Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (24 page)

Cuzance is a microcosm of life. Sometimes it's fun, sometimes it's not. Sometimes it is simply overwhelming and exhausting. Nevertheless, our country life has a comforting cadence all of its own. When at times the sheer
beaucoup travail
is overpowering in its relentless intensity, I ask myself, ‘Would I rather have embarked on this French adventure or not?' and there is one consistent thread running through my thoughts. The answer is always a resounding, ‘Yes.'

The sun rises and spreads an ever-widening band of light across the vast country sky. I start my morning by peeping through the windows at the unfolding day. Outside
la grange
we have a line of trees that create a border from the huge expanse of grass beyond. We are willing the trees to grow vigorously and shield us from the neighbours and the
Maire
's office. One of the trees is a huge spreading prunus tree, covered with plums by the end of July. How do you tell when
prunier
are ripe in the country? When the blackbirds start voraciously pecking and eating them. They leave a scattered, squashed, plum-coloured carpet underneath. When we drive through le Lot, my favourite tree is blooming in gracious, grand gardens. The cream magnolia flowers are like elegant candles decorating a
gâteau
.

Drives in our
département
are always a song in my heart. Shorn sheep clink their bells as they graze on the stubble. Horses gather in clusters under shady elms, swishing their tails to ward off
les mouches
. Driving through
petite
hamlets in the heat of the day, brightly painted shutters — vermilion, chestnut-brown, eggshell white and donkey-grey — are all tightly closed to preserve the coolness inside the thick stone limestone walls of the
maisons
. Climbing roses are at the height of their summer beauty, beach-umbrella striped gladioli spring tall and straight to the sky, while sunflowers warm their uplifted faces.

An early evening drive to Le Dordogne takes us deep into the very heart of rural France. Queen Anne's Lace nods its finely crocheted face by the roadside, and farms we pass have meticulously stacked piles of
bois
, ready for the interminable winter and the long dark days when only the fire brings a semblance of summer warmth. Wild hollyhocks and foxgloves, strewn at random, have stepped straight from an artist's paint box. Sheer limestone cliffs rise majestically from the thickly forested slopes and high, high, a
château
is perched precariously, seeming to balance by its toes on the very cliff edge.

The valley is like a place lost in time. A few scattered farms, walnut groves, furrowed fields and waving expanses of corn. Surrounded by the Dordogne flowing at its edges, it has a magical quality — one of purity; a remote rural idyll. The soft rich light of evening is like a Turner work of art, ethereal and golden, its splinters piercing the trees. The countryside shimmers like a utopian mirage.

We reluctantly leave this remote paradise and drive along the banks of the river. At one moment, Le Dordogne is smooth and serene; the next moment, it picks up pace and tumbles and twists over thousands upon thousands of stones, smoothed flat by the aeons. The river carries a story all of its own and reflects the nuances of life. Where it started, where it is going. The hamlets, villages and towns it will pass on its rippling journey, and on its banks, all the lives it will glide past and all the stories they hold.

The soft chimes of children reach us. At the end of their summer
vacances
, but just at the start of their life story, two young children float past in their kayak. Like the endless gliding river, childhood too seems to last forever as they drift away, their happy chatter floating on the still air like a distillation of innocence. It infuses your soul with the beauty and timelessness.

You can conjure up a whole life story just from a fleeting glimpse. An elongated
maison
with multiple arched windows, framed by duck-egg-blue shutters, overlooks a pond with regal white swans and a low stone wall adorned with stone urns, spilling with scarlet fuchsia.

As I so often do, I create a story. I think that this fairytale mansion belongs to a fascinating couple in their sixties, artistic and talented. Their home is a reflection of a life well-travelled; a Persian rug, rich with ruby colours, intricate pieces of exquisite Japanese porcelain, delicate Venetian glass, and a library that contains the world. We continue; the house is left behind, and I am left wondering about the home that in a fragment of time created an indelible impression. Such is the romanticism of the French rural landscape. Every drive, every
promenade
, every meandering market moment is a sensory snapshot, a postcard to be posted to your memory.

Country life has no need of watches or clocks. Time is measured, not just by the regular-as-a-heartbeat church bells, but by the movement of the sun. You can trace the time of day by its orbit through the sky, until finally it dips down and goes to bed to close another Cuzance day. The sun holds time in its golden-cupped hands. As the rain disappears at last, and with it the menacing clouds, the high-wheeling kites are like black apostrophe marks, punctuating the endless blue sail-cloth of sky.

Jean-Claude is wearing his customary classic old blue and white striped French T-shirt when he visits one morning. Henriette is on a lead for her
promenade
, and in his other hand he grasps a smooth-with-age walking stick. Like many other items in their
grande maison
it tells a thousand stories, for it belonged to Françoise's grandmother, and was used to herd cows when she lived in the Massif Central
département
.

