Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (20 page)

My body clock is soon restored towards the end of our week's so-called
petite vacances
, for I start to rise hours before the rest of the slumbering household. I love the early morning light as much as that of the late evening. The sun creeps softly and slowly across
le jardin
in ever-fattening fingers of light. It touches the grass that is rapidly shooting green growth after the soaking rain.

As I open the creaking barn door,
les lapins
, bounding on the boundary, stop and stare at me, startled from their early morning playfulness. They are used to having the enormous
jardin
as their own playground for most of the year.

The apple trees seem to have become laden with
petites pommes
overnight. Already they lie scattered under its heavy bending boughs. The tiny russet brown pears are perfectly formed and decorate the tree like
Noël
ornaments. Over
café
, I soak up the fresh beauty of the start of a new Cuzance day and listen to the bees already busily at work. Not long ago, it was impossible to sit behind
la grange
. Just a mere year ago it was still a wasteland of rubble, dirt, stones and weeds. The harder we work, the more it is taking shape before our eyes. Day after day, week after week, we have donned our work clothes and been a team of two, ready to take on the world. Or at least, a rural
rustique
wilderness. To even have a garden bed with
laurier
and
lavande
is a magnificent achievement in itself. It's true, that a year can make all the difference.

For the second morning in a row, despite it being a self-proclaimed petite vacances,
le jardin
has once again called its siren song to me. I simply can't seem to resist its call. There is so much
rénovation
still to do — namely the empty gaping chasms in the crazy paving — that as in previous years, I am determined to tackle as much as I possibly can singlehanded. Accordingly, I collect
plastique
tubs from
le cave
to gather the pile of accumulated debris from the new rose bed I am working on. I load broken pieces of farmhouse fragments into my
brouette
. I then pile skeins of rusty wire on top of my wheelbarrow and assemble it all in the boot of what we call our ‘farm car'. It is perpetually full of grass, dirt and stones. Recently, Stuart has collected lengths of weed and moss-encased drainage channel that Jean-Claude has given us, to be placed behind
la grange
.
La voiture
has carried all manner of seemingly improbable items, including last year, Stuart's big shiny red cement mixer. It is the complete opposite of Stuart's car at home, the European sports car he has dreamt of since he was eleven years old.

Joe emerges at a perfect time to help me. We carefully place the crates on top of the pyramids of farm debris in the boot. Then it's off to the ‘tip' for us. We put on our matching IGA
supermarché
work shirts that I brought from home, and we are a formidable team.

As with most of my French undertakings, a straightforward exercise turns out to have an element of adventure. While only a few minutes' drive past
Le Stade
, the
commune
stadium, and located right next to the road, I know that despite my keen scanning we have sailed right past it. Seriously, it's right on the road, just like our little house. How can I have possibly missed it? ‘Sailed' is again perhaps not the correct term to describe my approach to driving in France. It is in fact utterly appalling; crunching through the gears would be a more apt description.

After creeping along an exceptionally narrow lane, I know we have to turn back. I decide to head back to
Le Stade
, where a
nouveau
stadium is being built and I had spotted a single white van. When in doubt always ask for help, is my creed — in any language or country.

I know that if I take another twisting turn, before long we will be plunged into the depths of the remote rural wilderness. Since I also lack a sense of direction, this is not advisable. We will not only be lost, but will have onboard a cargo of farm debris.
Voilà
. The two men at the building site are in fact the very two from the Land Registry who turned up on the doorstep on Monday morning. We all express surprise at running into each other like this. I wonder what they must think of the strange ways of foreign women. One minute with a face mask plastered over my face, the next in my usual
rénovation
state of disarray. Not having checked the word for ‘tip' prior to leaving, clearly thinking it was not at all necessary, I rely on my tried-and-true method of communicating in France; I open the boot and gesture to the contents.

‘
Non
,
non
,' they emphatically declare. ‘You must go to Martel or Souillac.' Since I couldn't even seem to manage this simple trip, there is no way on earth that I'm going to attempt to navigate my way to either of these places — and locate the local tip. After all, Jean-Claude himself has told me that this is where local people take their household rubbish.

As Joe and I drive away, we spot a sign.
Voilà
. Here is the roadside tip at last. Yes, we had driven straight past it.

We toss everything out as rapidly as possible, feeling like bank robbers carrying out a heist. We watch gratefully as the white van disappears in a cloud of equally white dust. We still feel somewhat nervous and have misgivings about the
gendarme
appearing. Our possible getaway is somewhat impeded by the fact that I stall constantly and clash the gears. I simply can't seem to get the hang of the button to automatically start the car — no key required.

We leave far faster than we approached the tip. I pick up speed and we zoom through our stone gates to pick up our second load. Mission accomplished. Despite the plummeting
euro
in our account, I don't even for a moment plan a raid on Bank Populaire. There is no doubt in my mind that I would stall right outside and
voilà
, the
gendarme
would descend, sirens blazing.

On our return, we discover Stuart placing the weed matting round the new plants. Like many elements of our Cuzance life, this is not quite the straightforward matter it would seem to be.
Non
. It is an intricate process that involves cutting a hole round each plant, then replacing each long stretch of weed matting that was already in place. Next, it has to all be anchored down with stones from the land. There are two reasons for revisiting this task:
les lapins
and
les herbes
. While the weed matting had been previously laid, we have since discovered that the plants have to be protected as closely and tightly to their base as possible. It is a long and laborious task and, like many other
rénovation
projects, consumes far more time than it should. After all, the lists
still
exist.

