Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (23 page)

For once, this story is not sad (well in fact it is, if you consider how lowly human nature can be), unlike other stories I share with you.

Combined with the pig farm next door to them and the ever-present pungent aroma, despite their lovely sweeping views, we know which end of the village we prefer to live. No wonder Gérard and Dominique have told us that as they drive round the countryside, they are looking for a farmer with a barn who they can approach and offer to buy it, so they can move and escape their mad neighbour. So, at least one obligatory eccentric old woman in Cuzance. Who knows what other secrets the village holds? well, there are other tales Jean-Claude has shared but he has made us promise not to tell them. I make it my secret mission to try to discover more.

After a few weeks, we finally find time to wind our way across country, along the narrowest of roads and the sharpest of hairpins, to have lunch at our favourite restaurant from the previous year, Bonne Famille. There is a large group of workmen seated round a long table inside, their plates piled high. The tantalising aroma follows us as we sink into our seats on the terrace with pleasure and anticipation. The
menu du jour
does not disappoint – stuffed
tomates
followed by fragrant rice and
poulet
, chicken that simply melts as the first succulent mouthful is savoured. It is followed by my second favourite dessert in the whole world,
crème caramel
. We raise our glasses of
rosé
in a toast to summer days in France. On the way home, we drop in to a nursery to buy packets of meadow
fleurs
that Jean-Claude will scatter for us in spring.

Then the day of the compacter at long last arrives, a far cry from our vision of a meadow of spring flowers. In direct proportion to the building of the heat, so too do our stress levels escalate. well, mine at least. Stuart, as always, simply takes it all in his stride. After a huge delay in the arrival of the compacter, when Stuart is finally able to collect it, it doesn't work. The hire equipment business has not called us on our
portable
as promised. We have lost precious days in our ebbing schedule and have been simply marking time. The mountain of
castine
is by now mocking us in its looming presence.

Rather than waiting in vain for the promised call to collect the compacter, Stuart has finally given up and gone back to simply see if one is now available. It is and we are more than ready for the next critical stage.

As with most significant moments, Jean-Claude is on hand for the noteworthy – and much delayed moment – of starting the compacter. It doesn't start. While it has been demonstrated to Stuart when he collected it, now it simply refuses to fire up. Needless, to say, tempers are fired up instead. It is by now late afternoon, the sun is at its searing peak, the engine shudders, stalls, starts, shudders, stalls. It takes a whole two hours to start it properly. finally, Stuart has it running and sets off with the shuddering machine across the
castine
. Progress is not smooth, not smooth at all. The
castine
is not evenly flattened. No, the tiny gravel stones spray everywhere and leave gaping channels behind.

Clearly, there is something seriously wrong with the compacter. It judders to a halt. This time it completely refuses to start. By now Jean-Claude has discreetly exited stage centre left; that is, slipped quietly away around the side of
la grange
. We are left alone to grapple with the baffling complexities of compacters.

The compacter proves to not in fact be a fully functioning one. It now completely refuses to fire into life. I amaze myself by suggesting that maybe the spark plugs need cleaning. It is inexplicable, for it started the very first time when Stuart collected it. I am despatched to ask for Monsieur Chanteur's help. I know that his workshop will run to a simple spanner. Armed with my dictionary, I am intent on making my mission clear. I have already written out my three essential words:
bougie
– spark plugs,
prise
– socket,
outil
– tool. Once again, these are certainly not words you will encounter in any holiday language guide that I know. Monsieur Chanteur indicates that they will finish their
café
in their customary shady place under the walnut tree and then find what I need.

Monsieur Chanteur inspects the recalcitrant compacter. He gestures that Stuart should accompany him to his workshop to find the right tool. To say we are astonished is an understatement, for rather than walking the short distance back along the road, as nimbly as a goat, Monsieur Chanteur jumps over our adjoining stone wall. For a man of eighty-eight, it is a truly remarkable feat.

Spark plugs cleaned, it seems that at long last we can make up for lost time. It is not to be. More problems beset us. The starter cord breaks. A hasty repair takes place.

It is now early evening – and still the compacter won't spring into life. By now, there are more than a few
merdes
flying through the air.

There is no choice but to return it to Brive – an hour-round trip. Success at seven.

And so it means, that just like last year, we work late in to the night. I move wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of
castine
and rake and rake before Stuart is able to then compact it all. We labour long and hard until the fading light forces us to stop. finally we throw ourselves in quick succession under the shower and head off to Martel for an exceptionally late
dîner
.

We need a hearty meal to set ourselves up for a full day of compacting. We are looking forward to another significant day in the history of Pied de la Croix that we are in the process of creating – the day we will start to lay the paving. At last, there would be progress in the surrounds of
la piscine
. After our late return from
dîner
, the huge ugly toad that lives in the cellar, crosses my path in the gloomy light as I stumble inside with exhaustion. It seems to be a fitting end to a day of utter frustration.

The summer idyll is truly over. We at last have a fully functioning compacter. We spray water to prepare the surface to compact correctly; it evaporates immediately in the heat.

Stuart compacts, I spray. I trundle another wheelbarrow of
castine
and add another layer.

The
castine
mountain does not however, seem to ever diminish. It seems to have become a permanent fixture in the rugged landscape of our
jardin
. The compacting continues for several days. Round and round
la piscine
, up and down the sides, round and round. It is a never-ending blur of slow motion. I heave and haul interminable wheelbarrow loads of
castine
; the tiny pieces have by now taken over my life.