As we chat at the
derrière
of
la grange
, I glimpse Marinette taking her morning stroll in the shady lane behind our land. Her thoughts must be fully focused on the forthcoming
déjeuner
on Sunday that the whole village and surrounds will turn out for. It will be held in her freshly mown walnut orchard, and its tranquillity will be transformed by groups of family and friends, gathered in festive spirits round long trestle tables. I look forward to all of it, as well as the local band that will troupe through the orchard, bringing joy and harmony with it.

I watch as Marinette's blue straw
chapeau
disappears past our stone wall. It defines her as much as Jean-Claude's customary pipe does him. The Cuzance
vide-grenier déjeuner
must be the highlight of her personal calendar. I can't help thinking that she must be counting the rooms left in her life, as she no doubt enters the last one as the reigning matriarch of our village. She and the other older inhabitants, who have witnessed wars and seen centuries turn their pages, are the essence of rural French life in remote villages. I feel a pang as I wonder what the future holds when they no longer hold the stories of the past to share with the younger generations.

I clean and prepare in a frenzy and a fury. We have invited six
amis
for
apéritifs
at six. This is not what we would do at home after a day's intensive
rénovation
that started at six. However, friends are due to stay, and Dominique and Gérard are departing in the morning for their beach
maison
. It is the last chance for our Cuzance
amis
to all gather this summer. The grass is newly mown and we have set up a large table under the walnut tree. I can already see the film credits rolling in my ever-vivid imagination. Fat drops of rain splash down and then tumble just as I start to put out an eclectic collection of pretty glasses. My vision had better not be thwarted by the thunder gods. Luckily, the rain clears and I again feel happy that in a few short summers we have made French friends in our own village who we can invite for drinks in our now-cleared
jardin
.

As it often seems to, talk turns to everyone's favourite topic for the summer, not this time
les mouches
or the weather. Our
amis
still seem thrilled by the thought that I may write a thriller, the title of which they have handed to me on a plate. They are still utterly determined for me to write about a murder in Cuzance. By now, there are many lively debates as to who should be cast as the villain and who would be the victim. There is usually one clear contender for the main character. Later, when our eyes light upon someone else for whom there would be some cause indeed, I continue to let the plot simmer and brew. For now, I file the idea away on my imaginary bookshelf.

French
café
— like a film set

The essence of rural France

Our first lot of friends from home are due to arrive. They are driving 1250 kilometres from Germany, where they have been staying with Renate's parents in Nuremberg. It surprises us to realise that they will in fact be the first Australian
amis
to stay at Pied de la Croix, for all our other friends and family who have visited have been from England, Wales, France and Belgium.

As I make final preparations for the spare
chambre
, I reflect how far we have come in the space of four short summers. Our first frenetic, feverish three weeks of
rénovation
, when our bed was an air mattress, to now, a guest room. I think about how we seem to have acquired a surfeit of outside garden furniture, a total of no less than three tables and sixteen chairs. I often wonder how it all possibly happened. Where did we ever find the time to shop and style and decorate in the midst of
rénovation
chaos, mayhem and madness? The day for my own Cuzance
vide-grenier
stall seems to be moving ever closer.

I work away until the house gleams and shines. It's hard to explain to anyone else, let alone ourselves, how the hours and days simply dissolve. Too many times, even a pleasurable outing to the markets in Martel, becomes a frantic rush against time rather than the leisurely pursuit it should be. There is often no time at all to linger and soak up the atmosphere. Race, race, race against the clock. At least this time Stuart is with me on the Intermarché trip to stock up for Glenn and Renate's arrival, and I don't have to endure alone the humiliation of our cash card not working again. It is the same cashier as when I forgot to even take the cash card with me a fortnight ago. She is nevertheless perfectly pleasant and the queue is perfectly patient. I am quite sure, though, that they are all thinking, ‘
Zut alors.
What are these foreigners like?'

Race, race, race. Back to Martel to Bank Populaire.
Euros
in hand, we return to Intermarché, in yet another qualifying round for the Grand Prix. Race back to Pied de la Croix — there is still more paving to be done before Glenn and Renate pull in between our stone pillars. Then over a hasty
déjeuner
, the
plombier
drops in with his hefty bill.
Merde
, what a day this is turning out to be, and all before noon. No time to lament, it's back to the crazy paving to put in a few more hours before their scheduled late afternoon arrival. Fortunately, the way the day is panning out, this will segue nicely into the
apéritif
hour.

Stuart is making steady progress cementing the sides of
la piscine
, while Jean-Louis is creating a drainage channel using river pebbles. He shares a story with us about his
amis
who went to La Dordogne to collect stones from the banks. Apparently, if the
gendarme
appear on the scene during such an activity, it is quite plausible to say you are an artist collecting them for your work. Even more entertaining is the other excuse that has been constructed beforehand by his friends. It is also acceptable to inform the
gendarme
that you are a
professeur
and the stones are to be painted by the
petite enfants
in your class, ready for the
lycée fête.
Although we are running out of river pebbles, I am not sure these excuses would hold much sway for foreigners in a foreign land.