Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (21 page)

D
é
jeuner
is enormous, quite unlike the
petite
portions usually served in restaurants, a size that suits my appetite. This is hearty country fare, fit for farmers straight from the fields. I am replete after my generous serving of
salade
. Then the stuffed pepper arrives, surrounded by rice. To say it is
grande
is an understatement. I am daunted by the mere sight of it. This is confirmed when I tentatively slice into it and
voilà
, it is full to the brim with tightly packed minced country sausage. I can only manage a single bite. As I have only ever done once before in France, on the occasion of the infamous
andouillette
incident, I discreetly whisk it off my plate. I surreptitiously wrap it up to take home for
dîner
. Naturally, I am able to manage my last course of
Pêche
Melba.

During our meal, a woman at the table next to us offers to take a photo of the group. On arrival, her group of
amis
had all greeted us with, ‘
Bon appetite
.' It is these amicable exchanges that are all part of the rhythm of French life that I love. I am delighted, for I take photos constantly. I want to keep a meticulous record of our daily
rénovation
life in Cuzance. I have even taken to capturing my own photographic testimony of my progress in
le jardin
and all the events that unfold. Stuart rarely takes photos. I always have my camera on hand to preserve images of our
amis
when we are all gathered together.

Once again, a chance encounter at our village restaurant is a fascinating vignette in my daily life in Cuzance. The woman, who is about my age, turns out to be a teacher of English in nearby Brive. Like many others we encounter, she is fascinated to find out we are from
Australie
. She tells us about the Irish band, The Booze, that will be playing on Friday right outside Le Bureau de Maires as the
grande
start to our three-day
Fête en Cuzance.
Clearly Monsieur
Maire
is keen to rival the other villages in our
département
. I am sure that he is determined to provide a more prestigious
vide-grenier
weekend for Cuzance's long-standing, friendly rivalry with the nearby village of Gignac. In the past, the brightly coloured posters that are displayed throughout the
département
advertising each village's
vide-grenier
have all remained prominently positioned on our village noticeboard — except the one for Gignac. Every year, the posters are all a different vivid colour. This year, ours is a bright pink, while Gignac's is nasturtium orange. Needless to say, the nasturtium orange one mysteriously disappears as soon as it is posted.

There is always at least one night that stands out in our French summers as being the most memorable. It is only halfway through our Cuzance
sojourn
that it seems to happen. It is the second-last night before Maxime, Patrick, John and Joe all leave. The dynamic is different across the generations, so we invite our younger French friends for
apéritifs
. Maxime arrives bearing three of his favourite
bières.

He extols the virtues and variety of
bière
in France. It seems no coincidence that he lives in Lyon — very close to a shop that stocks 900 varieties. There is no doubt that it is probably his favourite place in the world. His knowledge is so extensive that I dub him the ‘hero of
le bière
'. He is also equally persuasive in sharing the ones he has especially selected for our farewell gathering. It is clear to me that for the five men round the table it is their idea of nirvana.

Maxime is voluble, charming, entertaining and full of stories about
bière
. He tells us about a bar in Ghent where the
bière
is served in enormous long steins. They are so full and heavy that it inevitably spills all over your face when you first tilt it. Most hilarious of all is when he tells us about a unique feature of the Ghent bar in Belgium. On arrival, you take off your shoes. I'm intrigued. I can't possibly work out why they are placed in wicker baskets and then hauled up to the rafters. Maxime explains that the glasses are so highly prized that many patrons try to steal them by hiding them under their coats and sneaking out into the night. Now it makes sense. Even more amusing is when he recounts the time for departure. The baskets are lowered; the shoes are examined. Cries of, ‘
Non, non
,' ring through the bar. After inordinate quantities of
bière
, it is virtually impossible for anyone to identify their shoes.

Maxime pours everyone another
bière
to underline his story. Time ticks in a blur of laugher and more stories. I am concerned that Françoise and Jean-Claude are waiting for their return for
dîner
. Eventually our
soirée
ends as the sun subsides, and we all make plans for
l'année prochaine
; another highlight of our next summer to see them again in Cuzance. I am quite sure that John and Joe are going to make the bar in Ghent top of their future travel itinerary.

As Patrick says in an email when we return home, we will have ‘
un petit pastis
(
ou deux
)
au soleil
' in our next Cuzance summer when we are all together again. When we are with Patrick, the
pastis
is never simply poured once. In fact, I am quite sure it is more than the twice he has hinted at. And always, the
apéritif
hour — or two — is in the soft light of a golden summer's evening. To have friendships in one French family, from the parents to their children, is something I never expected. It all adds to the richness of our other life.

Not only is there a bonus
vide-grenier
on Saturday for Joe's last day, there are in fact two — Strenquels and Vayrac. Once again Celeste makes the supreme teenage sacrifice to get up early to join us, and so the four off us set off to market. We all avidly count our
euro
before we leave on our expedition. Strenquels is yet another postcard-perfect village. Beautifully restored pale limestone
maisons
are wreathed with charming pink and red roses. Fat contented cows graze in nearby fields and ancient oaks shade the village square. I look expectantly over my shoulder as if to hear a director shout, ‘Cut!'

