Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (19 page)

They then give Joe a tour of their
maison
. We return with four new
plastique jardin
chairs that we are buying from them. The wheelbarrow teeters under its heavy load as we trudge back in the heat. There is a white van just zooming out of Pied de la Croix; clearly the driver is exceptionally late for his
déjeuner
. Four years ago, when we bought all our whitegoods in one fell swoop during
solde
season to set up our
petite maison
, Stuart insisted on including a television in our purchase. I was totally opposed to it. I didn't want the outside world intruding in anyway upon the peaceful haven we had created within the walls of Pied de la Croix. For the past few years, he has spent many futile hours trying to set it up himself. He is determined not to miss the World Cup during our next summer
sojourn
, and so reluctantly he has conceded that a specialist
artisan
is needed. The antenna is finally set up in the attic. This will not mar Monsieur Chanteur's outlook in any way, the
object
of the heated discussion with Gérard the week before that did not involve us at all. If only he too would compromise on his encroaching pine trees.

These are the concerns of a simple country life: the capricious weather,
lapin
, antenna and trees. As always, the church bell chases the day away. As the day ends,
la grange
stone walls are the colour of ripe apricots in the shards of light that illuminate it.

It is Gérard and Dominique's last evening, so we all gather for a farewell
apéritif
. The four of us plan to go to Souillac after they leave our
petite maison
for the last time until next summer. We are thwarted by the weather. Just as the
pastis
has been poured as we all sit outside around our large mosaic table behind
la grange
, large, fat drops of summer rain start to fall. We hastily gather everything and retreat inside. Thunders rolls around us, striking the sky in a cacophony and enveloping the
petite maison
. Yellow leaves swirl and twirl past the windows. The rain races down the road right outside our French windows and twigs tumble in the torrent, as though children are sailing paper boats.

After protracted fond farewells of ‘
L'année prochaine'
, ‘See you next year', there is much debate about our
dîner
plans. It will be the first time the four of us have ever been out as a family for dinner, and Joe's first evening out in France. Ever the optimist, Stuart suggests we go ahead with our plans. We set off to Souillac under leaden grey skies, heading to our favoured
café
for our favourite steak and
frits
. Its tables are arranged in a cluster in the middle of a pretty square, overlooked by a looming stone church. Usually at this time of evening as you approach, the murmur of convivial voices drifts across the square to meet you. Tonight, there is no-one there. The restaurant is closed due to more impending rain. This has never happened before.

The streets of Souillac are all deserted. This has never happened before. Usually there is a lively,
promenading
summer throng of locals and tourists alike. We set off in search of somewhere else. Down a few cobbled streets we come across a huge covered area that is used for the weekly fresh markets. It is full of tables and people already eating. The menu is both appealing and
bon marché
— not expensive at all. It meets all our criteria,
canard
for John, steak for us and pizza for Joe. Yes, pizza in France. Surprisingly, you see it featured on menus everywhere.

The owner jovially waves us to a table. We wait. He keeps beckoning more customers, all like us, relieved to find somewhere open on this inclement evening. We wait. There is only one waitress for the unprecedented
dîner
congregation that has swollen in size due to the rain. By now we are all very impatient. Not even an
apéritif
— and this is France after all.

I set off in search of yet another restaurant. If they have not ordered by the time I return, we will leave. This has never happened before at a restaurant in France. It is unheard of to wait for an
apéritif
.

I find one that is close and full of people. I scan the menu in the window and decide that it is not
très cher
. At the very moment I return, the waitress is at long last taking the order. By now it has almost been an hour. We wait. And wait some more. She returns. They have run out of red wine. All we have ordered so far is
deux bières
and a
pichet
of
rouge vin
.
Incroyable
. In France, to have run out of red wine. How on earth can this be possible? After all, house wine in French restaurants is served in a pottery jug and the wine is from a cask. Yes, even in France, wine comes in casks — and large ones at that. When Jean-Claude's family gathers for the summer
vacances
, he only buys cask wine as otherwise there are simply too many bottles to take to the glass recycling depot in Martel. It would be a full-time job.

The waitress leaves hurriedly after her announcement. We have another
rapide
discussion about our options. It is getting absurdly late. And still our
apéritifs
have failed to materialise. I venture tentatively into the beehive busy restaurant. ‘
Désolé
,
pardon
,
réservation
annulée
.' I make a hurried exit. And still the owner, capitalising on the wet stormy evening, periodically picks up his trumpet to summon more customers. Well, you may blow your own trumpet, I think as the echoes follow us as we all slink away on the slippery cobblestones.

The restaurant I think is reasonable proves in fact to be
très cher
when the menu is subject to Stuart's scrutiny. Just as well I am not managing our French finances, I have cause to think yet again. What could I have been thinking? It's late, I'm tired — and I would very much like an
apéritif
.

The rain pelts down. We huddle in a narrow stone doorway. I just want to give up and go home. The options are very limited.
Non, non
. Determined as ever, Stuart dashes through the driving rain. He darts back round the corner and calls to us. We race across the rain-soaked square to the shelter of an enticing restaurant. There is a long table full of people, pulled up tightly under the canvas awning. Bedraggled, we anxiously scan our third menu of the night. Perfect, we all announce in unison. Thirsty, hungry and wet, we are shown to a table inside. We nibble tentatively on the basket of
pain
we are served straight away. We are having similar thoughts not to devour the bread too voraciously in case another
rapide
exit is in order.

