Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (23 page)

As I scurry like a chambermaid, Stuart is nearby, cleaning the steel drainage channel, ready to put it in place. It is full of dirt and leaves. He has more specialist tasks to attend to, like matching up the crazy paving pieces, laying them and finally cementing the jigsaw in place. I abandon yet another load of linen and set to cleaning. A chisel is needed as the dirt is so encased in the ends. It's critical that they are entirely clean for when the laying of the channel takes place.

When I'm engaged in mundane tasks, my mind always wanders. Ros' words echo, when she likened our Cuzance life to ‘a grown-up version of Enid Blyton'. She said it seemed like one of domesticity and innocence. I loved her allusion. At times, though, covered in filth in my oh-so-familiar work clothes, it does not always seem the carefree adventures of Enid Blyton's happy-go-lucky characters. And yet there is always a strong thread running through my thoughts: there's nowhere else I'd rather be at that moment in time than a Cuzance Monday morning.

As the rain tumbles down yet again, I shake myself like a wet dog and race inside. My thoughts now are only for the freshly laid concrete that will not yet have set. At other times, the sun has been so ferocious that it has dried too quickly. Hairline cracks are already starting to stealthily creep through some of the paving in a disturbing fashion. Such is the
rénovation
life.

Note to self: on washing day, when it has been raining, do not attempt to hang swathes of crisp white French linen in your carport before moving the
voiture
out, and remember that the raindrops bounce upward from the loose dirt that is strewn in the carport. Inevitably, it splatters and coats the ends of your billowing sheets. And the whole washing cycle has to start again.

Second note to self: although we have fancifully toyed with the romantic notion of running a
chambre d'hôte
, this serves as yet another timely reminder that this is absolutely not a lifestyle choice I will be rushing into any time soon.

By the end of another working week, I am glazed over with exhaustion. This means that my appearance is the direct opposite to the alluring, delicious, delectable glaze that adorns
chocolat éclairs
in the
pâtisserie
. There is only one word to describe how I look:
fatigue
. As the
beaucoup travail
week rolls on, the steady call of the church bell is indeed the essence of ‘for whom the bell tolls'. As we work steadily away, as friends come and go throughout the week, the sight of Monsieur Chanteur's solitary chair under his spreading walnut tree is the loneliest sight in the world.

Village grapevine news filters in as always from Jean-Claude. Monsieur Paris has returned for the summer and has set up a tent in his weed-strewn
jardin
. It is surrounded by a sea of
jardin
chairs. It looks like a gypsy encampment. He parks his big white van halfway across the narrow lane behind his
maison
, making it virtually impossible for any
voiture
to pass. Jean-Claude remarks caustically on their return and reiterates his view, shared, he assures us, by Brigitte Dal. He emphatically states that they are ‘bohemians'. This one word is delivered in a tone of derision and scorn. I remain thankful that we are definitely not from Paris and that the village has not applied this term to us.

He shares further news of his
amie
, Monsieur Chanteur. Today he is in Martel signing the final certificates for his wife and paying the hefty death duty taxes. He adds that it is the same lawyer he is using in the fiscal battle with his children. I am quite sure that Monsieur Chanteur — who is very ‘old school', as Jean-Claude frequently reinforces — would not want us to know about such private matters.

In the lead-up to the Cuzance
vide-grenier
, there is a fever-pitch of activity. As black clouds keep rolling overhead, I am certain that
le Maire
is in a state of high anxiety. The five-year election for a new
Maire
is on the Cuzance calendar. I can tell from the bright pink eight-page brochure that was left on our doorstep, emblazoned in bold capitals ‘Cuzance
Fête Votive
', that the three days of activities have taken a tremendous amount of organisation. I wonder if his re-election depend on the whims of the weather. As well as the
Soirée Irlandai
, the Irish band that will start the free evening activities on Friday night, there is a jam-packed itinerary. There is a
Concours de Petanque
on Saturday afternoon. I am sure that the traditional
boules
competition is a highly contested one, and a battle between the older Cuzance men and younger generations. The
Bal Disco
on Saturday promises a ‘Maxi-Night', while on Sunday our
vide-grenier
is also a
marché des produits régionaux
, when the well-known produce of our region will be for sale:
canard
, walnuts and
fois gras
. To end the celebrations, there is
musique
, then a first for Cuzance,
Initiation Zumba
. I am convinced that many of the villagers will be shaking their heads for a long time to come over such a performance. It is billed as
Spectacle De Danses Et Percus
. It will definitely form part of Cuzance lore during the long winter months. I can already hear the murmurs of, ‘
Zut alors
,' across the seasons and the oceans.

In the midst of our anticipation, our thoughts have turned to trailers. We need more sand for concreting, as it is time to tackle paving the sides of
la piscine
. Until now, they have been protected by long pieces of timber, salvaged from
la grange
. The paving leading to the pool steps has been put down, but now the three sides need to have the props carefully removed. The edges then need to be cemented before the final crazy paving needs to be meticulously placed on top. It will be an exacting, painstaking process. It's imperative to get this completed so the pool is protected before another season of ice and snow. More
beaucoup travail.

Everything always has to be timed around the two-hour
déjeuner
break. Stuart sets off to organise a delivery of sand and buy a new piece of guttering. It is not a successful trip on either count. Delivery of sand is
très cher
— more than the cost of the sand itself. He suggests taking his empty bags back and filling them up. How many trips back and forth will this entail? Every hour lost represents one hour of
rénovation
. A lengthy discussion ensues about the merits of buying a trailer. We have been told that they are very expensive, but it would seem that life in the country leaves us with little choice. It is not quite the heady days of shopping on the Champs-Élysées that I am sure many at home imagine I indulge in while in France.