We all meander and browse, examine and exclaim. In just one short summer, we have succeeded in injecting Joe and Celeste with our fervour for treasure hunting. My vintage eye has not deserted me. I swoop upon a red and white striped
robe
with a pleated skirt. I pull it on over my black and white spotted dress and declare it to be perfect. Madame also advises me about
laver
. For just two
euro
I also get advice on how to wash it; super.

Purchases completed at Strenquels, we set off cross-country again.
Châteaux
perched loftily on limestone cliffs, coffee and toffee and brindle cows, horses sheltering under spreading elms with their tails steadily brushing the incessant flies away, green rolling hills that softly fold into each other like batter in a mixing bowl. Freshly harvested bales of hay cartwheel across the burnished fields. Meticulously made centuries-old stone walls, covered in lichen, enclose the swaying corn. The names of villages — Branceilles, Curemonte, Carennac, Condat — are painted black on white wooden signs. They point east, west, north and south, like words rolling together in a French nursery rhyme. A grove of pines is sprouting eager growth in time for
Noël
. And high above, painting the scenery below, fluffy marshmallow clouds billow like sails.

Vayrac is a
brocante
, so it is
très cher
. Scarves that I usually scoop up for a
euro
, discreetly displaying the coveted label ‘Paris', are at least ten times the price. ‘
Non, non
,' I shake my head as I pause to examine some in a basket under a table, usually the source of my best finds. Below eye level is my new trick of the summer that I have only recently learnt; not at Vayrac, however. The antique dealers are out in full force. Vayrac is a town and it tells. Tourists are attracted here; it is not a tiny, tucked-away rural village. So the dealers will deal, but those of us in the know will wait until the next day, for it is Gignac, the pinnacle of our personal
vide-grenier
season.

I leave with treasure of another kind, an armful of tall and stunning, bright and pastel, gladioli. The sun is indeed shining on me, for the
fleur
seller has given me twelve stems for the price of
huit
.

On John and Joe's last
vacances
afternoon, a hot dry wind whips across
le jardin
from the south of France. It is a startling and strange change. At home, it would be the portent of bushfires. Here, we are not so sure how to read the vagaries of the weather. The sky darkens, the air stills and becomes eerie. When the thunder finally rocks the sky, like the true country people we have become we rejoice as the raindrops bounce upon our thirsty land. It is, however, a mere sugar-dust sprinkling, for the sun bursts forth again with even greater fiery vengeance. The clouds rapidly disperse their threatening tones of grey and black, and become instead like whipped egg whites in an azure porcelain bowl.

Each morning when I emerge from our
petite maison
I parade up and down my rows of tiny plants, like a mother duck inspecting and fussing over her newly-hatched ducklings, struggling in the harsh summer. As my first yellow
fleurs
peep through the sun-browned leaves, their soft petals are like the soft fuzz of
petite canard vivant
, little live ducklings.

After weeks of
les lapins
and I looking at each other warily in the pearly light of early day, I finally notice something fascinating about them. They are not bounding aimlessly, as I have always thought. The rabbits are in fact playing games with each other before they hide in the heat of the day. One runs after the other; it hops, it jumps, it pauses, it turns. Then it races after its playful pursuer. Monsieur
Lapin Deux
then runs after the first; it hops, it jumps, it pauses, it turns. And so the game continues. Nevertheless, they still stare at me balefully for invading their private playground. It would seem that after several summers I am gaining a closer understanding of the habits of rabbits.

Days simply dissolve. They are absorbed by domesticity,
le jardin
,
rénovate
, crazy paving, Martel and the markets,
vide-grenier, amis, apéritifs
, and
déjeuners
out with family and friends. It is a circle of beginnings and endings. Our last night as a family is upon us before we know it. We head out for a final
dîner
at Auberge des 7 Tours. It is a significant occasion, for Stuart is about to turn fifty, Joe twenty-one, and it is also the eve of our long-ago wedding in Istanbul. And now, we are all together at last in a tiny corner of France.

As we leave Pied de la Croix to head to Martel, we pass Monsieur Chanteur returning from his evening
promenade
. As Stuart wishes him ‘
Bonsoir
,' he gazes at us wistfully. Not so long ago, his wife was always by his side. I am always conscious, as I move from the blistering heat in
le jardin
to work in some welcome shade, that it is a metaphor for Monsieur Chanteur's life; one day the sun is illuminating your days, then a permanent shadow is cast.

Dîner
is all I had hoped for and more. It is a
magnifique
symphony of exquisite textures and tastes. The much-maligned
fois gras
, a luscious buttery smooth
pâté
, tender lamb that our
département
is renowned for throughout France, while my dessert is a triumph of presentation and culinary delight. Three
petite
glasses on a large white plate with an artful swish of berry coulis. The panna cotta is served with passionfruit, raspberry and mango. Its silky smoothness is a song on my tastebuds.

The stars are just peeping through the cathedral-vault sky when we return to our little French home.

Le jardin
takes shape

Old pottery kilns, Souillac