Our House is Certainly Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  There are also few places that I have ever visited, that on arrival, I have paused to simply breathe in the complete charm and beauty. And so, an exquisite few hours unfold, in the company of Jean-Claude and Françoise, on this, our last Friday in France.

  It had been Françoise’s suggestion to have déjeuner here, for although they have been a stone’s throw away for twenty years, they had yet to visit it. It is our surprise to them that l’addition will be our way of saying très merci beaucoup for all they do for us.

  The jardin is perfectly manicured and while Le Relais Sainte Anne is in the centre of Martel, a very popular tourist destination, now at its peak in August, there is a tranquil hush within the grounds. The lavish menu du jour is served on the spacious, flagstone terrace overlooking the chapel, which is flanked by a bed of bright yellow fleurs. The meal and company will be long-lodged in the memory bank of: ‘Do you remember?’

  Indeed, it was by far our best meal in France, in the most delightful company in the most ideal of settings. And while the cuisine was sublime, l’addition was by no means extortionate, especially when foie gras was served in both the entree and main course.

  We are fully aware of some people’s ethical objections to the production of foie gras.

  What can I say? We are not in that camp .

  The entree is finely minced canard; the duck is encased in a golden brown pastry parcel; the main dish, canard again, a regional speciality, is served with a delicate foie gras sauce while the dessert is a magnifique concoction of strawberries, crème glacée and paper-thin fraise wafers embedded on a layer of fine shortcrust pastry. Jean-Claude and Stuart have chosen an exotic creation of meringue and chocolat, served with hot chocolat sauce . We all sigh with utter pleasure .

  A wander round the soothing jardin completes our outing. We all concur that a visit to Le Relais Sainte Anne will be an annual pilgrimage; a homage to all that is the well-deserved repute of fine French cuisine. Yes we may be far from Paris and the Michelin restaurants but we have found our piece of Paris buried in the country – and unlike the grand Parisian boulevards, it is not at all très cher.

  On the short drive back to Cuzance, Jean-Claude takes us on a country lane not travelled by us before and through the petite hamlet of Remedy, a sign that has often caught my eye for all that its name conjures up. We are not five minutes from Martel, yet we are in the depths of the country, where copses of trees are now in full autumn flight, cloaked in a medley of rich colour. We drive past a half-finished la grange. Jean-Claude as always our own personal tour guide , a font of local knowledge, tells us that it was not completed at the end of World War 1 as the money went out of the truffle business, for which le Lot is renowned. It seems incomprehensible to me that no one has finished building the barn in all the intervening years.

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  My Idea of ‘Fun’

  On our very last Saturday in Cuzance, the autumn rain sets in steadily. Similarly, the leaves now fall in golden torrents, the onset of all the trees surrounding us, being stripped completely bare. La piscine and all final relaxation is abandoned. Our plans for a farewell onslaught on les herbes are thwarted by the downpours. Instead, we turn our attention to another outbuilding. It is attached to the derrière of la grange and our long-term dream envisages it as a salle de bain and laundry.

  From the layout of the old wooden stalls and the remnants of hay piled up, we imagine it was a cow byre. Once again, we look around and try to utilise what is on hand. Stuart sets to work with the crowbar, pulling down the thick ancient wooden planks. He needs the wood to repair the rickety broken doors of la grange before we leave. I rake the hay into mounds and trundle wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow out to le jardin. I am ever mindful of what may be lurking in the long-abandoned hay. At least it is lighter than my previous countless loads of castine.

  Next, I use one of the many old abandoned straw brooms that once saw another life.

  I stretch and reach to drag down the skeins of thick dark cobwebs. Now we are able to look through the petite apertures that have been left in the huge stone slabs that form the wall. We pause and gaze around at the magnificent space, overlooking the back garden.

  We pace the space; a bathroom with an orchard view. What could be better?

  As I work away, I muse once again about my concept of fun, for fun indeed it is to clear out this long-neglected building and peel it back to its bones. I am filthy beyond description, dust flies in my face and I am ever conscious of hidden mice, rats and even snakes. And yet, it remains strangely satisfying, despite the fact that the weather continues to thwart our petite vacances plans. We could certainly sightsee for there is plenty in our département to still explore but the connection with the past and the imprint we are creating, exerts a strong tug.

  The vacances has been totally abandoned by now. There are even shades of prison camp moments, as Stuart informs me one cool damp afternoon when he has spent hours moving enormous rocks and attempting to dig holes for more trees to be planted. The ground is so stony, that he is forced to give up, defeated by the limestone rocks that lie in wait just below the surface. They prove impossible to move. Another plan thwarted...

  We learn that the cool damp days in Cuzance are echoed at home. It would seem the weather gods are laughing right around the world. Ferocious claps of thunder reverberate in the weather gods’ loud merriment.

  Nature has truly reclaimed the land and exerted a strong hold on our rustique jardin. I continue my efforts trying to free trees on the boundary that are being choked by blackberries. They fling themselves rapaciously in my face and despite my thick gloves, the thorns are so sharp they pierce my hands with a rapier-like onslaught. I feel like a human pincushion.