I think that like last year when we bought our cement mixer, buying trailers does not feature on the average holiday itinerary. Another
rénovation
cost to factor in. Meanwhile, half the chimney has become detached as a result of the strong winter winds. With the chimney now half exposed, water has streamed down into the stone hearth during the last torrential downpour.
Oh là là
, is there no end to the outlay of
euro
? Thank goodness for my favourite pastime of buying second-hand clothes, for it is a
bon marché
indulgence. A Louis Vuitton handbag or a trailer? Clearly, there is no question which it will be. After all, this is life in rural France; Paris it is not
.

A check of our bank statement before the momentous trailer decision shows that the
euro
balance is plummeting.
Maçon
,
plombier
,
jardin
— it's hanging off the edge of a steep limestone cliff, ready to drop directly into the Dordogne. It's sink or swim. Thoughts of a
très cher
trailer are rapidly abandoned.

Since this is a
rénovation
week, both Stuart and I rise with the sun. Tuesday's tasks are pruning and painting. Today I am going to paint over the last vestige of mint-green paint remaining from our
petite maison
's last renovation in the sixties. I stir the cauldron-like tin of thick
blanc
paint; it's just like the dessert
fromage blanc
that Stuart tried. It is a while since I last painted inside our little house. I had forgotten how uneven and bumpy the old stone walls are. The mint-green merges with the white, just like
fromage blanc
is sometimes decorated with sprigs of fresh mint.

I tear pages out of old copies of
Madame Figaro
to edge the bottom of the wall where it meets our beautiful
bois
floorboards. Brad Pitt's face meets mine, staring up from the glossy pages. In an old French farmhouse, it is an incongruous moment. Just like
le jardin
soaks up the unexpected summer rain, so too the ancient stone walls lap up my layers of paint. In between coats, like
les lapins
, I scamper off to the orchard to start pruning. It is the sheer simplicity and beauty of our quiet country life, full of peace and solitude, that fills my heart and delights me. However, despite the luxury of a rare early night on Monday, I remain in a fog of weariness. Nevertheless, I am at my happiest when working steadily away in my garden. The words, ‘Nobody told me there'd be days like this,' hum in my head as I dig and cut and prune. I translate them to bend to my own interpretation. I never expected that life would turn a corner to lead me to a French country garden.

The song matches the other refrain I constantly have in my mind. The harder and longer I work, the more ‘love and devotion' I pour in, the more the garden yields. It was after I revived a few roses at the outset and they started to bring forth pale pink buds that I knew, just as when we started four years ago to
rénovate
and strip off the old wallpaper, that long ago both our little house and
jardin
were once truly cherished. Now, I have brought my love for it from the other side of the world.

Once my painting is
fini
, I put our new cupboard back in its place. My librarian's heart sings as I neatly line up all our
livre
in the bookcase. It is the sort of finishing touch that truly makes Pied de la Croix our French country home.

In Cuzance, the clouds are just like rabbits and chase each other across the wide, open sky.

In the land of the famed
baguette
, there are far too many days to count when we don't have any fresh bread. To buy a
baguette
means a drive to Martel. A simple enough thing in itself, yet in a
rénovation
life there isn't always the time.
Déjeuner
, and often
dîner
too, revolve around
pain
. I love market day and shopping day, for there is nothing quite like a crisp fresh
baguette
smothered with creamy French butter. An-end-of-the-day one is not quite the same. It's why people in towns and cities visit their
boulangerie
three times a day. We have learned to buy a large round loaf that, after its first-day freshness, we can lightly toast to have with
pâté
.

Each time we shop — as well as buying some
jambon
sliced straight from the bone at the delicatessen counter — we choose a variety of
fromage
, some which are old favourites, some which become new ones. The names alone conjure up images of faraway mountaintops and cheese-making valleys, like St Nectaire.

The women at the counter are straight out of a French film, in their crisp, starched
blanc
coats and caps that cover their hair. I have learnt to ask for a
tranche
of
campagne
— thick, coarse,
rustique pâté
. I practise my numbers and simple sentences as I wait in the line. Sometimes I murmur them aloud as I patiently wait my turn. Sometimes, French people in the queue turn to glance at me, whether with indulgence or bemusement is hard to tell. Choosing
rosé
is a special delight. We have changed recently from the palest possible pink to darker, richer tones. At night, the gold from the sun glints on our glasses and light dances through the pink hues. A
rénovation
life always looks better through
rosé
-tinted glasses.

Whenever I tear myself away from
le jardin
to prepare a simple
déjeuner,
I pause and breathe in the charm that our
petite maison
holds for me. Some of my absolute favourite things cost a song. Our heavy glass bowl that we use for
salade
, our handmade pottery bowl that holds an abundance of summer fruit, the domed glass lid of the wooden
fromage
board that looks like a cupola in an ancient church, the eclectic array of pretty
vide-grenier
glasses. We have blended our IKEA
cuisine
with patterned pieces from the past and it all merges in a pleasing marriage of old and new.

During our French summer, we eat all our meals outside. The bird chorus plays softly as background
musique
.
Déjeuner
and
dîner
are a welcome break. They punctuate the sheer relentless
rénovation
. After twenty years of
rénovation
in now two countries, even Stuart's usual unflagging energy is starting to wane. The crazy paving project has proved to be far more time-consuming and daunting than we could have possibly expected. It is, however, the way of all
rénovation
projects, for everything always takes far, far longer than you could ever anticipate at the outset. It is our fervent hope that, after five years in Pied de la Croix, next year will be the last big push —
la salle de bain.
A new bathroom will be the final transformation of our much-loved
petite maison
.