The drinks arrive immediately. Extraordinary. Our delicious meals are then served promptly. Even more astonishing. The service is swift, polite and friendly. The steak is cooked to perfection. It is almost two hours since we left Pied de la Croix. At last, we all sigh in contentment. The fact that the
vin rouge
is the most deplorable I have ever tasted, is something I choose to overlook. Despite the late hour and our sumptuous meals, we all order dessert. It is a celebration after all, our first family
dîner
out in France — and in the end, it has all been perfect.

Perfection even extends to the view. We are seated at a table on the back wall, and across the restaurant an enormous window forms a perfect frame for the most idyllic of vistas. There are
blanc
, two-storey
maisons
opposite, wreathed with pale mauve wisteria and decorated with colourful window boxes full of sunshine-bright marigolds. Even the still-streaming rain does not dispel the utter French prettiness of the scene. Majestic plane trees are strategically planted throughout the courtyard to shelter the cluster of tables where everyone would usually be gathered on a balmy summer's evening. The warm
tarte tatin
, served with
vanille glacée
, is exquisite. Home-made apple pie never tasted more delectable. I grimace, however, as I sample Stuart's choice —
fromage blanc
. It is just as the name implies — plain white soft cheese. He declares it to be a prison dessert. Well, perhaps a French prison. A French family across the other side of the room catch my expression. The mother laughs and conveys that it is not her dessert of choice either. It is a warm French moment.

The rain has finally stopped. We step out into the cool, fresh smelling, rain-washed night. John sums it up: ‘He can keep playing his own trumpet.' We know that we will never venture near the restaurant again where service was not apparently a priority. We know, too, that we will definitely return for
dîner
again at Auberge du Puits — the Inn of the Wells. There is still a well nearby and, as the night sky has cleared, people emerge from their
maisons
to draw water from it. All's well that ends well, for had we not stumbled upon it in our dishevelled, drenched and dispirited state, we would never have discovered what in fact became our new favourite restaurant for the summer.

Market day in Martel has rolled around again. Refreshed after four days' rest, I abandon my market plans. I am eager to plant out my new pots and continue work on my garden bed next to
la piscine
. The downpour has softened the earth; perfect conditions for planting and working.

So the three men set off to market with the straw
panniers
to buy fresh produce. As I head to
le jardin
, Morgan and her
papa
walk past on their morning
promenade
. We met them several years ago in another instance of the road bringing new friends from the village to us. I reflect on last year and
apéritifs
with his sister and
mama
, when they told us that indeed our barn had sheltered
Résistance
fighters. I well remember the thrill I felt to know that in some small way, Pied de la Croix had played its role in the fight for freedom. My secret hope remains that I will unearth a
petite
scrap of parachute silk, buried by an airman — or even better, an English female spy — who landed in our orchard in the depths of an inky night.

I also recall the evening of the
apéritifs
with new
amis
for another reason. On the eve of departure, after drinks with our neighbours, we worked frantically by the light of the moon to complete our planting. I absolutely do not miss our first few years of feverish
rénovation
and arduous sixteen-hour days, when often only
pain
and a glass of
rosé
were our evening meal.

While John, Joe and Stuart enjoy
espresso
at Mespoulet and slowly meander round the markets making their selections, I am grateful for the clouds that scud across the sky as I dig and dig in readiness for my planting. As I bed them carefully into the soil, I wish each of them
bon courage
that they survive. I send threatening thoughts in the direction of
les lapins
watching me furtively from the far corners of the garden. I have become only too well-acquainted with the habits of rabbits in the country. I get another bale of crisp, dry hay from the storage area above the carport, once a home for a tractor. I again feel gratitude to the long-ago farmer, Monsieur de la Croix, and his abandoned hay that fed his cows in the depths of the bleak long winter.

I work steadily all morning, delighted to be back in my own little world again. By lunch I am covered in grime. My clothes stick to me. The radio is still issuing warnings about the extreme weather; old people and young children in particular must take care. I remember hearing about the summer of 2003, when thousands died in the European heatwave. I press on so I can enjoy my afternoon of freedom and before the heat soars even more.

After washing away rivulets of dirt, I sink wearily and gratefully into my chair for a well-earned lunch; truly a sumptuous repast. The men who went to market present it on our
petite
porch. There is an array of fresh
fromage
, such as Roquefort, Camembert and Tomme.
Tomme
is a generic term that means ‘a wheel of cheese'. It is then followed by the name of the village or region it is from. Stuart's favourite is
Tomme
of the Mountain, though I rather suspect it is simply for the name alone. Others we have come to enjoy include goats' milk cheese, such as Chèvre and Cantal, one of the oldest cheeses in France, named for the Cantal Mountains in the Auvergne where it originated in the first century. There is crisp, fresh
baguette
, for it goes hand in hand with an array of
fromage
, followed by sliced
pêche blanche
accompanied by pannacotta
glacée.

The few hours of afternoon relaxation quickly segue into the
apéritif
hour. It is a special opportunity for John and Joe to visit Jean-Claude and Françoise's splendid
maison
and
jardin
. Joe takes his new soccer ball, and the hours fall way while they all play on the sweeping expanse of lawn. The rest of us sit on their wisteria-festooned upper terrace under the shade of their sentinel pine, chatting, sipping
pastis
. It is a meeting across generations and cultures, from
petite
baby Basile to seventy-year-old Jean-Claude; from Berlin, Paris, Lyon, York and
Australie
. This is our new extended French family. It is both an honour and a privilege when we wish them all ‘
Bonne nuit
,' and Jean-Claude repeats, ‘You know you are welcome here any time.'