end to my relief that I would no longer have to battle alone against the insurmountable odds. Once again too, just like with the car and the pool, there was a flurry of emails between myself and Jean-Claude as well as Albert.
When we went to the Martel market we noticed a car parked in front of your opened gate. We thought it was probably Albert and, indeed, when I visited your petite maison this morning, I saw the grass and weeds had been mown. There are also four metal rods, probably indicating the future hedge on the west side of the pool. Your oaks are doing well.
Here it is still a very hot summer and for weeks we haven’t had any rain, so my walnuts are miserably puny! We send you our love.
JCC and Françoise
Then there was real progress when Albert got in touch about the plants we had chosen.
W
e think that a Catalpa BignonioIdes (I use Latin names which are the same all over the world) will be a good choice, but look for yourself on the Internet. I found an offer in France for a tree at a height of 175-200 centimetres and I will check with Jarrige at Quatre Routes if you agree. (By the way, a Murier Platane sterile would be twice the price and is not fast growing!)
For lavender I would advise the common Lavendula Augustiflora.
For the boundary, I have seen Photinia Fraseri ‘Red Robin’. In the end they will grow to a height of 200-300 centimetres and a width of 159-200 centimetres.
Further, we have a very important question: Is there a tap outside the house somewhere or where can we get water for trees, plants and grass?
Hope to hear from you soonest.
Kind regards,
Albert & Christa
That was a critical point we had overlooked — how to water the plants. There was some consternation too on the behalf of our neighbours about what was going on.
Dear friends,
I was visiting the Chanteurs this morning and Roland attracted my attention to the shed behind your petite maison. Apparently, this afternoon, some people set up a hideous-looking tank (but probably useful) in place of the old blue container you had there. They also carefully set up again the sort of gate you have at the entrance, for which I am thankful to them. They have dug a long trench all along the lane at the back of your estate and the machine dug through deep rock; your house certainly rests on solid ground!
Love to you both
JCC
Once again, a detailed description from Jean-Claude filled some essential gaps about what was happening in Cuzance. He later told me that the Chanteurs were quite disturbed by the rustique appearance of Pied de la Croix, including our abundance of outbuildings along our shared stone wall. Then Albert emailed again to explain what was happening.
Hi Suzan,
We received your cheque OK. The water tank is installed and we prepared half of the ground around the pool for sowing grass and dug the holes for the plants and tree. It is very heavy work as there are even more rocks in the bottom than we expected.
We ordered the plants, but due to a lot of bank holidays and ‘bridge’ days as they call them here in the first half of November, they will be available only next Wednesday. Weather is still fine here and no frost expected yet luckily.
Will keep you informed of progress soon and hope to send photos then.
Kind regards,
Albert & Christa
The rocks. How well I remembered moving piles and piles of them after the pool was put in. I was fervently relieved that this time it was not me digging the rocks up and moving them.
By the end of November there was sensational news from Albert.
Bonjour Susan,
We have finished planting and sowing grass (see attached photos) and will keep a close eye on it in the next weeks.
Hope all is to your liking. (Jarrige made a mistake and sold us the Photinias at 60/80 cm for the price of 40/60 cm!) We keep the electric pump and couplings at our place, as we have no possibility to put these behind lock in Cuzance.
Sorry the photo of the hazelnuts is not very clear, but we placed them in the gaps along the tennis court at your neighbours’ as indicated on your written notice of August.
So we would appreciate it, if you could send us a cheque for the balance. Thank you in advance and kind regards,
Albert & Christa
I replied: ‘The cheque is on its way! Let’s hope they all settle in and flourish. It will be tremendous to see everything on our return, including new grass. Again, thank you.’
I then heard from Albert at the end of the year to assure me that all was flourishing in our own little French part of the world.
Received your cheque OK. Thank you. Have been watering a few times and afterwards it has been raining a lot lately and still no frost, so far settling in and all going well! Have a very nice Christmas and all the best for 2012!
Kind regards,
Albert & Christa
So our petite maison settled under a blanket of snow and our plants were shrouded in snowflakes for the winter. Next summer would be a vastly different experience for me. There was no end to my relief. Instead of ‘gardening’, I would be able to paint instead. Now, that was something to look forward to.
