Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (13 page)

This coastline was one of the first modern resort areas and was the playground for British, Russian, and other aristocrats. It was then frequented by artists and writers, such as Pablo Picasso and Matisse. Now it is a major cruising and yachting area, still exclusively the domain of the rich and famous. The very names on the Côte d'Azur — Antibes, Cannes, Cap Ferrat, Saint-Tropez and Juan-les-Pins — are words in themselves that convey a vision of paradise. The azure bays are surrounded by limestone cliffs and cypress trees that soar towards skies that never frown with rain clouds. Wealth shrieks from the billowing sails of the sleek yachts, nodding at peace in the bays. If you have to even check the menu prices outside some of the most exclusive restaurants in the world, then that in itself may be a subtle hint that this may not be your natural milieu.

In Nice alone there are over a thousand restaurants, which is staggering to even contemplate. The very names are enough to seduce you, such as the Hotel du Petit Palais. Another renowned one, the Château de la Chèvre d'Or, is just another of the many sumptuous choices on the French Riviera. Just to sit in the terraced
magnifique jardins
, perched high above a world that is far, far away, overlooking the crashing waves and sipping an
apéritif
, would be to discover a taste of paradise on earth. It is not somewhere I expect to be heading to soon.

Similarly, holiday activities abound, from monuments, museums and
châteaux
, to vineyards, horse riding and caves. At the other end of the scale is Paris, and one of the most exclusive shopping precincts in the world. Crowned by the Arc de Triomphe, Le Champs-Élysées houses every designer you have ever heard of, such as Chanel and Louis Vuitton. It is here that the
Tour de France
ends in triumph as the cyclists fly along the boulevards, watched by the thousands who have flocked to the City of Lights.

Back at our
café
, locals having their morning
espresso
wander in with copies of
Le Figaro
and
Le Monde
tucked under their arms. The very old locals sit in the places they have occupied for decades. They are offered the daily
journals
in the traditional way. The newspapers are tightly rolled onto long, thin pieces of wood, ready to unfurl as they read about a world far from Paris. I hear murmurs of ‘
gendarme
', and wonder what has happened. Perhaps there have been more protests in Paris against the new legislation to allow gay marriages. Lacking my customary notebook in my market basket, I instead tear off a portion of the brown paper
sac
from the
boulangerie
to scribble on.

After soaking up the start of market morning in Martel, we saunter along the narrow cobbled streets to the covered marketplace. At only ten, it is already crowded and humming with activity. There are more stallholders set up now than just a week ago, to cater for the lucrative tourist trade. Despite the vast increase in market shoppers, the hum of voices remains low. Selecting the best quality produce is a serious business. Meals in France are of
premier
importance in daily life. Like we have learnt, there is an art to it. First you wander, assessing which stallholder is offering the best prices and quality for the day. After an initial appraisal, we have learnt the custom of moving from one stall to another. Like the locals, we soon have our favourite to choose the deepest, darkest cherries from, while another stall is our choice each time for sun-ripened, sun-warmed melons. For everything else we go to our favourite, always-beaming stallholders for
tomate
,
salade
and
pomme de terre
, potatoes that the smell of newly dug earth still clings to. No matter how busy they are, the jolly couple and their middle-aged son always take the time to ‘
Bonjour, ça va
?' us and comment on the presence or absence of
solei
. They now also slip us a bunch of large-leaf parsley when our purchases are
fin
. It is so fresh it is like a bouquet of
fleurs
.

To round off our shopping, we head to Intermarché on the outskirts of Martel. I notice that many others who were also just in the markets are now like us, working their way through their
supermarché
list. Naturally, we cannot resist the attraction of French treats. So we choose
Bouton d'Or
, Golden Button chips. I rationalise that I can learn more French this way. How else would I have learnt the essential word for ‘button'? However, since my sewing skills barely extend to sewing on buttons, perhaps this is not a critical word for my still very limited French vocabulary.

Lingerie is
solde
today in
le supermarché
. Stuart heads to the ever-favourite wine aisle, while I succumb to the allure of French lingerie. I am completely unsure of my size in French. I gesture to a woman beside me to see if she can possibly help. ‘
Oui, Madame
,' she agrees and then points at the most
petite
size. I slip between the racks, cast a hasty glimpse around to ensure no-one is in sight, and quickly slip the item on over my
robe
.
Voilà
, it is perfect. My wardrobe assistant was right; Brigitte Bardot I am not.

I so avidly peruse and purchase second-hand clothes wherever I go that I have already bought a striped top in Martel after our
café
visit. It was hanging in an alluring fashion on a rack, simply imploring me to choose it. And, as everyone knows, striped tops are almost compulsory in any wardrobe in France. However, my penchant and passion for collecting vintage clothes means that I simply don't seem to have grasped that I am definitely not in Paris. I renovate, I garden. When will I ever wear all the things I constantly scoop up in my ever-ready straw
sac
? I tell Stuart that I'm thinking of setting up a boutique in our spare
chambre.
I don't think Cuzance is ready for
haute couture
fashion, but I'm sure to capture all the passing holiday-makers. I realise, though, that I can't create our own Cuzance Champs-Élysées. After all, our road does not even have a name.