I join Stuart to help on the final stretch. The sun beats down in its mocking relentlessness, as
les herbes
jeer from the sidelines, for their invasion has continued to be ruthless.

The church bell strikes once, twice, and then erupts into its
déjeuner
cacophony. And still we are not
fin
. John and Joe depart to walk down to our village restaurant. We continue working. We are too close to the finishing line to stop now.

At last, another tick on our list. Now we can relax, for a while at least. Like true English men on
vacances
, John and Joe drink
bière
and sunbake in the blistering
solei
. We shelter in the shade behind
la grange
. No more work until the alarm on Monday, we declare, for strike
trois
on the paving project. Let the real
petite vacances
start, albeit much shorter than intended.

After a late afternoon siesta, I wander out of our
petite maison
in a sleep-heat daze. A convoy of bike riders is passing by, not an unusual sight in itself, except for the priest accompanying the children, his heavy black cassock flapping round his ankles. Celeste has joined Joe playing with the soccer ball in
la piscine
. She has spent her afternoon doing chores for Françoise to earn
euro
to join us on our next
vide-grenier
outing. At just eleven, she is more mature, sophisticated and world-wise than many adults.

The children's laughter rings across
le jardin
. The endless summer days sparkle and shine with blue and gold. Another Cuzance summer to store in my treasure trove of precious memories.

I love creeping out early, leaving the household slumbering, to greet another Cuzance day.
Petite
birds dash and dart, squirrels scamper, huge black and white magpies hop across the dew-covered grass, bunnies bound, a lone donkey brays; the whole Cuzance world wakes with me. I open the barn doors with anticipation. The bed we have laboured on long and hard stretches out magnificently in front of me. The endless hours of daylight always hold infinite promise.

I pause as always to soak in the early morning beauty. I stand, entranced by a tantalising vision of the future. I muse: will this one day be the doorway of my
nouveau cuisine
in
la grange
? After all, the
jardin
bed is perfectly placed just beyond where I dream the kitchen will be;
fleurs
to gaze upon while slowly stirring a simmering pot.

We have had another improbably late
dîner
, as always
alfresco
, this time next to
la piscine
in the glowing embers of the last of the sun. The sun had still been blazing upon us at nine. When it finally goes to bed, the heat still hangs like a blanket. We all have a late night swim, my first for the summer. It is sensational; the temperature is now like a tepid bath and holds none of the icy shock of the sea at home.

An air of mystery still hovers over Pied de la Croix. Overnight, John has left his beloved Akubra hat, bought on his first trip to Australia many years ago, on the mosaic table next to
la piscine
. It has disappeared. Combined with the mysterious footprints embedded in the wet cement, it is not only puzzling but perturbing. After all, the table is strategically positioned and well-hidden behind
la grange
. John searches the entire
jardin
. He scrutinises the far-flung
limite
. Since it is leather, surely it is too heavy to have simply blown away? His
chapeau
is nowhere to be found, not even in the lane behind our land. It is all very odd.

Today, after everyone emerges, I do not allow myself to be seduced by the lure of the garden. For now, the magnetic pull of
le jardin
does not drag me into its lure. It's off to market again.

The markets are like a Matisse painting — a vibrant array of deep-purple aubergine, glossy vine
tomate
, gnarled walnuts, chalky goat's cheese, the tantalising aroma of paella, glistening
poisson
with scales silver in the sunlight,
petite
strings of onions, a soft-pink blush on the
pêche
, ruby-red strawberries like a sultan's ring, dark-cerise plump cherries and warm-from-the-earth melons.

The tourists stand out, avidly capturing with their cameras this quintessential market scene. It is one that is unfolding throughout France, on Saturday morning in every village or nearby town. Its timelessness holds the echo of centuries and generations. It is a life richly drawn from the land and the seasons. It changes only with the cloak of winter, with hats pulled down to ward off the icy wind, and the changing array of produce, from the jewel-like summer berries to the crops dug from deep within the snow-covered ground.

The
petite vacances
week fades quickly in a haze of heat,
apéritifs
and a constant chorus of
bon appétit
. We end the week with
déjeuner
at our own village restaurant. It has long been our plan, but after a whole month it seems to be our first opportunity. With John and Joe's departure imminent, it is time for the four of us to eat there. Indeed, it is everyone's dream in France — and has long been ours — to simply saunter down in a mere minute to be seated under an enormous shady tree for
menu du jour
.

John and Joe have wandered down several times for a
bière
and have told us about Chantelle, the new waitress. She is every bit as charming and friendly as they said. When we arrive, although it is literally just past twelve, there are already people eating their
entrée
. There is never a moment to be lost at the precious lunch hour — or two — in France. To my surprise, and I am sure to his, for the third time in a week, I see Monsieur
Cadastre
eating with his colleagues. We exchange warm, ‘
Bonjour, ça vas
?' like old friends. I whisper to Joe that it may not have been such a convivial greeting if they had parked in the distance and observed our tip foray. After all, I had been conscious that my definition of ‘household rubbish' was rather a broad one. Fortunately it is
bonhomie
all round. If he gives me any further thought at all, he may be somewhat puzzled by my range of guises; face mask on Monday, dishevelled
rénovation
clothes on Thursday, and
chic robe
and
chapeau
on Friday.

Although every table is already full in the courtyard, Chantelle takes the time to correct our pronunciation when we order our choices from the blackboard
menu du jour
selections. Of course, I stumble over the simplest words. When I try again with the rolling ‘
r
' sound for stuffed peppers —
poivrons farcis —
she praises me. How perfect; lunch and a French lesson all in one.