Bonne Famille Restaurant
On Wednesday after our twice-weekly foray to the fresh produce markets in Martel, we set off with Mum to the nearby village of Sarazzac to book for lunch one day. We had been recommended the Bonne Famille Restaurant a total of three times, including by our bank manager, Anne-Marie, and by two friends. Mum loved the markets and declared that it was exactly like the markets that she had seen at home while watching programs about France. I hadn’t thought of it quite that way before, but I suddenly realised that it was absolutely true. Here I was with my ‘own’ weekly market, as so many others only see it on television and dream of. By now we had our firmly established favourite stalls that we bought our glistening, ruby-red strawberries from, the one we bought our melt-in-the-mouth, golden melons from, and the middle-aged, cheerful woman whom we buy everything else from. By now she recognised us and it was my hope that she would remember us when we returned year after year.
One of the things I most loved was when I’m stopped in the street and asked for directions in French. One of my best memories was a sunny afternoon in Martel, sauntering along a side street, market basket on my arm, floral summer frock and, to complete the French ensemble I had created for myself, my black espadrilles laced around my ankles. Despite my appalling lack of French, I nevertheless consciously contrived at all times to fit in as fully as possible and never, ever look like a tourist … Once again, as with the children who came into our garden on their quest, fortunately the directions I was asked for to the boulangerie were, ‘À gauche, à gauche.’ I could still never seem to remember the right word for ‘right’.
So, the lunch. The quintessential French village of immaculate stone houses and picture-perfect gardens. Stone walls with clambering roses and hollyhocks strewn randomly. It was exactly twelve o’clock and we suddenly thought, ‘Why don’t we just have lunch here now instead of booking and waiting for another day?’ It was all so perfectly enticing: the limestone the area is renowned for, which its maisons are built of, softly glowing in the gloomy light of the rain-filled day; the lace curtains sweetly framing the dark wooden window frames; the cosmos dancing in their vivid crimson and bright pink hues. And the restaurant, it was the restaurant you dream of when you think of France. Not only did it live up to its repute; it far, far exceeded anything that we had possibly expected or hoped for. From the ancient, towering red rose that framed the doorway to the instant we stepped inside, it was apparent that this was indeed the epitome and essence of a French family restaurant. The red and white check tablecloths, the posies of flowers on each table, the magnificent grandfather clock — there was altogether the comforting air of a family home. And from the very first mouthful of the sublime chicken tarte, I knew we would be back time and time again. The pastry was the most delicate, melt-in-the-mouth pastry I had ever tasted. Yet this was merely the first course of the menu du jour. We were all eager to know what other delights awaited us. The main meal of succulent farm-fresh pork and crisp garden beans was another memorable experience, followed by family-style homemade clafoutis. This was not usually our dessert of choice by any means, but on this day, well, like everything else, it was perfect. A small carafe of our lunchtime wine of choice, rosé, and a café each. The l’addition was staggering in its reasonableness. Indeed, the equivalent of one main meal at our local restaurant at home. We immediately booked for Sunday lunch and we were told it was the very last booking — five days ahead in a restaurant in a remote village on the road to nowhere: a restaurant that holds about eighty people. We were joyous.
As on so many other occasions, there were French families either side of us. On one table there was a family
with three children under three, including a baby. On the other, a family of five children, also with a baby, all celebrating their Papa’s birthday. And who would know there were children present? As we had noticed virtually everywhere when we had a meal out, the children all seemed to be impeccably behaved and a voice was never raised to admonish them, for it didn’t need to be. The only evidence of their presence was that the two pretty teenage girls on our right directed a few sweet smiles at me. What was even more startling to us was how sophisticated their tastes seemed to be as we watched the young children tuck into things such as tangy goat’s fromage — quite an acquired taste.
With the day of our departure rushing towards us, thoughts of home started to crowd in: family, friends, my students and colleagues, and our beloved little Jack Russell, Henri. The cool, bleak and dreary days continued. Our friend Dave (the loving custodian of Henri, along with his boys, Thomas and James) sent us a text telling us that Sydney had had four days of non-stop rain; there were floods and five-metre waves lashing the coast. It seemed as if the rain had wrapped its arms around the whole world.
I, at last, had a chance to curl up with a book on our battered Chesterfield sofa. As with all the other second-hand finds we had furnished our petite maison with, I wondered yet again about the stories it could share. We’d had it for several weeks now but it was my first time to really have a chance to relax. Next to me was the German De Dietrich wood-burning stove — the original ‘kitchen’ for our little old house. It too would be able to tell me many stories of the many meals cooked there and the past life of Pied de la Croix. I wondered what the old farming couple would make of us and all the changes to their beloved maison. It is always puzzling how the smell of their long-ago smoke still faintly lingered.
Our House is Not in Paris Page 19