  By the time we stagger inside our petite maison, defeated by darkness, we both slump in utter weariness over our bowls of pasta, barely able to lift our forks to our mouths. The direction of the wind brings the sound of traffic speeding to Paris on the autoroute. Despite my consuming exhaustion, and despite my true love for it when I do visit Paris, I remain perpetually happy that our house is not in Paris. The quiet of a Cuzance evening is a balm.

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  Le Coiffure

  Pure crisp light illuminates le jardin and there is now a distinctive chill in the early morning hours as the season perceptibly changes. It is time to face the reality of leaving and our return to the ‘real’ world. Appointments are duly made to be ready to return to work. As the weeks have passed, so too has my confidence grown. I set off to le coiffure in Martel, key words all carefully checked and written down prior, for fringe, colour and cut: frange, couleur and couper.

  What I do lack is the French to explain, désolé, sorry I am late as I was held up behind a slow, trundling tractor on the narrow, winding road. French drivers are the most reckless that I have ever encountered. Double lines, blind corners – no problem.

  The foot goes down and off they race, frequently with no way at all of telling if there is an oncoming voiture beyond the narrow curve of the road. I wouldn’t say that I am averse to putting my foot down at times but not on these roads and not when I am still schooling myself in the right way of driving on the wrong side... Eventually however, even the farmer turns his head round to check why I haven’t bothered to overtake him.

  When I arrive at le coiffure, it is a situation that I do not attempt to mime. Perhaps I will end up with a basin-cut if I do... Things are already looking a bit tricky, as the only word that I could find in the dictionary for ‘fringe’ is ‘on the fringe of the forest’. Very fortunately for me, frange does turn out to be the right word.

  There is only one other client in la coiffure. The hairdresser, Emilie, is young and attractive, and engages in a non-stop, impassioned conversation with the older woman.

  I am at a complete loss to follow, though I deduce that very possibly Emilie has had her heart broken, possibly betrayed by an amie, possibly both her ex-boyfriend and now ex-friend have left for Paris, where possibly he has joined the g
endarme. Then again, I may well have possibly got all this quite wrong.

  After her other client leaves, I notice she writes a cheque to pay. I always find it interesting that cheques are still used so frequently in France. You see people writing them everywhere; in the supermarché, in restaurants and le bricolage.

  I return home and my last Monday ends with cutting back our lavender plants. It is surreal that in just a week I will have had my first day back at school. It is immensely satisfying meanwhile to do something so pleasurable in the garden; not something I ever imagined doing in my life; cutting my own lavender in my own French jardin.

  As my fingers brush against the stalks, the aroma wafts around me in a fragrant cloud.

  By the time I finish, my round, woven French market basket is full. I take it inside and the pungent freshness of summer fills our petite maison. I wonder if there will be any lingering remnants of it when we return in a year.

  The rain-soaked windows echo our own emotions about leaving; hearts heavy at the thought of not seeing our petite maison for another year. Yet the sadness is balanced by the prospect of reunions – our beloved Henri, family, friends and my students, who always stay in a corner of my heart. I think of many of them while working in le jardin.

  I wonder if any of them will ever follow in my footsteps and one day find themselves in a petite village in rural France. Who knows? The seeds have been sown.

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  New Amis

  On the eve of departure, we make new amis in our village. Jan and her little boy, Arthur stop on their daily promenade for a chat and she invites us for an apéritif the following evening. She tells us that when she was young, she was friends with Jean Pierre who lived in our house. I then find out that Pied de la Croix did not get a bathroom until the seventies.

  Jan’s maison is in the quiet lane behind our house. It is one we have admired. On one of our evening promenades we had seen the extended family, gathered round tables in le jardin for a summer reunion and dîner. At the time, I had thought once again, like many other vignettes, how much it too was just like a scene in a French film – and now, we too have been invited. I ask Jan to let her mother know that we had glimpsed the whole family gathered in le jardin one evening, when I peeped over the hedge and that I had already felt entranced by the generations, ensconced deep in the French countryside.

  Jan assures me that we will be part of those gatherings in future years. I feel profoundly touched.

  Jan tells us she has been having summer holidays in Cuzance since she was a child in the seventies, when her mother first bought the house. While we are still deep in rural France, the last fifty years have seen significant changes. When she was a child, there was no water in the village. Everyone had to drive to Martel to collect their water. However, in those days, there were two shops in Cuzance. One, now Brigitte Dal’s house, where the old scales for weighing are still in place, and the other, the room overlooking our village road, that Françoise now uses to iron. I learn from Jan that Françoise and Jean-Claude’s magnifique maison is referred to by the locals as ‘the castle’. I can well understand that, for I remember being awestruck when we first visited their fairytale home.

  Apéritifs with Jan and her mère, Margot are served in their utterly secluded jardin that is surrounded by lauriers and susurrus pines. Unlike our house and barn, their grange was built first, followed by the maison in later years. Arthur swoops upon Stuart and parades his collection of toys for him to admire. The talk flows over foie gras and sweet white wine, served in delicate wine glasses that were Jan’s great grandmother’s.