I cast my fanciful thoughts aside, and we return to our
petite maison
. On with the oiling of the
salon
floor and accompanying invasion of
les mouches
when all the doors and windows are flung wide open.

The only sound as we work into the twilight, apart from the chirruping birdsong, is Monsieur Arnal's voice that carries through the village on the still night air. Despite selling his restaurant, his presence there is unwavering. It's as if his entire identity is tied up in its stone and he can't let go of his grip on the mortar. I can never forget my mother's stay there two years ago. Our new standing and acceptance in the village was so important to me that I didn't dare ask for clean towels for her. Despite a notice in her
chambre
that indicated damp
serviettes
should be left on the sink to be replaced, this never happened. So it was that I found myself creeping under cover of darkness, carrying clean towels to her room. If a lace curtain twitched as someone watched the antics of my strange foreign ways, I wasn't aware. But you can be sure in a village as small as ours, nothing goes unnoticed.

Martel markets

French market basket and
baguette

Le jardin
is still clamouring for attention, like an
enfant
demanding immediate gratification
.
As I set to work, I think about how I am making inroads on more than the mere garden. Dominique seems to have decided to abandon her
jardin
elegance for my more practical style. She has actually asked me to look out for a pair of one-
euro pantalons
on my
vide-grenier
forays. Perhaps I should set up my Cuzance boutique after all. Mind you, my main clientele would be farmers' wives. My fanciful ideas of Audrey Hepburn
chic
are hardly suitable to life in the country. Now, what was Stuart's own fanciful notion of an apartment in Paris? This is how I tend to amuse myself when working laboriously away on the land, hour after hour.

I also think about how Dominique works all hours of the day in her
jardin
. Her
jardin
is the size of ten French lace handkerchiefs, stitched together with
fleurs
. She does have her share of
les herbes
. I frequently reflect that her challenges are not quite like the sheer daunting scale of mine. Two acres of marching foot soldiers, determined to move up the ranks and take over through sheer stealth. Truly,
les herbes
at Pied de la Croix are like a conquering army. Likewise, when I wake and creep out into
la cuisine
there is yet another invasion of
les mouches
. They have camped overnight in our
petite maison
and, just like the weeds, are ready to strike in full force. We spray, we swot, we leave the windows open. We leave the
fenêtre
shut — both before the morning sun arrives and after the evening sun dips away. We have been told that this works by those in the know about a rural life. Nothing works at all.
Les herbes
and
les mouches
. Definitely, we are not in Paris. Oh no, that is a life of
chic haute couture
and
café
culture; glorious
jardins
and strolling along the Seine
.
It may be a mere four-hour
rapide
SNCF trip to the City of Lights, but it is a different world altogether. I am quite sure there are some older inhabitants of Cuzance who have in fact never ventured so far. Paris is worlds removed from our rural enclave.

The
petite maison
seems to have me in its domestic clutches this year. And while I like playing house in my French doll's house, as I always romantically imagine it to be, as I style and decorate and pick fresh pink roses,
le jardin
never fails to beckon me. It is a hypnotic lure that at the same time is perplexing. It is certainly never a mere matter of languidly dead-heading roses and carefully selecting their morning-fresh buds, ready to unfurl in exquisite beauty.

Non
,
non
. All too readily, gardening Cuzance-style wraps me in its grip. One again, I tussle, tug, wrench, heave and dig. I always have to remind myself that there is still another day to pursue my
jardin
attack, for no matter how much I do, it never seems to be quite enough. The morning's triumph is to dig holes in the rocky limestone soil, ready to plant more photinia, for the hedge we had planted last summer is all dead. Stuart always did say that our second gardener was not a true gardener. I discover this to be true on two counts. When I sadly remove the six dead photinia, I discover that they are barely resting in the soil. This is why my deep holes prove to be a triumph, for the stones have valiantly resisted every move I've made. Let the next photinia survive and flourish, I declare. Later, out of curiosity, I check the gardener's card against the dictionary. Indeed,
Entretien jardin
proves to be just that — maintenance. Perhaps I should have consulted Patrick for his Parisian prowess with his
jardin
design business. Or maybe not. The photos he's shown us of the landscape work he's done depict
magnifique jardins
. There is no place for a
rustique
design in the City of Lights. I keep telling myself that we are definitely not in Paris. It seems there are many reasons to reiterate this all-important difference.

The elongated hours of summer means that it is always hard to say the day is
fin
, for there is always something waiting to be done. It means that at nine that evening we move the new bed into the spare
chambre
from where it has been stored in
la grange's
garage
.
As Stuart assembles it, I trudge across the land with two heavy watering cans. It takes many, many trips to complete my task. Like the early morning, late evening is an exquisite time of day. The intense heat finally abates, and the soft fading sun gathers the land in a farewell caress.