As I drift off to sleep each evening, I surprise myself with both my thoughts and attention to detail. I think about such things as the construction of the concrete stairs in the barn and the critical consideration of their precise placement. I move rooms around in my mind. Where exactly will the
salle de bain
go upstairs? I know from past renovating that it's essential to run the plumbing for the bathroom in line with the existing plumbing to reduce costs. While I have other more pressing matters to consider, like the very real renovation in hand, rather than an imagined one of the future, these thoughts are nevertheless a world away from the daily routine of life and work at home.

In the early morning light breaking at the bottom of the orchard, huge bunnies bound, seeking new pastures where no one will disturb them. Last year, I was a naive fool in my single-handed onslaught. I used the only thing to hand in the spraying of the voracious brambles – a domestic-sized spray bottle. Now I am far better equipped with my industrial spray container with a sturdy strap that I sling over my shoulder. This time, I tell myself, I have a far better chance of success in the battle of
les herbes.
The sibilant sound of the wind stirring the towering pine trees in the neighbouring
jardin
, spreads a soft whisper across the garden as I resolutely continue my battle.

Working in
le jardin
continues to still be a very generous interpretation of the term ‘gardening'. Day after day I continue to tussle, tug, heave and wrench at all the weeds that never quake or tremble when attacked. French weeds are like no other I have ever known, and weeds; indeed, I have known a few. The invasive bamboo in our garden when we lived at Austinmer, when we first escaped from city life, consumed our days in our never-ending battle to quell it forever. Now, in our Wombarra home, Stuart has chosen bamboo wooden flooring as an ironic homage to it.

As for French weeds, they fight back with ferocity. A measure of their phenomenal resilience is that they are already stealthily creeping back along the edges of the weed matting that has only been in place a mere matter of weeks. They seem to shout at me in triumph, as if declaring that foolish foreigners cannot simply descend and in a few short weeks, even be presumptuous enough to think that they can possibly imprint themselves upon the wild rural landscape.

There are long thin white ones that have a subterranean life all of their own, deep below the rocky surface. As I claw ferociously to dig them out, they are like dead fingers coming back to life, reaching up to me as I struggle in vain to chop off their heads...

Shades of the old nursery rhyme drift in and out of my head.

As with everything French, we watch and learn. On our evening
promenades
, we note in other gardens, that the only way to win the battle of
les herbes,
is to first place the weed matting, then cut a very precise hole exactly where the plant will then be dug in. This was our first mistake. We had thought we could just lay the weed mat, next dig a hole, then bed down a plant. It would seem not. And so, we start all over again... This includes moving the copious rocks that we have carefully placed on top to prevent the weed mat from blowing away.

As I labour long and hard, I divert myself by searching my mind for various appropriate sayings. The expression, ‘Rome wasn't built in a day', springs very readily to mind. As I pace myself against the chiming of the bell that signals that in another hour, the heat will be so intense I will have no choice but to reluctantly down tools, I watch
le chat
slink around the edge of
le jardin
. Though we have carefully searched all the outbuildings and at times we can hear the faint meow of the four French kittens, we simply cannot find where she has moved them to. We are just glad that at least she has moved them out of
la grange
.

It is the perfect touch of irony, that the books I have chosen to read in my rare moments relaxing in
le jardin
, are all about glorious landscaped gardens, complete with water features and sculptures. Nothing could be further than my gardening reality.

I do however, have to constantly remind myself, that only two years ago, when we first arrived at Pied de la Croix, while the garden may still be wild, nevertheless it is already hard to believe that on our first visit, it was so rampant that I left that first year without even seeing the orchard properly or even knowing the full extent of our garden.

So, I do need to remember that in fact we have already come a long way. It just may not always feel like that.

As I claw the clambering weeds back, to rescue three baby oaks that have self-seeded, I wonder about future generations who will see them at their full height. It takes around 150 years for an oak to reach middle-age. It is unlikely that those who live one day in Pied de la Croix, will ever know about the Australians who once lived another life in Cuzance.

We discover one day over
apéritifs
under the walnut tree with Jean-Claude, that our middle outbuilding would have been used to hang out corn to dry and then feed to the cows during the long winter months. That accounts for the odd piles of dried corn husks lying in the barn. Another piece of the jigsaw to add to the layers of history of our
petite maison
. I had also discovered that the most recent concreting of some of the gaps in the limestone in the walls of the barn, was inscribed La Croix, 1977.

As we wander down the meandering lanes in the late twilight, the full moon hangs in the fading blue sky on one side, while on the other, the sinking red sun illuminates our rural stroll. The fields dip away, the hills roll into infinity, the brindle cows graze and Brigitte Dal passes with her
chien
on her nocturnal
promenade
. We fling the windows open on our return to let the cool, hay-scented night air fill our
petite maison
; the classical music flows out softy into the stillness of a tranquil Cuzance country night. The full moon peeps in our
chambre
window – the picture is complete.

The days roll out in a haze with nothing to differentiate them except market days and the variables in the weather. Puffy clouds scud swiftly across the sky one moment and draw a dark curtain down. The next, the sun bursts through again in blaze of unexpected heat. It frequently looks like a storm is imminent yet Jean-Claude assures us they will be headed for the Masiff Central
département
. The darkness lifts and the pale wispy clouds seem like they have been painted on the sky with a thin artist's brush.

We find out that Wednesdays are a public access day to the
gendarme
. It means that they are available to answer any questions you may have relating to the intricacies of the law. As we drive home through Martel after our visit to the markets, I see a cluster of
gendarme
at the roundabout. As I peer curiously out the
voiture
window, I glimpse our neighbour, Monsieur Chanteur in his distinctive cream waistcoat. He is deep in an earnest discussion with them. Jean-Claude later confirms that he was indeed seeking their advice on family matters. It is on these matters that he has insisted that my lips are sealed. In my respect for our acceptance into our other life in Cuzance, I will never breathe a word of what I have been told.