  Whenever we have apéritifs or dîner with friends, it is the same. The treasured family heirlooms are a part of everyday life, not objets to be locked away. Even petite Arthur has his orange juice in an exquisite old glass.

  Jan tells us that we are ‘famous’ in the village. It is very flattering but quite a surprise to us. We did know however, that the inhabitants of Cuzance have long been intrigued about why we come from so far each year, to this little corner of France and then spend our days working endlessly. Nevertheless, it is pleasing to be told that everyone appreciates and admires our efforts.

  What thrills me the most as we chat about life in the village, is to be told that in fact, our petite maison hid Résistance fighters. This has long been my dream that this was the case. To have it confirmed by Margot, who has been living between Paris and Cuzance for fifty years, creates a feeling that I can hardly describe. Perhaps in part it explains the warmth our little house exudes; that it played a small part in preserving freedom. I think about the long-abandoned cross hanging on a chain in the attic – a relic that I will never remove. I now wonder even more about it and to whom it belonged.

  So the la grange of our new amis and our petite maison are linked, just as we are forging a new friendship, for we are also told that their barn was a repository for British bombs. I try hard to peer into the past to catch a glimpse of the valour of the brave men and women who fought stealthily to save Cuzance – and France.

  The layers of history and intriguing insights shared over our apéritifs, extend far beyond Cuzance . I am particularly fascinated by Margot’s stories, hinted at, but not fully revealed. I am assured that the gaps in between will be filled in for me when we all gather again in the summers to come. Most mysteriously there are allusions to an exotic childhood in Morocco and Algeria. All Margot will let slip is that her father was an American in the army. She and Jan exchange glances. My curiosity has now been fully fuelled.

  The other piece of this French family puzzle that I am captivated by is when Margot tells us that long ago, she lived in London, where she worked as a French teacher and was friends with one of the last suffragettes, Josephine Butler. I asked her if she had met Emmiline Pankhurst and although she had not, Josephine was a close friend of hers.

  Who would have thought that I would ever learn such things in Cuzance? We may be far from Paris yet it makes me wonder even more about the older villagers who would also have more than their fair share of stories about the war, the Résistance and all the turbulent changes as a new century dawned. It saddens me that quite soon, all their stories will be lost forever.

  For months after we return home, I think about whether our la grange or our petite maison housed British airmen or members of the maquis, French Résistance fighters.

  The seams of stories held in the stones are locked in the past. What I do know, is that there are many barns and farmhouses like ours that bear witness to remarkable feats of bravery and courage. French farmers, and countless others like them, risked their lives and for the most part, their acts of selfless heroism are lost forever.

  Spending time at Pied de la Croix for weeks on end, we create our own little world within the small world of the village. We work according to the weather – the heat, the rain, the damp days. We work according to what the land tells us to do. Clear brambles, move rocks and pick fruit when it is ripe. It is a life like no other I have known. It provides me with a glimpse into the past; some small insight into the life of farmers, in the past and now; and how all in a rural landscape adjust their daily pattern and rhythm according to the weather and the season. The days start to circle us like covered Indian wagons from long ago.

  As we make our way home slowly through the village, after our final promenade for the summer, in the fading light after another endless hot summer’s day, the few villagers not yet tucked up in bed, gently call out, ‘Bonne nuit’ and ‘Bonne soiree. ’ The bell tolls at ten, the last peal drawn out to ensure that all know the day has ended; for us, it is the last evening chime of the church bell we will hear until next year. The silver sliver of a new quarter-moon hangs suspended from an invisible thread in the clear country Cuzance sky. It has been a three full-moon summer for us, a true marking of the measure of time immersed in our other life. The curtain closes on another chapter; another comforting day in the peace and quiet of our petite rural village – Cuzance.

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  Au Revoir Cuzance

  Although there are discernible glimpses of autumn, August also sees the full surge of summer in Cuzance. The grass, crisp and brittle, crackles underfoot. Long loving letters arrive from home and my worlds again collide and merge. As I glide through the long summer grass in the cool early morning, I watch with delight the lapin bound through the orchard. I tell myself to hold on to these moments in the days of work and winter at home. If I had to recall the one strongest visual image to imprint on my memory, it would be the golden quality of the late evening light when our little world is suffused in a pale pink glow. And if there was only one sensory image to capture the essence of Cuzance, it would be the utter stillness of the country, overlaid by a soft chorus of birdsong.

  By our third summer in Cuzance, our sense of belonging coalesces. Our rhythm and sense of familiarity with our French world brings endless joy. We are now well known in the string of shops we frequent in Martel – la boulangerie, la pharmacie, Le Bureau de Poste and our favourite café, Mespoulet, the one that the locals frequent. We now favour only two stallholders on our twice-weekly market visits – our jolly family of three and the man who only sells berries: raspberries, strawberries, and red currants, and just before we leave, blueberries come into season. The pungent aroma fills the centuries-old covered market place. When I ask for my favourite weekly punnet of fraise, the stallholder takes the time to suggest I also try the vivid blue-purple blueberries. I am not disappointed by the recommendation. I have high hopes of being greeted by all, as customers of long-standing, when we return for our fourth summer.